Chapter Sixteen #5
Mrs. Christie pressed her hands against her stomach as she doubled over.
Violent retching noises erupted from her followed by the remains of her breakfast. The delicate lavender scent in Sir Hadrien’s handkerchief was obliterated by the sprinkling of body waste that attached itself to his hair, face, and clothing.
At the center, where Olivia’s aim had been most true, Johnny Crocker received no mere sprinkling, but a full shower of the bucket’s foul contents.
“Christ! Christ Jesus! Holy Mother of God!” He slapped at his face with his hands, trying to wipe the worst of it away.
The taste of it was in his mouth; the odor clung to the inside of his nose.
There was no ridding himself of it. He gagged also, staggered forward, and bent at the waist. He never saw Olivia swing the empty wooden bucket back, around, and over her shoulder, so he didn’t know when it reached its full height.
The momentum carried it forward; Olivia supplied the direction.
The impact with his head shattered the bucket and dropped him to his knees in the filth he was trying to escape.
Griffin could not recall that he’d ever thought much about the height and breadth of Johnny Crocker’s shoulders, nor the way the man filled the space across a threshold.
He thought about it now, and was grateful.
Except for a few scattered droplets, Crocker’s considerable mass had been an almost perfect bulwark.
Griffin stood slightly to one side in the doorway, allowing more light from the kitchen and the hall sconces to enter the wine cellar.
He could see Olivia holding the rope handle of the shattered bucket.
Two wooden staves still dangled from it.
She was all of a messy piece, slightly soiled, a bit worse for the wear with her hair tousled and rents in her gown, but she was unbowed by the experience in any way that mattered.
It was anger that flushed her face, not exertion or fear.
She had a warrior’s stance, not the still, guarded posture of prey.
That she was armed only with the remnants of a slop bucket, well, he was hard-pressed to keep his lips from twitching.
He used the pistol to wave her over. To her credit, she didn’t hesitate.
When Crocker made a weak attempt to catch her skirts as she passed, she sharply slapped at his hand with the bucket staves like a governess disciplining an unruly charge.
Griffin was not proof against that gesture.
He was grinning as she came abreast of him.
Before she could comment, he moved her into the hall behind him.
She came up on tiptoe as she pressed herself against his back.
He heard her whisper her brother’s name, and for the first time, he became aware of Alastair’s presence in the cellar.
Her brother was standing against the wall of wine bottles, his arms and legs spread wide as though he were holding back the tide of grape, when in truth he was being held up by it.
“Over here, Alastair,” Griffin said. When Alastair didn’t move, Griffin raised his voice. This time he managed to talk over the oddly syncopated retching of Olivia’s three victims, and penetrate the fermented fog that clouded Alastair’s thinking.
Alastair’s head swiveled slowly toward the door.
He grinned somewhat lopsidedly, then drew himself up almost straight and pushed away from the wall.
He managed to grab the neck of a wine bottle in each hand as he did so and lightly tapped his father on the shoulder as he half sauntered, half stumbled past Sir Hadrien’s heaving frame.
“Foxed,” he announced, still smiling stupidly as he slipped by Griffin. “Couldn’ help myself.”
Griffin shrugged. “It’s a wine cellar.”
“That’s what I said.” Alastair struck the butt ends of the bottles together to punctuate his point.
Olivia tugged on the tails of Griffin’s frock coat. “Can we go? I’d really like to go.”
Griffin nodded. He stood, backed out, and closed the door.
The wooden bar stood precisely where Crocker left it.
Griffin hefted it in one hand and slid it into place just as Crocker threw his considerable weight and one formidable shoulder against it.
It shuddered, but then so did Crocker. The sound of his retching was muffled but easily identifiable.
Griffin felt his own stomach curdle. He took another step back and turned, giving Olivia a sideways grimace. “Clever and resourceful, indeed. A force of nature is more like it.”
She managed a modest smile. “I supplied the force. Alastair supplied the nature, if you take my meaning.”
Because the odor and contents of the slop bucket were still very much with them, Griffin had no difficulty comprehending.
“I do.” The door shuddered again as Crocker threw himself against it a second time.
Griffin ignored it, though he saw Olivia and Alastair look toward it with some trepidation.
“Your father’s carriage is outside. You can take it back to Putnam Lane.
We’re not far from there, but I don’t think walking is advisable for either of you.
” This time when the door vibrated, Griffin casually knocked back at it with the butt of his pistol.
“They can’t get out, any more than you could.
Go on. I won’t be long. Can you find your way? ”
Olivia nodded. “Come, Alastair. Do you require my shoulder?”
“Have the bottles for balance,” he said pleasantly. “Just the thing.”
Rolling her eyes, Olivia turned to go. She’d taken only half a step forward before she felt herself being hauled back into Griffin’s arms. She was wrapped in a hard embrace that nearly squeezed the breath from her lungs.
What remained, he stole with a quick, hard kiss.
She still bore the stamp of it on her mouth when he set her from him.
“Marry me, Olivia Cole.”
She stared up at him, and because her balance was a bit off from the fierceness of that kiss and the perfect beauty of his smile, she said yes.
He nodded once, satisfied. “Now go.”
Olivia turned, took Alastair by the sleeve, and began to lead him down the hall.
Griffin set his shoulder against the cellar door, rapped it twice with his pistol, and called for quiet. It took several moments, but it was achieved in the main. “Crocker!”
“You have my attention, Breckenridge.”
It was a more reasoned response than Griffin had dared hope for. “Tell me where I can find Neville Burton.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Not what I want to hear. Tell him, Mrs. Christie. Make him understand that it’s not what I want to hear.”
Trembling in the aftermath of being so violently ill, Alys Christie weakly raised her head. She was on her knees, nearly surrounded by her own sickness and afraid to move in any direction. “He knows about Burton. He forced me to tell him.”
“I don’t imagine there was much force involved,” Crocker said, disgusted.
“You have no tolerance for pain, Alys, above a bit of slap and tickle. Always been a disappointment in that regard.” Crocker paid no heed to the sharp hiss of her breath and leaned against the door.
“He’s around, Breckenridge. I can’t tell you more than that, and rest assured that I would, conditions here being what they are. ”
“Griffin?”
Olivia’s soft interjection jerked Griffin away from the door.
She was standing in front of him when she should have been gone.
Alastair, too, was in the hall, listing slightly as he was no longer in possession of his wine bottles.
Behind them was the young man instantly recognizable to Griffin as the gentleman villain.
“Mr. Burton’s here,” Griffin announced to Crocker.
“Is he? Not surprised. I don’t suppose he ever left after bringing Miss Cole around.” His deep rumbling laughter filtered through seams in the door. “Damned if he ain’t made himself a useful sort. Get me out of here, Burton.”
Griffin saw the villain shrug almost sheepishly, but his arctic blue eyes held nothing that could be confused for remorse. “What do you want, Mr. Burton?”
“Let us begin with your pistol on the floor.”
Griffin hesitated. He saw Burton poke at Olivia with what he imagined was a pistol of his own. He put his weapon down slowly and raised his palms as he straightened. When Burton indicated he should slide it toward him, he did so with the toe of his boot.
Burton pushed Olivia forward, then set Alastair on the same path.
Griffin now stood as a clear target for his pistol.
The gentleman villain merely smiled when Griffin set Olivia at his back.
“I only have to get through you,” he said.
“I’ll take my time with her once I clean her up.
” He produced the cravat that he’d used to tie Olivia’s hands.
“She had this tucked in her sleeve. I believe she thought she might have use for it. Around my neck, perhaps. I think it will look lovely around hers. Did you know that cutting off the airway heightens the moment of crisis? I shall enjoy watching her then.” He smiled at Griffin, then jerked his chin toward the door. “Open it.”
Griffin lifted the bar carefully, aware of Burton’s steady aim and fierce concentration on his movements. The distraction he provided was deliberately slow and calculated toward a single purpose.
He’d always admired the deftness of Olivia’s touch, and no more so than when she neatly reached under his frock coat and lifted the pistol he’d shoved between his trousers and the small of his back. He stepped clear of her as she raised her arm.
Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Burton twitched. It was enough for Griffin to seize the moment. He swung the wooden bar up hard, shattering Burton’s wrist and knocking the pistol out of his grip. “Alastair!” he shouted. “The door!”
Alastair threw himself against it in time to catch the flat of Johnny Crocker’s hand.
Crocker’s howl of pain was not loud enough to mask the sound of crunching bone.
Mrs. Christie screamed. Sir Hadrien shouted something unintelligible.
Alastair opened the door a fraction, shoved Crocker’s broken hand inside, and slammed it closed again.
The cacophony continued, but the volume of it was lessened considerably.
Griffin set the bar back in place, pried the pistol out of Olivia’s cold grip, and leveled it at Burton.
The villain was curled on the floor, knees drawn up like an infant, cradling his injured wrist. His eyes were closed against the intense pain.
Tears squeezed through his lashes. Unsympathetic, Griffin simply shook his head.
Alastair made a dignified surge forward, picked up both of the fallen pistols, and with one in each hand, found his balance again.
Olivia touched Griffin’s sleeve lightly, exerting just enough pressure to encourage him to lower his arm. “You don’t want to kill him.”
“I do,” he said. “I really do.”
“Then I don’t want you to.”
Griffin weighed her wishes against his own, considered what it would cost them both to satisfy her honor and indulge his pride, and knew there was only one course of action. He lowered the pistol to his side, and with his free arm, started to draw Olivia close.
Watching them, Alastair Cole was contentedly aware that matters of honor and pride had been left to him.
He raised both pistols and fired.