Chapter Sixteen
I’ll be back before you know it.
Hah!
A rogue’s words to an unsuspecting girl right after he ravishes her!
Alyssia paced the room. Everything was all right, wasn’t it?
How long had he been gone? Fifteen seconds?
Twenty? She should go after him, shouldn’t she?
After all, surely they were overreacting.
Every noise would sound like danger if danger was somewhat expected.
This was all so vexing.
She should have said fifteen seconds and not minutes.
No, she shouldn’t have given in so easily to begin with.
The worry in his eyes, however, had prevented her from insisting.
The consequence? She was the one with the worry!
Perhaps she’d taken his return too lightly.
He’d lost parents to his uncle’s greed, but she hadn’t lived it, was perhaps too far removed to consider the dangers seriously.
Or too preoccupied with yourself.
Selfish.
Yes, she’d been selfish. And the man had been willing to make haste with his revenge for her. Even though he’d said it was for them, the fact remained, had she not been in the picture, things would have unfolded differently.
That’s right.
She was in the picture.
They were a partnership.
She couldn’t allow him to face any investigation alone from now on. She wanted to stand by his side, danger or not.
A sudden crash ripped through the house, causing Alyssia to jump.
Giles!
She didn’t hesitate. She bolted from the room.
That she could hardly see didn’t matter—she would fight her way through the dark if she had to.
Her feet flew across the corridor as she gathered Giles’s robe with one hand, the other braced against the wall to keep her balance.
Every nerve screamed at her to hurry. Another crash shuddered up the walls, sharp enough to jolt her spine.
“Giles!” she called in a panic.
She took the stairs too fast, nearly slipping, catching herself with a gasp. Her heart lodged somewhere near her throat. Voices met her ears—ragged and furious. One was unmistakably his. Relief flared, only to be smothered by fear.
He was fighting someone!
Alyssia reached the bottom of the staircase, her pulse as wild as a hunted fox’s. She darted toward the drawing room, only to nearly stumble at the appearance of the butler and a panicked footman. “Fetch help! Bow Street and Knoxley!” she cried.
The men snatched their coats and tore open the front door and vanished into the night.
She, on the other hand, burst into the drawing room, greeted by the sight of Giles and a mountain of a man, a blur of fists on the ground.
Even she knew not to get between two men trading blows.
Her gaze caught on another man, crawling into the room from the window.
“Alyssia! Get out of here now!”
Not on your life, Giles! She searched for something she could use as a weapon when her gaze landed on a small but sturdy Greek statue of Adonis. She snatched up the thing and rushed over to the intruder and struck at his head.
He blocked her attempt, cursing, and managed to get one leg over the windowsill. She couldn’t allow him to enter. Honestly, the fact that he struggled to even enter when the other mountain of a man had managed gave her confidence over her opponent.
“Take that!” she hissed, her heart pounding like a battle drum. She swung the statue wildly, attempting to drive him back through the window. “Get out of this house!”
“Damn it, Alyssia! Get out!”
“No!” she called back and hit the man again.
Unfortunately, the man did not crumple, but the curses turned more vicious, and the pain, it seemed, only made him angrier. With a roar, he twisted his body, hauling himself forward with a savage burst of strength.
She swung at him again, but her blow of defense only grazed his shoulder.
“Alyssia!”
In hindsight, she shouldn’t have sent the servants away.
Across the room, she caught a quick glimpse of Giles, who fought like a man possessed.
He’d gotten to his feet and dodged a punch, slammed his fist into the behemoth’s ribs, took an elbow to the jaw, and answered with a brutal punch.
Furniture practically splintered around them, vile exclamations filling the air.
A mistake.
In that second that she’d diverted her focus, the man hand launched himself inside. Alyssia started, leaping back. However, her foot caught on something, an overturned side table, and she toppled to the ground.
She scrambled backward as the intruder rose to his full height.
“So spirited,” the man drawled, cracking his jaw left and right.
“Don’t fucking touch her!” Giles bellowed from the center of the room. “Or you die tonight!”
Alyssia couldn’t look at him. Didn’t dare take her eyes off the man. One wrong move, and they were both in big trouble. Who was she fooling? They were already in big trouble! She pointed the statue at him. “Do not come any closer.”
“Or what? You’ll hit me with your little toothpick again?”
Arrogant arse!
Her heart still sank.
There was no way she could fight this man strength for strength. She would need to be smarter, faster.
Giles grunted across the room. Drat it. Her appearance must be a distraction for him. She had to leave. And while she was at it, she had to take this man with her. She simply couldn’t Giles let face two men at once.
And she refused to give up.
“Alyssia,” Giles called. “Talk to me.”
What? Even the intruder frowned.
“Focus on that your ruffian, Giles, and I’ll focus on mine!”
Her husband cursed.
“Quite the sassy wife you have there,” his ruffian growled. “She’ll be mine in a moment.”
Her ruffian chuckled, and she took that exact moment to scramble to her feet and once again bolted.
She would run this evil weed ragged if she must!
Giles called something after her, but her hearing was drowned out by the own beat of her heart.
She couldn’t look back, couldn’t falter again.
She’d failed to deal with the man when he was entering their house; she could not fail now.
She had to give Giles enough time to deal with his assailant without distraction, and trust that he’d come to her aid.
And lawd, where was the help?
Across the room, Bishop took a brutal punch to the flank and hit the floor with a groan.
Damn it to everlasting hell.
Damn his uncle to everlasting hell, because that’s where the man was going once this night was through!
Ever since Alyssia had barged in, he couldn’t bloody focus and had taken more blows than he wanted. He spat copper, rolled his shoulder, and shoved up to his feet. The behemoth smirked down at him like a cat with a crippled mouse.
But big didn’t always make better.
“Your bride’s a beauty, too,” the brute drawled, flexing his knuckles. “Dressed for a night of loving.”
“Touch her and choke on your teeth,” Bishop snarled, driving forward. Bloody blackguard. He wouldn’t rise to his taunts, but he could make the man believe that he had.
His fist sank into the man’s gut—solid, unforgiving muscle. A grunt still came. Good. Bishop followed with a jab to the jaw. Then another. On the third, pain flared white-hot through his knuckles. The blackguard barely swayed.
A series of crashes sounded from somewhere.
His reckless, rebellious wife.
He should have known better than to think for one second a woman who marched into the Lyon’s Den wouldn’t follow him into danger.
Hell, the woman ran toward danger like she collected it.
The brute’s fist slammed into Bishop’s cheek. Stars burst behind his eyes. He staggered but held his footing.
“Eyes on me,” the man taunted. “Or you’ll lose much more than a wife tonight. Wait, you will anyway.”
Bishop swung wide, faked left, then planted a brutal elbow in the man’s upper abdomen. A sharp exhale rewarded him.
“You can try,” he taunted.
The brute lunged, arms swinging like a hammer. Bishop ducked beneath them and drove his knee into the man’s thigh. The meaty limb buckled a fraction. Encouraging. He pressed—until the man clamped both hands around his neck and hurled him backward.
Bishop crashed into a sideboard. Glass shattered around him.
“You’re predictable,” the man said, advancing. “All anger. No sense.”
“Sense?” Bishop wiped blood from his brow. “Coming from the hired fist? Tell me, how much does my uncle pay you? I can pay you ten times more.”
“There are some things bigger than blunt.”
“Very well. Your ruin, then.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
Swaggering cur. Bishop grabbed the leg of a chair and swung. Wood cracked against the blackguard’s forearm. He hissed and retaliated with a swinging punch that rattled Bishop’s skull.
Pain flashed. He brushed it aside. He could absolutely not lose consciousness here. Another distant slam or smash echoed back to him. Damn it. He was going to throttle the woman. How had not one damn servant have woken or come?
He ducked a punch and drove the chair leg into the brute’s midsection. The man folded forward, breath whooshing. Bishop seized his collar, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the wall. Plaster cracked.
“Stay down if you know what’s good for you,” Bishop growled.
The brute spat blood and grinned. “Not a chance.”
He surged backward, crushing Bishop against the wall. Air knocked from his lungs. Before he could recover, another blow hammered his side. For the first time, doubt slithered in. Could he win? He wasn’t a fighter, but he had trained with Crane to keep in top form, so he wasn’t the worst either.
But this man was from another deuced world.
Alyssia’s face flashed behind his eyes. What would happen if he lost? How might she be hurt? Bishop saw black.
He grabbed the brute’s wrist, twisted hard. The bone popped. The man roared. Bishop followed with a vicious head butt, and the world rang like church bells.
Not the best decision.
The brute staggered, as dazed as him. Then the man straightened and wiped the blood from his face. “You have more fight than I thought.”
Christ.
Dizziness swamped him, and he fell to one knee.
Shite.
This could not be happening.
Not now.
The man suddenly laughed heartily. “Felled by your own blow. I shall remember to tell Winterbourne the story.”
Damn it, Bishop. Stand the hell up!
His limbs would simply not obey. In fact, his other damn leg joined the first.
The behemoth laughed again, his eyes flicking over the room. “How shall we end this? A kick? A fist? Or a chair? I’m feeling a chair.”
The man reached for the one Bishop had used on him earlier.
Petty blackguard.
Bishop reached for a toppled lamp. As weapons go, it wouldn’t do much.
The right angle, however, he could knock shut an eye.
Perhaps. Hopefully. He drew on something primal—an animal, stubborn cord of strength.
Every muscle burned. His lungs burned. His damn heart burned.
He pictured Alyssia’s face, the way she’d run; the thought was a hot coal in his chest. He would not let the memory of this night be one of failure.
Damn you, stand.
Do. Not. Collapse.
Bishop had just hauled himself to his feet when the blackguard suddenly crumpled to the ground. What the hell? His brows furrowed. Had the man actually succumbed to the blow to his head?
Then his gaze fell on a man standing behind the giant.
Bishop blinked, sure he was seeing things. He blinked again, but the man remained.
“Crane?”
“This is the second time I’ve saved your life,” the duke said as if reciting the morning’s errands. “And what the devil is this about you being bloody Winterbourne?”
“Ah, so it is you.”
“Explain yourself, Bishop, or you will be joining your friend here.” The duke paused. “And did you bloody get married without inviting me?”
The last question cleared his head. Alyssia. He stumbled forward, only to be caught by Crane.
“What the devil is wrong with you? You need to sit down.”
No! “My wife. Alyssia. She drew the other cutthroat away.” Damn it all to hell. He needed to get to her.
Crane cursed. “There’s another one?”
Bishop nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure his head moved. He hadn’t heard anything since the last crash, but that might simply be the ringing in his ears. Silence was worse than noise. Noise meant she was still fighting.
God, was Alyssia all right?
He pushed forward, vision swimming. If that brute laid so much as a finger on her—if she was so much as bruised—he’d never forgive himself. He’d tear his uncle limb from limb. He bloody well couldn’t survive failing her again.
Not tonight.
Not ever.