Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
E very bounce of the coach sent Parkington lurching into her, even the small ones. No doubt he did it on purpose because each brush of his arm against hers, each intrusive shove of his thigh close to her body came with a leer.
Samuel would come. She knew he would. She’d known that leaving the ballroom, known it as soon as she’d grasped the handkerchief and held it out to Felicity. She could not abandon her future so easily. Not this time. Not when she had someone willing to help her fight for it.
But how long would she have to endure the untenable advances of a whisky-soaked and whiny viscount? Could they be persuaded to release her, to leave Glenna alone? Her father wanted money. Parkington wanted revenge. Easier to assuage her father’s greed.
The coach jerked around a corner, and Parkington fell on top of her.
She shoved him away. “Desist. Now.” She had no means of making her demand a threat. God, that she did. If she escaped this, she’d walk about like Samuel every day and everywhere, threats stashed about her person like sharp-tipped handkerchiefs.
He opened his eyes wide, innocent. Ha. “The road is a curvy one, my love.”
Luv. What Samuel called her. “Do not call me that.”
“Then what should I call you? Darling, dear, wife ?”
“I’m to marry, but not you. I’d rather marry a dog than let you place a ring on my finger.”
Her father erupted in laughter. “No one wants to marry a rotting spinster like you. No offense, Parkington.”
“No offense… Parkington ?” Emma curled her hands into her skirts to keep from strangling the man whose blood flowed through her veins. Patricide might be tempting, but not advisable. “If you had listened to me in the ballroom or remained in Scotland to receive my letter, you would have discovered there is someone willing to marry me. A duke.”
“A duke?” Something thoughtful in her father’s voice. He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “The one you’re in London to help?”
“The very same. He’s rich. And he’ll be quite put out you’ve dragged me off.”
“Quite grateful, more like,” Parkington muttered. “Who would want a shrew like you?”
“You, apparently.”
“I want to see you pay, my love .”
She punched him. In the small space of the too-crowded coach, she reared back and let her fist fly, let it crack into the flesh and bone of his damn nose.
He gasped, and the shock of air rushing into his lungs produced a scream. Huddling into the corner of the coach, as far from her as he could, he grasped his face with both hands, blood trickling down his lips and dripping on the already-stained linen of his cravat.
In the flash of an instant, as she shook out the throbbing in her hand, his expression slipped from shock to hate. And he lunged.
And the coach lurched, the horses crying outside, Parkington’s body tumbling through air and into the squeaking seat next to her father. A thud, a grunt, her father’s curse.
The coach slammed to a stop.
Her father shoved Parkington to the floor and thumped on the roof. “Don’t stop!”
But the coach did not start. And the door was just there, within grasp. Emma reached for it. Parkington blocked her way, throwing his bulk against it, blocking escape.
Until the door swept open, and he fell out, backwards, feet flying over his head before he landed in a heap on the road, in the dirt.
Where he damn well belonged.
Emma posed to jump out of the coach and into the dark, silent night—the moon dimmed by wandering clouds. She’d run all the way back to London if she had to. But before she could leap, a manacle wrapped around her waist and hauled her backward. Her father pinned her, but she jammed an elbow into his ribs.
“ Oof . Bitch.” He held her more tightly.
“Let the lady out,” a deep voice cried into the night. “Release her now.”
“Bloody highwaymen,” her father spat.
Not a highwayman. The other half of her heart, making demands in that imperious voice she’d come to love.
She threw another elbow at her father, caught his nose hard, and jumped for the exit right as Samuel said, “I’ve got a knife to this man’s throat. Release the lady or your friend discovers if there is a God. Oh… Emma. There you are.”
“I’ve got no money,” her father yelled behind her. “Take her!” He shoved Emma forward, and she toppled out, landing in Samuel’s solid, warm arms.
“Samuel!”
“Get behind me.” he whisked her away from Parkington, groaning on the ground, rolling over and lurching to his hands and knees, and away from her father stepping out of the coach. Samuel whispered, “Check in my belt.”
She fought with the folds of his heavy cloak, seeking the cool leather wrapped around his hips. Finding it, somehow, despite her fumbling. Finding, too, the sharp steel sheathed there.
She pulled the knife from its home and held it as he’d taught her, staying close to the reassuring, taut and ready muscles of his back.
“You’re here,” she breathed as her father lurched down from the coach, dropping a steady stream of curses into the night air.
“Of course I’m here. Bloody hell, Emma. I’ll understand ?”
“Don’t you?”
Her father pulled Parkington to his feet.
Samuel growled, “Of course I do, but bloody hell, Emma!” He didn’t even apologize for the cursing. Didn’t apologize twice . She had found, it seemed, his tipping point. Excellent thing to learn when facing down marriage to the man.
“I know. I’m a nodcock.”
“You are.” But said, oddly and sweetly enough, with such love she almost wept. “Do you remember how to throw the knife?”
“Will I need to?”
“I hope not. He is your father. I’d rather not maim him the first time I meet him.”
She didn’t care terribly much at the moment.
“Who the hell are you?” Parkington roared, wiping dirt and blood from his face.
“I’m this lady’s betrothed.” Samuel stepped back, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. His other hand hidden by the cloak, but the muscle that controlled it, hard and ready beneath Emma’s hand. No doubt he held steel in his palm.
“Put down the knife,” she whispered. “My father will not threaten us. He merely wants money. Parkington offers it to him. Through me. Or Glenna.”
Samuel’s arm remained tense. Ready.
“You cannot have a woman after she’s been given to me.” Parkington sneered, turning on her father. “Tell him you’ve given her to me.”
“I can’t be given!” Emma yelled. “I can only give myself!”
Her father sauntered forward, rubbing his jaw. “Well now. I do enjoy choices. And it seems I have one. Are you the Duke of Clearford?”
Samuel nodded. “And the lady has agreed to marry me. And I have agreed to take on the care of her sisters until they marry. Any threat to Emma or to her sisters is a threat to me.”
Her father pushed his hair back, the salt and pepper slicking against his skull. “And how much are you willing to pay for my dear, dear daughters?”
“Whatever it takes.”
Oh, Samuel, you silly old duke. You dear, sweet, beloved man.
“I’m liking how this is shaping up,” her father said. “What about you, Parkington? How much can you offer? For Glenna, mind, not for the spinster. I’m thinking to get two chits wed out of this bidding war.”
“No!” Emma stepped to the side. She’d stop her own father’s heart with this blade before she let him sell her sister.
Samuel’s arm flew out against her chest. “Emma.” A warning. Trust him. Let him care for her, for her sisters.
Very well. She stepped back but kept her fist tight, her hold on the knife steady.
“I’m afraid, Lord Glenhaven,” Samuel said, “I cannot let you sell Glenna to any man.”
“Think to have both the lasses for yourself,” her father sneered.
“I do not want that waif Glenna!” Parkington roared. “I want to ruin the woman who ruined me!”
Samuel sighed, clearly frustrated. “You must enjoy pain. I hope so because I’m about to acquaint you with it.” His muscles tensed, ready.
Parkington ran.
Didn’t get very far before a bolt of silver dropped out of Samuel’s grasp with the slightest, quickest flick of the wrist. Blade flying, then hitting home. Right in Parkington’s shoulder.
The viscount cried out and staggered back, his hand and gaze flying to the spot where the blade stuck deep. “Bloody hell! What is it?”
“It’s a knife, you dimwit,” her father mumbled. He eyed Samuel warily now.
“You,” Samuel said, producing another knife from nowhere and pointing it at Parkington, “will take Lady Emma’s name out of your mouth and her existence out of your mind. Because if you do not, and if you survive that wound, I’ll give you a matching one. More center of the chest this time. Do you understand?”
“Bloody hell,” Parkington whimpered, grasping the handle of the knife. “I’ll press charges. You’ll swing for attacking a peer!”
“And who do you think the constable will believe? Two drunken men from over the border? Or an English duke?”
“Who throws knives,” Parkington whimpered, bravado fading fast.
“I do.” Samuel stepped forward as Parkington cringed away from him. “And you’ll remember that the next time your tiny brain happens upon the name Lady Emma Blackwood. Or Her Grace, the Duchess of Clearford. Or any of her sisters.”
“Duchess,” her father mumbled, eyeing Samuel’s knife. “Sounds good. But I’ll not let you have her without a proper payment!”
“I had hoped”—Samuel sighed—“we could discuss such matters in a study like civilized men, a desk between us.”
“He’ll cheat you, Glenhaven,” Parkington rasped, shoving a finger toward Samuel. “He’ll take everything you have, and—ha!—you have nothing. Nothing but those girls, and they aren’t worth much. Give me that one and I’ll give you every damn cent I own.”
“And how much is that?” Samuel drawled. “A year, in pounds?”
“Five thousand!” Parkington bellowed.
Samuel laughed. “That little? Entrust your daughters to me, Glenhaven, and I’ll ensure they marry men worth three times as much as that.”
“Sounds like a better offer.” Her father tapped his chin as the viscount’s blood mixed with the dirt of the road. “You can’t manage that, now can you, Parkington?”
Parkington growled, screamed as he yanked the knife from his shoulder, and pulled his arm back when the blade was free. As if he meant to throw it. Emma raised her arm as Samuel had shown her, imagined the silly tree in the portrait gallery and Samuel’s confident touch showing her just what to do, believing in her.
Emma threw the knife.
“Bloody hell!” Parkington cried, dropping his bloody blade to the ground to clutch at the gaping wound she’d ripped open in his other shoulder.
“Oh, I missed,” Emma said.
“Not quite, luv.” Samuel wrapped his arm around her waist, slipped another blade into her free hand. “You nicked him. We’ll work on your aim. It’s for the best that you didn’t kill him, though. Not sure I can explain that away.”
For a moment, Parkington looked like he might lunge at her, tackle her, risk another knife wound, but he hit his knees instead, his body wavering in circles.
“He needs a doctor,” Samuel said. “Pack him up, Glenhaven, and get him some help. When you’ve calmed down enough to talk sense, without abducting or threatening what I now consider mine, you may contact me.” He held the knife up, wrist ready. “You can release the coachman,” Samuel said, a bit louder than before.
The coachman?
Rustling in the woods to the side of the road, then cursing, then footsteps. The footsteps of more than one pair of feet. The coachman appeared first, rumpled and angry and stomping toward the coach. She’d not wondered why he’d not joined the conflict. She knew now, as a gang of cloaked men stepped out from the trees. She knew them.
“Your brothers-in-law?” she whispered.
“They met me on the edges of London, wouldn’t let me leave without them.”
“You’re lucky we didn’t,” Lord Noble said, brushing his hair away from his face. “I think I have a black eye.”
Mr. Kingston huffed. “The coachman’s a fighter.”
Lord Helston brandished fists. “Not fighter enough for the coffee cavalry! Oh! No, no, no. I’ve got it . The Merriweather Men. Like the Merry Men. In Sherwood Forest. And Clearford’s Robin Hood. But with knives, of course. And our wives’ surnames used to be Merriweather. Do you see? Quite a clever little pun. Imogen will be impressed.”
Clearford’s brothers-in-law groaned, and the coachman helped Emma’s father drag Parkington toward the coach and heft him inside.
Her father popped his head out just before shutting the door. “Emma, my dear girl, I hope we can put this ugly episode behind us. You have done me proud, marrying a d—”
“Damn you straight to hell.”
Samuel gasped. “Emma, language .”
Her father grunted and slammed the door, and soon the coach rattled south. The road rumbled into silence, and with exquisite slowness, Samuel gathered Emma into his arms, his knife dropping to the dirt and dust. Hers, too. His hands in her hair, up and down her arms and her spine, everywhere he could reach.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
She shook her head. “You understood. You came.”
“Of course I did.” He nuzzled her neck. “How else were you going to marry me without that pink handkerchief in your pocket? I had to reunite the two of you.”
She hugged him tight. “I knew I had to get out of the ballroom before my father made a scene. And I knew you would come. As soon as you could.” She tipped her head back to grin up at him. “And I knew you’d bring your knives.”
“So, um… I think we’re done here,” said an American accent. Ben Bailey tilted his face toward the star-strewn sky. “I’ll be returning to Pru now.”
He clapped Samuel on the back and mounted a horse tied to a tree branch nearby. Kingston and Noble did the same, and Mr. Trent and Helston jumped into a curricle. When only one horse remained, Samuel led her to it and helped her mount, then swung up into the saddle behind her. He held her close and kissed her neck.
“Are you truly unharmed?” he asked, nudging the horse into a slow walk.
“Suddenly tired. Terribly relieved. I might cry a bit on the way home. Do you mind?”
“Cry all you need to. I have a handkerchief if you need it.”
She twisted and kissed the tip of his chin. “Will you really pay my father? For my sisters’ freedom?”
He kissed the shell of her ear. “I will.”
She melted into him. She would never have to wander through the world, alone and weary-hearted, ever again.
“I’ll ensure you never regret it,” he said.
“Regret what?”
“Marrying me. The risk you are taking.”
“Oh, Samuel.” She twisted and cupped his face in her hands, rubbed her thumb along his lower lip. “I love you. I cannot regret you.”
He rested his forehead against her, his lips hopping toward a smile. “Because I have made it my life’s purpose to educate you?”
“Sweet Samuel. I love you because you have the biggest heart of any man I’ve ever known, because you make me feel indestructible. Because you worry over me and make me laugh. Because of how much you love. A man who loves as much as you do deserves just as much love in return. I have not said it until now, but I love you, and without you, my future is entirely blank.” She grinned, then kissed him. “As for education, I have books for that.”
The kiss happened despite the laughter, because of the laughter, happiness and heady desire, lovely relief, lifting them up and scattering their mirth across the night sky. Perhaps her father heard them through the coach walls and the groans of his travelling companion. Perhaps the Merriweather men heard and quickened their paces along the road to get to their wives’ sides. Their beds. For there were others in the world to hear them, censure them, worry them, but held in arms both strong and kind, they only need worry about themselves. Two hearts tangled together, beating as one.