by Cheryl Bolen
Beau felt tears of frustration sting her eyes. This man was exposing her as a fool. One mocking, dark brow arched up, the despicable chuckle rippling again from that broad chest. "What? You are too merciful to consign me to your cohorts' fury? I must protest your goodness of heart." His voice boomed. "Men of the Devil's Flame, I hold your leader at bay. Though I tremble in my boots, I have no choice but to suffer your wrath... musket balls, swords, whatever you hold available."
Beau longed to drive those bright, white teeth of his down his aristocratic throat.
"Shut up, you bloody bastard!"
"Still your tongue!" One of the sword points jabbed closer and a tiny, stinging cut burned upon the soft flesh of Beau's throat. She skittered back a bit, staring at the man as though he had gone mad.
"Brigands, you may commence! Or is it that your leader is not worth the precious lead in your pistols?"
Beau gritted her teeth in fury, her face burning with humiliation. Despite the peril, she could no longer bear being made to look like an idiot. "Maybe they're chasing your cowardly servants," she said.
"Ah, I see." The nobleman's mocking grin made Beau squirm. "This army of brigands rushed off through the woods chasing my scrawny postilion and half-drunken driver. What riches they might discover this night! Filthy breeches and a flask of Blue Ruin."
"Maybe they've already caught them. Maybe they're riding here even now."
"And maybe the earth is going to split and send you skidding into hell for lying." Lord Griffin made a tsking sound in his throat.
"No man makes a fool of me!"
"I am quite sure that statement is truth. But then, you need no one to aid you in making yourself look the fool."
The combination of Stone's sneers and Beau's own raw pride made her take a step toward him, eyes blazing. "If you were half a man, I'd—"
"You'd what? Blast me into eternity? Pierce my black heart with a sword thrust?" Lord Griffin shook his head with feigned regret. "Ah, I know!" His eyes shone with hard amusement. "Gentleman that you are, you would demand satisfaction. Very well. I believe, then, it is proper etiquette that I choose the weapons."
"I don't want any bloody satisfaction! I'm not an infernal gentleman, and your etiquette can go—"
"Swords." Lord Griffin said as if he had truly been mulling it over in his mind. "Swords?"
Beau gasped, taking a step backward.
"Accept?” The nobleman smiled. “Most civil of you."
"Nay. I most certainly do not! I—"
Stone cocked his head at a dismissive angle, his sensual lips pulling into a sneer, his voice silky soft. "What ails you, Flame? Does a coward lurk beneath that mask?"
Beau seethed, uncertain as to whether it was raw terror or blind fury turning her blood to fire. Her temper flashed like the powder pan of her pistol, all caution and wisdom seared away in that single instant. "I be no coward! I think it only fair to warn you that my skill is notorious throughout England."
"Then prove it." Mocking laughter jabbed at Beau's nerves. Stone's dark eyes glinted as his gloved hand swept out, dropping one of the swords to the ground.
"This weapon is to be a gift for my nephew," Stone said. "Think how much more the boy will treasure it when he hears it was wielded by such a dread swordsman as the Devil's Flame."
Dread swordsman? A wild little laugh bubbled in Beau's breast as she glanced down at the weapon that shone eerie blue in the lantern light. Dreadful, perhaps!
She felt a momentary twinge as she realized the weapon's worth, and that she'd not live long enough to steal it.
But as she raised her eyes from the jeweled hilt to the unyielding face of her tormenter all thought fled, her stomach pitching.
"Take it." His voice was unsheathed steel, his eyes piercing hers. "This time, milord rogue, you will fight face to face, like a man, rather than skulking about in the shadows."
The shadows... Beau glanced at the inky pools beside the road, her heart pounding. If she could hold this pompous oaf off long enough to reach the edge of the woods, she might manage to escape. She was fast, agile, and she could find her way through the night with the uncanny skill of a cat. Maybe she could melt into the darkness, slip away.
Slowly, Beau reached down, her fingers feeling chilled as they brushed against the metal hilt. "Very well, milord," she said as her hand closed about the weapon. "Prepare to die."
She scooped up the sword, astonished at its weight as she flung it up in an awkward swipe. Her clumsy action caught her other hand, and the razor-honed blade cut a stinging slice in her skin. She bit her lip to stop from crying out. Lord Griffin now stood in a swordsman's pose with the innate grace of a stalking panther. Beau's eyes fixed in horrified awe upon the sword point, which was flashing against the night like a will-o'-the-wisp.
A master. Beau felt her heart turn to a hard lump of ice in her chest. She had seen Jack often enough at his practice to know skill when she saw it.
Her palm slickened with sweat, and she felt the terror of a rabbit in the jaws of a cat. A cat that would torment its prey until it became bored with the creature's struggles and close in for the kill.
"Are you certain you wish to cast yourself into such foolery?" Beau tried one last time to brazen it out. "Considering the rare courage you have shown, I might even be willing to allow you safe passage."
Those intense eyes seemed to strip away every veil she possessed, giving her the sensation of standing naked, vulnerable before this daunting man. "I would not think of so imposing upon your generosity." The deep, velvet tones drove into Beau's stomach as the man sketched her a bow. Her final effort had failed miserably.
Boldly she clutched the sword hilt, the fierce pride of the daughter of Six Coach Robb pulsing through her. Her mouth settled into a grim smile that would have made her father proud.
Beau raised her weapon in a tolerable imitation of Jack facing an opponent. "En garde."
Griffin Stone raised his sword in a graceful salute, flexing his wide shoulders as if to loosen them. His whole body seemed fluid, like quicksilver, dangerous, mesmerizing. His hair fell in glossy waves, rich as chestnut above the arrogant planes of his aristocratic face.
Beau struggled to remember something, anything Jack had said those long ago days when he had tried to teach her swordsmanship, but her mind was empty. She would have no choice but to draw upon her own wits. Jaw thrust out with resolve, Beau sent one more longing glance at the woods then met Griffin Stone's gaze with a hard one of her own.
She tensed then made a wild lunge at Stone's flat belly with her blade, but the nobleman merely danced out of her way, deflecting the steely point easily. Set off balance, she stumbled, her nose slamming hard into the nobleman's breastbone.
Her eyes smarted, blurred with stinging tears, but instead of ramming his advantage home the nobleman flashed a hand out instinctively to steady her.
"Ah, now I see the source of your... generosity, milord Flame. A sword master?" She saw his brow arch, sensed the twinkle in his eyes. “I think you should have found yourself a more apt teacher."
"Scurvy knave!" Beau grated. She tried to clear her befuddled head as she skittered away from her tormenter, but Stone's blade flashed out, it’s point sweeping just a whisper from Beau's throat. She expected to feel it burn a path across her skin, expected the rush of blood, but she heard only the ripping of fabric, felt her mantle slip from her shoulders as Stone slashed it’s fastenings free.
The night wind bit her skin through her waistcoat and linen shirt, but the trembling of Beau's hand had nothing to do with the sudden chill.
"It will be far easier for you to fight without that monstrosity encumbering you," Lord Griffin advised with a sage attitude that made Beau half mad with fury. "Consider it your first lesson."
"Don't need... your bloody... lessons...." Beau's breath caught in gasps as she attempted to break through the man's guard, Stone easily blocking every thrust. Beau hated him. Her mask stuck to her face, plastered to her skin with sweat, while Lord Griffin
appeared completely unruffled.
"Oh, but I fear that you are in sad need of instruction," he taunted her. "You hold your blade like a crofter wielding a scythe—no, that comparison would do injustice to the crofter."
Beau slashed with her sword, the weapon nearly flying from her fingers in her zeal to draw blood. "Amazed... popinjay like you... knows what a scythe... is. Honest labor..."
"Like yours, milord Flame?" The nobleman's blade struck again. Beau's neckcloth dropped free, the froth of lace tumbling to ensnare her fingers. She ripped it away with her other hand, the delicate webbing tearing upon the jeweled hilt.
Beau's breath caught, her heart threatening to beat its way from her chest as she retreated. Fear bounded within her as she tried not to imagine what would happen when Griffin Stone turned the full force of his expertise upon her.
"Thievery..." Beau challenged, "is more honest... than having gold showered on... from birth." She thrust, parried with increasing grimness. "Bleeding dry... common folk..."
Lord Griffin winced as though her blade had struck some part of his iron-honed body. "And you?" There was real anger in the man's voice now, enough to make Beau flinch. He dashed his sword against hers in a bone-jarring blow. "I suppose that you rob only from the rich, eh, Robin of the Hood? Do you shower your booty like largess upon the starving masses?"
Molly Maguire's face flashed across Beau's mind, the sick feeling in her stomach deepening as she scrambled back toward the encroaching underbrush.
"Do... what I have... to do... to... survive...." Her arm was so weakened by his powerful blows that it trembled, the muscles feeling as though they might snap.
"That is what is in question, my fine Flame, is it not? Survival? How many innocents have you murdered on this road? How many—"
"I've killed no one!" Beau blazed.
"How does it feel to be the one on the other end of the sword?" Griffin Stone's voice was suddenly as cold as a fresh-dug grave.
She cried out, wheeling in a futile effort to shield herself as his sword flashed, but the weight of her weapon made her stagger, and the fabric of her shirt gave with a sickening sound.
She heard Stone swear in surprise, felt him yank his blade away in what seemed an effort to spare her, but it was too late.
Agony exploded in her left shoulder. She gritted her teeth against a scream, unconsciousness swirling about her like a shroud.
Chapter 4
“Blast! You bloody fool!" Griffin bit out an oath. Stunned, he yanked free his weapon, casting it aside in one fluid movement as he instinctively attempted to break the highwayman's fall. "Damn you, I didn't mean to—"
To kill him? A voice echoed in Griffin's head. What the devil were you planning to do? Escort him to Darkling Moor to pilfer the silver plate?
Griffin lowered the limp figure gently to the turf, furious with himself for his sudden surge of conscience.
In truth, he had planned to dispatch the villain—when it pleased him—after a contest of skill and daring. The rogue had most likely dealt death to others. Griffin had meant to clear the highroads of one more scoundrel.
Yet once he had seen the brigand's awkwardness, sensed his desperation, any thirst for the kill had palled, replaced by a raw sense of mischief and the undeniable desire to prick the bumbling rogue's pride.
Griffin had just meant to toy with him, teach him a lesson, when suddenly the witling had all but flung himself onto Griff's sword. Why? God's teeth, he had only slashed open the thief's shirt!
His mouth thinning in aggravation, Griffin hastily yanked off his own neckcloth and pressed the white fabric against the wound. Disbelief jolted through him as his palm compressed not the hard, flat plane of muscle that sheathed a masculine chest, but rather a welling softness.
Nay!
His gaze flashed down, his hand closing roughly on the fabric of the mask, ripping it away from the highwayman's face.
In the moonlight the felon's features were achingly delicate, wreathed in a fall of vivid red hair. Her thick lashes were pillowed upon ashen cheeks, while full lips swelled beneath an arrogant little nose.
A woman.
He had almost killed a woman.
Griffin reeled inwardly.
"Don't die, damn you!" he railed at the figure that suddenly seemed devastatingly small. "Curse you, don't die!"
His gaze flashed to the coach-horses, who were hopelessly entangled in their harness. Frustration drove him half mad. It was only a small wound, but God knew it could prove lethal.
At that moment Griffin heard a rustling in the woodland nearby. "Damn your eyes, Adley, Tavish! If that's you, get your carcasses out here before I murder you myself!" The rustling stilled, and Griff's impatience fired hotter. "And if you're one of the Flame's men, show yourself before your leader spills the last of her blood upon the ground. Blast you—"
His words were cut off by the sound of a soft whicker, his eyes catching the intelligent gleam of an equine eye within a night-black face. The horse stepped from the sheltering woods, and in the glow of the lantern light Griffin recognized it as the magnificent beast the girl had ridden.
"Its all right, lad," Griff said in a soothing voice. "All right."
The stallion took a tentative step forward, then another, shaking his massive head as if in warning.
"Please," Griffin whispered to some unseen deity. Slowly he reached toward one trailing rein, knowing that if the horse shied, the girl's life could be in peril. And, blast her, this girl was going to live. Live long enough for Griff to shake her until her teeth rattled.
The powerful beast eyed the stranger warily, its ears flattening, head tossing. But before it could dance out of reach Griffin's hand swept out, clutching at the thin leather strap. And at the most fragile of hopes.
* * *
The inn room reeked of lye. The bandy-legged surgeon bent over the lumpy bed, scowling at Griffin, his bushy brows meeting over a bulbous nose.
"Do something, curse you!" Griffin entreated. "There must be more you can do." His eyes locked upon the girl's waxen face, her features seeming heartrendingly fragile, wreathed as they were in the riotous fall of flame-hued hair spilling across the pillows. "She looks so small... weak..."
"She's a damned sight stronger than you give her credit for. Tough as a Barbary mare, in spite of her size. And the wound is little more than a scratch."
"A scratch?" Griff burst out. "I carried her here on my saddle, holding my hand over the cursed wound. She was bleeding...." His fingers clenched as he recalled the sticky wetness beneath his palm, the moans of pain that had grown softer, weaker with each mile. He half believed the reason she'd survived was because he had raged at her foolishness throughout their flight through the woods.
"She'll be hale before the week is out," the physician said calmly. "I have stitched the wound, put a poultice on it. The only other treatment I might prescribe would be bloodletting. But that would seem redundant." He waved one hand toward the stained cloth at the end of the bed.
Griffin’s stomach lurched as he thought of the grim treatment—the lancet gleaming, the bowl beneath filling with the dark flow of crimson. "Maybe it would help her... a bleeding..." Griff jammed his fingers through unruly hair.
"More likely it would finish the job that sword-thrust started." There was cold challenge in the physician's voice, and the older man's eyes bored into Griff’s. "Would you like that, sir? To watch her bleed?"
Bile rose in Griffin's throat. "Of course not! You sick bastard! I brought her here for you to heal!"
"So you did." The physician maneuvered himself between Griffin and the girl. "A most singular affair, is it not? A grand personage like yourself—traveling alone, no less—taking a wounded waif to your bosom?"
"Contrary to what the masses believe, there are those of us among the aristocracy who do not trample babes beneath our feet!"
"And there are also those among you who see them as nothing but fodder for your twisted games."
Griffin fr
owned at the man's unyielding expression; the physician was bristling up like a bantam rooster. Griff had the unsettling sensation that he had just stumbled into an unfamiliar theater during the third act of a play.
"Baronet, duke, whoever you may be," the medical man continued, "I warn you that I will not stand by and watch another poor lass crushed."
"Another?" Griff shook his head. Outrage and confusion were roiling through him. For some reason the physician was taking a very real risk, verbally sparring with a peer of the realm. In spite of himself, Griff felt a sharp tug of respect for the surgeon.
"Do you think I'd do the chit harm?" Griff peered down into her ashen face, surprised by his desire to skim his fingers across her blaze-red curls. "She has nothing of value to recommend her, and if you fear I would take her as mistress, I assure you even I am not depraved enough to bed women who thrust pistols in—" Griff cut off the words.
"Pistols?"
"It is nothing. We just met upon the road, and had an, er, difference of opinion as to who should serve as keeper of my purse." Griff squirmed beneath the weight of the older man's gaze. "I didn't mean to hurt her," Griff bit out defensively. "Didn't even know she was a blasted woman." Outrage over the brigand's duplicity surged through him afresh. "You cannot let her die before I have the chance to thrash the very devil out of her for what she has put me through!"
The corners of the physician's mouth twitched, and suddenly the dour old man surrendered to a bark of laughter. "So the girl... and your lordship..."
Griffin ran a finger beneath his collar, the garment suddenly seeming too tight. "It was not the most uneventful journey I've ever experienced. Suffice it to say that I'll be bloody glad to get back to the colonies, where women are civilized."
"The colonies? Ah, you must be the Lord Stone we've been reading about of late. Gone these ten years." All the hostility drained from the man's red-flushed face. "My condolences upon your brother's death. He was a good man." The physician turned away. "And there are few enough of them left about."
Grief stirred deep in Griffin's chest.