by Shana Galen
Modesty didn’t have a chance to ask what that might be before the hand clamped over her mouth again. She tried to struggle, but one of the men punched her lightly in the belly and she doubled over. It might not have been hard, but it was enough to startle the breath from her lungs. She was bending over to protect her body from further harm when she heard a familiar voice.
“Stop right there, gentlemen.”
Modesty looked up, thinking it must be Mr. Sterling. But it wasn’t Sterling standing in front of the men, blocking their way. It was...Trogdon?
“Move aside,” the man with the knife said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns Mr. Payne,” Trogdon said, “and so it concerns me. Release the lady, Mr. Green. Put that knife away, Mr. Notley.”
No one moved. Modesty glanced from the man called Green to the leader, Notley. They seemed uncertain what to do, and uncertainty worked in her favor. With a mighty tug, she broke free of Green and plunged toward Trogdon. One of the other men caught her, and she fought as though her life depended on it.
Her life probably did depend on it.
She kicked and scratched and bit, and the man released her. Trogdon swooped in, caught her arm and pushed her ahead of him. “Run!” he instructed.
She tried, but her legs were tangled in her skirts, and she tripped and fell. She scrambled to her knees, her eyes closed as she waited for the rough hands to grasp her again, but instead she heard a loud thump.
“Ow! Hey!” one of the men called.
Trogdon moved beside her and pulled her to her feet. And then he handed her an orange. She stared at it and then him. He was holding a sack of them, and as she watched, he pulled one out and lobbed it at one of the men. He had excellent aim as he hit the fellow on the center of the forehead, sending him reeling back.
“Throw it!” Trogdon ordered, still backing up. Modesty threw. Her aim was not as good, and she missed.
“Good try, miss,” Trogdon said. “Could you scream for help, do you think?”
That she could do. She screamed as loudly as she could, while Trogdon threw another orange, hitting Notley in the center of the chest. The orange exploded, and Notley reeled back, dropping the knife. But he wasn’t incapacitated. It would take more than citrus fruit to accomplish that. He looked angry now as he lunged for them.
ROWDEN WAS AWARE HE was acting against all his training. He punched and pummeled and wore himself out in an all-out offensive against the German. The crowd was so loud he couldn’t even think. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chibale yelling, probably telling him to focus and remember his training.
But Rowden didn’t have time to wear the German out. He needed to knock him out and find Modesty. But the German, who’d seemed initially taken off guard at Rowden’s attack, recovered and punched back. Rowden grunted as one punch landed on his shoulder. Pain exploded, and he gritted his teeth and fought to stay on his feet. The German punched again, but Rowden ducked and launched his own offensive into the other man’s breadbox. He was out of breath and dizzy by the time he shuffled away, and the German was still on his feet, and still lumbering toward him.
For the second time that night, Rowden wanted to run. He wanted away from this fight, away from these people. He needed to find Modesty. But he knew Chibale was right. The crowd wouldn’t let him leave until one of the men in the arena lay unconscious.
Rowden threw another punch, and it landed ineffectually off the German’s temple. And still the blond man came for him. Rowden moved around so he was facing the side where Modesty and Aidan had been sitting. Where the devil was Aidan? Rowden’s only consolation was that Aidan was with Modesty. Aidan had been a thief who’d lived some of his life on the streets. He could take care of himself and Modesty.
He ducked another punch then jolted out of shock. He ducked under the German’s arm and ran to the other side of the ropes. Aidan had just stumbled into the tent, his temple bleeding. “Where is she?” he yelled. But Aidan couldn’t hear him over the dozens of men already shouting.
Too late, Rowden realized they shouted a warning at him. The German landed a punch in his side, and Rowden crumpled but stayed on his feet. Holding onto the ropes for support, he managed to right himself just as the German struck again. Rowden managed to avoid the worst of it, but the blow glanced off his jaw and the pain was like a hot iron placed on his skin. He tasted blood, spat, and looked up to see the German coming for him again.
“Fuck,” he said through blood and spittle. He was about to lose.
NOTLEY WAS STILL COMING for them, even as Trogdon threw another orange. This one hit Notley’s shoulder and barely slowed him down. He looked angry. Very angry.
“Uh oh,” Trogdon said.
Modesty glanced at him. “What’s uh oh?”
“No more oranges.” He grasped her wrist. “Now we run.”
He started away, and Modesty tried to keep up. For a lazy man, he was remarkably fast. He pulled her with him as they finally reached the carriages and wagons the Fancy had taken to the mill. Trogdon darted between them and pulled her along, slowing now to listen for pursuit.
“They’re coming,” Modesty whispered.
“Here.” Trogdon pulled her close to a large carriage wheel and scrambled underneath. “Come on!” he hissed.
Modesty silently apologized to Madame Renauld as she followed. Under the carriage, her elbows sinking in mud, she glanced at Trogdon. He had a smear of mud on his face, but he didn’t look frightened. “There you are. Safe as the Bank of England,” he said.
Modesty would have liked a bit more security. “Where are the coachmen and the grooms?”
He jerked his head toward the glow of fires, just now lighting up the darkening evening sky. “Playing dice or cards,” he whispered. “Too far away to hear us.”
“Where are they?” one of Notley’s men asked, and Modesty tensed. Trogdon put a finger to his lips, as though she needed to be reminded.
“They’re here somewhere,” Notley said. “You take that side, and I’ll take this one. Look under the vehicles too.”
Modesty pressed her lips together and held her breath as a pair of boots came into view.
ROWDEN DUCKED JUST in time to avoid the dart. He was aware he was retreating and ducking and basically using nothing Mostyn or Chibale or even his own experience had taught him.
He’d planned to wear the German down and then knock him out. No time for that now. Modesty needed him. He ducked again and ran to the far corner of the area, even as the boos and jeers of the crowd followed him.
The German lurched toward him, and Rowden used those extra seconds to channel all of his anger and fear and panic into a tight, black ball. He could imagine it swirling together as he compressed it and pushed it out and into his hands, his arms, his muscles.
His pain was in that swirling sphere. The pain of losing Mary and now the fear of losing Modesty. He would not lose Modesty. He would not lose Modesty.
The sphere seemed to grow as the German came closer, and with a roar, Rowden launched himself. The German paused for just a moment, his brow lowered in confusion, and Rowden struck, landing a hard punch to his face and then another.
He tried to punch again, but he was drained of strength.
This was it then. He’d lost.
Except that the German didn’t come for him. The German very slowly fell back and down, making the floor bounce as he fell unconscious.
Rowden didn’t even wait for the count. He staggered to the ropes and climbed out. Chibale was at his side, yelling for the crowd to move, to part. The men did so, looking from Rowden to the downed German in confusion.
Aidan met him at the tent’s exit. “It was Notley,” he said, blood covering half his face. “He ambushed me. I think he has Miss Brown.”
THE BOOTS MOVED ON, but just as Modesty started to breathe again, they paused. Then a hand came into view and then knees and finally the face of Notley. “Found you,” he said.
Trogdon threw a c
lump of mud at Notley and scrambled out the back. Modesty followed, but her skirts were heavy now, and Notley caught her arm.
“I have them!” he called. Modesty heard the sound of footsteps coming. Trogdon ran at Notley and tried to free Modesty, but Notley only held on tighter. The tug-of-war on her arm left her crying out in pain. Green and another man ran around a wagon and tackled Trogdon, sending him back down into the mud. Modesty tried to wrest free of Notley’s hold, and even though her sleeve ripped, Notley held on to her.
“Let me go!” she yelled. “Help!”
“Modesty!” The voice was far away, but she knew it.
“Rowden!”
Notley cursed and released her so suddenly she fell to her knees beside Trogdon. The men beating him looked up at Notley’s expletive and all three of them tried to place Rowden’s voice.
“Rowden! I’m here!” she called.
“This way,” Notley yelled.
“No, this way!” Green said. In the end, it didn’t matter because Rowden came around one corner of a coach and Mr. Okoro and Mr. Sterling came around the other. Rowden grabbed Notley, shoved him to his knees as though he were a doll, and looked about.
“I have her, sir,” Trogdon said, waving from the mud. “She is safe.”
Rowden’s green gaze found hers, and she gave him a little wave. He stared at her then Trogdon. Finally, he looked away. “Chibale, fetch a magistrate. I must have seen at least three watching the mill.”
“I’ll be right back.” Mr. Okoro took off, while Mr. Sterling shook his head at Notley’s two accomplices.
“Stay right there,” he said, “Or I’ll want to know which one of you did this to me and repay you twofold.”
Modesty stood and tried to swipe mud off her dress. She reached down to help Trogdon up, and they both went to stand beside Rowden, who was still holding Notley in a painful grip between his neck and shoulder.
“What the devil happened?” Rowden asked.
Modesty could feel the urge to laugh, and she knew it was shock and hysteria. She pushed it down and looked at the manservant. “Trogdon saved me.”
“Tell me the truth,” Rowden said.
“He saved me!” she said, laughing. She had to press a hand to her mouth to keep the laugh from turning into tears. The dirt on her skin brought her back to reality. “He threw oranges at them and stopped them from taking me.”
Rowden looked at Mr. Sterling. “We’d better fetch a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “He really did throw oranges. See?” She pointed to the orange stain on Notley’s shirt. It was difficult to see as night was falling. Then she looked at Trogdon. “Where did you get oranges? I thought you couldn’t find any.”
Trogdon gave her a sheepish look then glanced at Rowden, who looked back at him expectantly. “Mr. Payne doesn’t care for oranges. I purchased them in case I couldn’t find lemons and limes.”
“What?” Rowden asked, sounding dumbstruck. In the distance Modesty could hear voices heading toward them. Thank God the magistrate was almost there. She didn’t think her wobbly legs would hold her much longer.
“I grabbed the bag when I saw Miss Brown leave the tent with that one.” He pointed to Notley. “I had a feeling I might need them.”
“That you might need oranges?” Rowden demanded.
Trogdon gave a small shrug. “You do seem to always need them, sir. They must be good for something.”
The magistrate and a group of men converged on the party, and Modesty was pushed out of the way. Vaguely, she heard Notley yelling and Mr. Sterling arguing, and she thought she might just sit down on the ground for a moment and catch her breath.
Rowden caught her, picking her up as though she were a child and cradling her in his arms. “Looks like you’ve spent enough time in the mud. Let’s go back to Battle’s Peak.”
She gave him a weak smile. He was still bare to the waist, and she liked being pressed against his chest, though she was probably smearing mud all over him. “Did you win?” she asked.
He looked down at her, clearly confused. And then his features cleared. “Ah. The mill. Yes, I won.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t want to be the reason he beat you a second time.”
Rowden pulled her closer. “I’ll lose a hundred mills if it means I can hold you,” he said, and he carried her to Sterling’s coach. And then, after what seemed like hours and a thousand questions, the five of them—Rowden, Modesty, Mr. Okoro, Mr. Sterling, and even Trogdon—left the exhibition grounds behind.
Twenty-One
Rowden waited until the house was quiet before stepping out of his room and into the long shadows of the corridor. He knew where Modesty’s room was. He’d loitered in that wing of the house on the pretense of making certain she was well and watched a pair of footmen deliver a tub to her chamber earlier tonight. Lady Florentia had shooed him away to take his own bath. That was hours ago, and now he carried a lamp and walked across the gallery to the opposite wing. He chanced to look down the wide staircase as he passed and stopped.
“How long have you been sitting there?” he asked Lord Nicholas, who was sitting with one leg extended about halfway up the grand staircase.
Lord Nicholas looked up at him from under a mop of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Not long.”
“I’d ask if you want my help, but I assume you’re attempting the stairs in the middle of the night precisely because you don’t want help.”
Lord Nicholas rubbed his outstretched leg absently. “I used to run up and down these stairs a dozen times a day. Now it takes me a half hour just to haul myself up.”
“Why do it then?” Rowden asked. “You have more rooms than you need in this place. Make one of the rooms downstairs your chamber.”
Nicholas shook his head. “Then my legs win.”
“They were crushed under a horse, Nick. That doesn’t make them the enemy.”
Nicholas waved a hand. “Don’t try that with me. All that damn logic and reason might work with Nash—”
“Actually—”
“But it’s nothing I haven’t told myself.”
Rowden sighed. “You might have noticed I’m attempting a midnight rendezvous. As stimulating as this conversation might be, I had other ideas in mind.”
“Your destination isn’t my sister’s chamber, is it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine. Before you defile my house guest, help me up these stairs. It will be recompense for all the horses I stole for you.”
Rowden set the lamp on the wide banister and started down the steps. “I never asked you to steal a horse. That was Neil.”
Nicholas had risen to his feet, and he draped an arm over Rowden’s shoulders, which were sore from the mill earlier that night, but he didn’t complain.
“You never complained about riding instead of walking,” Nicholas said, his voice breathless as he used one hand to steady himself and Rowden hauled him up the stairs.
“Florentia says you don’t ride anymore.”
“She talks too much.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and Nicholas unhooked a cane he’d draped over one arm. He leaned on it, breathing heavily. “I have it from here.”
“I can take you to your room,” Rowden offered.
“You have debauchery to attend to.” He waved a hand. “I can make it. Good night.”
“I hope so,” Rowden said, picking up the lamp. He left his friend to shuffle along the gallery and tried to ignore the way his heart beat harder and faster the closer he came to Modesty’s room. What if she was asleep? What if she told him to go back to bed? What if she made him wait until they were formally wed? What if she didn’t want to wed?
Shut up, man, he told himself and stopped in front of her door. He looked left and right to make sure no one else was up and about, then tapped quietly on her door. He held his breath for what seemed ten minutes before the door opened and Modesty, dressed in a white nightgown with her damp hair abo
ut her shoulders, stood before him.
He looked down at her. She seemed smaller than he remembered and younger. And, with her hair down and the white material around her, she looked softer and more inviting.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, probably because he was standing there staring at her. “Did the magistrate—”
“No.” He did not want her thinking about Notley or the magistrate or the awful events of the evening. Notley was in custody, as were his men, and she was safe. “Nothing is wrong. I was just thinking how beautiful you look.”
Color rose to her cheeks. “And you look battered and bruised. Your poor chin.” She reached out and ran a finger over the darkening bruise the German had given him. Rowden felt lucky he hadn’t lost any teeth. He turned his head and kissed her fingers.
“May I come in?”
Her gaze flew to his, and he could see the question in her eyes. She’d asked him to come to her earlier that night, right before he’d told her he could never love her. She was wondering if that had changed. But she didn’t ask, merely stepped back so he could enter. He closed the door behind him and turned the key. When he turned back to her, she wrapped her arms about him, reaching up to kiss him.
He kissed her back, trying to keep his balance and set the lamp down safely. Her mouth was warm and eager and when he was able to draw a breath, he said, “Modesty, I need to tell you something.”
“I know you don’t love me,” she said. “I know lying with you is a bad idea, but I want you anyway.” She reached for the ribbon at the neck of her nightgown, and he realized she was about to tug it. The garment would slide right to her feet if she did that.
“No!” he said, more loudly than he wanted. “I mean, I want you to take that off. God, I want you to take that off.”
“No need for blasphemy,” she said.
He almost laughed. “Just wait until I say what I came to say. If I don’t say it while you’re dressed, it’ll be hours before I have enough sense left in my brain to say it.”