Chapter 9
“Get back here!” Tibault roared as Bridget raced through the crowded gaming hell, her heart racing.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she slipped past the guards and broke into a run, her skirts gathered in her hands as she darted for the stairs to the private rooms above.
Shouts erupted behind her almost instantly, voices raised in anger and disbelief as another man cursed and followed her, his heavy boots pounding the steps only a few heartbeats behind.
Bridget did not dare look back. She took the stairs two at a time, her lungs burning as the narrow corridor above came into view.
What did I just do?
She had never struck anyone in her life! Her family and friends would be livid. What would the other ladies say about that if they saw it? They would probably shun her for life.
Yet even as her foot throbbed with pain from the strike, Bridget could not help but notice the sense of thrill that was coursing through her veins. She was becoming a new woman, and she liked it.
“Warren!” she shouted, running up the stairs to the private rooms. “Warren, come out right now!”
Several doors opened as she reached the hallway. The heads of both women and men alike popped out, wide-eyed and mussed as Bridget shouted her demands. None of them, though, was her husband.
Refusing to give up, she began shoving doors open, interrupting several stages of intimacy.
Astonishment spiraled through her at some of the things she saw, but none of the naked or half-naked men were Warren.
She was about to open the last door when a strong hand wrapped around her arm, and she felt herself being lifted from the floor.
A tall mountain of a man in a fine suit stepped in her way.
A cry tore from her throat as pain flared, and she stumbled back against him as he spun her around, his grip bruising as he leaned down into her space.
“Look at you,” he scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. “Running about like this, humiliating yourself in front of everyone.” His mouth twisted cruelly. “Wives like you are all the same. Pathetic. Jealous women like you always are. Chasing after men who clearly don’t want to be found.”
The words struck deeper than the pain in her arm, and for a terrible moment, Bridget felt the weight of every watching eye, every whispered judgment she had feared pressing in on her all at once. Still, she lifted her chin, even as her heart raced, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze.
“Unhand the lady.”
The command came from behind them, low and lethal, and the man stiffened as though a blade had been pressed to his throat.
Adrian stood a few paces away, his expression dark with restrained fury, his eyes fixed on the hand gripping Bridget’s arm. He took a step closer, his presence commanding and unmistakable.
“If you value that hand,” Adrian continued coolly, “you will remove it. Now.”
The man scoffed, though his grip loosened slightly. “This has nothing to do with you, Your Grace. She broke the rules. She—”
“That was not a request,” Adrian interrupted sharply. He moved then, placing himself squarely between them as Bridget was freed, one hand settling firmly at the small of her back. The authority in his voice left no room for argument.
“My lady,” Adrian’s deep voice rumbled. “I believe that it is for the best that you allow me escort you back downstairs.”
Feeling tears of embarrassment begin to prick at her eyes, Bridget felt the rest of her fighting spirit leave her. She pulled the edges of the cloak closer around her and then walked back down the hall. He followed at a respectful distance until they reached the bottom of the stairs.
As they stepped back into the main floor of the gaming hell, she first spotted Tibault, who was holding a bloody rag to his nose and was now sporting a black eye. The manager glared at her and barked at the guard to take them outside.
Adrian pushed aside two of the men who approached them, keeping them at a distance from Bridget.
“I will take her,” he snapped at the men. “None of you dare touch her.”
“As you say, Your Grace. As long as you follow Tibault’s orders and leave the premises.”
“I would not want to stay in this establishment a moment longer,” Bridget answered before Adrian could. “It is clear my husband is not here.”
Adrian took hold of her arm, and in her defeated state, she did not shove him away.
“What happened to Tibault?” she could not help but ask as the bruised manager continued to glare at them as they walked through the den of filth.
“I did,” Adrian gritted out, keeping his blistering gaze forward.
Bridget looked at him with questioning eyes. Why would he do such a thing?
As if he heard her thoughts, Adrian looked down at her, his gaze still hard as he said, “He lunged for you after you kicked him. I did not like that.”
Bridget’s mouth dropped open as she realized what Adrian had done to protect her. No one had ever lifted a finger to come to her defense, yet this man, who was practically a stranger, had done so twice in a day.
Bridget snapped her mouth shut when she caught the sound of men sniggering at her, and hurried along Adrian’s side so they could leave the wretched place sooner.
When they made it outside, she thought Adrian was taking her to the carriage, but once they reached the street, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into an empty alley.
She gasped as her back met the brick wall, the impact jarring enough to steal her breath just as Adrian caged her in, his hands coming down on either side of her head.
She was trapped there, his body so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension rolling off him in sharp, barely restrained waves.
Despite the shame still clinging to her skin, despite the anger simmering in her chest, a shiver of unwanted desire slid through her as he leaned closer, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek.
“What was that reckless behavior back there?” Adrian whispered vehemently.
His gaze dropped suddenly, drawn to her arm where his fingers had closed around it. Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip, his eyes narrowing as he took in the faint redness already blooming beneath the fabric.
His jaw tightened.
“Did he touch you?” he asked, his voice dropping even lower. Dangerous. “Did that man hurt you?”
Bridget blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “No,” she answered quickly. “I mean… Not like that. He only—”
Her words faltered as Adrian’s hand hovered near her arm, not quite touching, as though he were restraining himself from tracing the mark.
“He had no right,” Adrian said flatly, fury simmering beneath the calm. His hand curled into a fist against the wall beside her head. “None.”
The weight of his anger pressed into the narrow space between them, thick and suffocating. Bridget swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close he was, of how his chest rose and fell just inches from her own.
“But still,” he continued, his voice roughening as his attention snapped back to her face. “What in God’s name were you thinking?” His gaze burned into hers. “Kicking Tibault. Running away. Did you truly believe that would end well?”
His harsh words brought her out of the sudden bout of desire that had consumed her, and she glared at him.
“I should have suspected that you would defend someone like him,” she retorted. “He is probably a friend of yours. He seemed to know you quite well. I do not know how I was first so remiss in seeing that, of course, you are the type of man that frequents establishments such as these.”
Adrian cocked his head as he gave her a warning look that caused her blood to sizzle and her cheeks to flush. Bridget mentally cursed herself. She was angry at him, and yet here she was, feeling her body react in such a way!
“Do not speak as if you know what sort of man I am, Bridget,” he warned.
“Well, they knew you a little too well in all such establishments, did they not?” she flung back.
“Yes, they know me,” Adrian replied, his tone hard as he leaned closer to her. “Because the investigation into my brother’s death has led me to such places and I have found that it suits me better to be on good terms with management so I may question my suspects.”
Bridget blinked, losing a little bit of her fighting spirit.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“Oh, indeed,” he mocked.
She looked up at him sheepishly, then Adrian drew a hand to the bridge of his nose. As he closed his eyes and rubbed it, he let out a long, exhausted exhale. Bridget suddenly understood what her scene inside could cost Adrian, and she felt the rest of her fight fade.
“Adrian, I am sorry,” she sighed, fidgeting with her fingers. “For not keeping my composure. When I saw all those men in there, with those women in their laps, something inside me just… broke. To realize that this is the sort of man my husband truly is, it is… it is…”
She reached for a proper word, but none felt quite accurate. She was not heartbroken. Her heart had given up long ago. Offended? Ashamed? Yet those did not seem quite accurate either.
“I just thought… I just thought for a moment that all men were the same,” she muttered.
“Not all men are like that,” Adrian said quietly.
Bridget glanced up at him and found him staring intently down at her.
“Men like that are despicable,” he agreed in a matter-of-fact tone. “But aside from finding my brother’s murderer, I have no use for establishments such as these. And if I were married… especially to a woman such as you, I would never demean her by stepping foot inside one.”
Bridget’s brows raised in surprise.
“You would not?” she asked.
Adrian shook his head as he took another step closer to her. Heat crackled between them, too comforting for her to want to stop such closeness. She was tired. Embarrassed. Adrian’s words sank through it all, taking away a little bit of the emotion.