There was no answer. The back of Harry’s neck prickled in warning, one he’d learned long ago not to ignore. He had enemies, Colm being the most recent. And Harry was fairly certain he hadn’t seen the last of Dufton. Or Waterstone. Both of whom wanted him dead.
“McAddle,” he said again.
Metal on metal reached his ears, as if someone were forging a weapon or a pair of horseshoes. He halted, eyes peering into the dimly lit main floor, watching for any sign of movement. A black shape whooshed through the air towards him, like a whip.
Chain.
Harry fell as a chain from somewhere to the left wrapped around his neck. His hands grabbed at the metal links, trying to keep from choking. Digging his heels into the floor, he thrashed about as his assailant started dragging Harry in the direction of one of the large smelting pots. The embers beneath glowed a dull red.
Hot enough to kill him.
Struggling to breathe, Harry twisted, one foot kicking up an iron rod left carelessly on the floor by one of his workers.
Thank God.
One hand searched on the ground as he was pulled forward, the chain tightening. There was a metal hook near the smelting pot, and the chain was attached to the other end. The prick meant to burn and hang him. Finally, his fingers found the iron rod. Swinging blindly behind him, he tried to hit the man attempting to strangle him.
A curse filled the air as the rod made contact with a body.
Harry flipped to the side, shoving at his attacker, using the rod like a spear, over and over until the chain loosened. Swinging back once more, a howl of pain sounded, along with the crack of a knee.
Coming to his feet, Harry threw off the chain and spun around, careful to keep the rod swinging before him, searching the darkness for the person who’d dared to invade his bloody ironworks and try to murder him. Was it Colm? Dufton? Someone else he’d managed to piss off over the years? Or just a hired thug?
He waited, barely daring to breathe, searching the dark floor.
But Pendergast had gone utterly quiet once more.
Much later,Lucy’s slender fingers ran over Harry’s throat, gently touching the marks the chain had made against his skin. A small, distressing noise came from her before her lips pressed to his cheek.
“I’m fine, my lovely girl.” He took her hand. “Promise.” Lifting his glass, he said. “Pour me another brandy.”
“Don’t start ordering me about, Harry. You’ve been doing so well,” she said tartly, hand leaving his skin. Gracefully, she came to her feet and brought the bottle of brandy closer to the tub. There was no bathing room, yet, in this house, though Harry planned to remedy that at some point.
Lucy poured more brandy into the glass, took a sip for herself, than handed the amber liquid to him. “I should summon a physician.” Her dark brows were drawn together, lovely hands drifting over his skin. “Or the constable.”
“I don’t need the bloody doctor. And Constable Martin and I don’t exactly get on.” Shrugging, he took another large swallow of the brandy. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story.” One involving a young lady who was now Martin’s wife. “Besides.” He took her hand and drew it beneath the water, placing her fingers on his rapidly stiffening cock. “Your tender ministrations have revived me.”
“Harry,” she said in that breathless way that sent another wave of arousal straight between his thighs. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I’ve enemies in Yorkshire. London. Manchester. Might even be a few in Bristol. Yet another long story. But you know—” Hemade a sharp gasp as her fingers wrapped around his length. “I’d heal so much faster if you got in this tub with me. Possibly washed my back or…anything else which pops up.”
Lucy bit her bottom lip, pretending to be scandalized when Harry knew she was not, though he’d yet to get her into this tub with him. “There isn’t room for both of us.”
Not a refusal. “I disagree. Besides you’ve been sneaking looks at my cock this entire time.”
Her lips pursed into that perfect, ladylike rosette. “I—have not.”
“Not to mention what you’re doing with your hand.” A soft groan left him as she stroked his cock. “I don’t blame you. I’m somewhat spectacular.”
“What you are is arrogant and vain about your anatomy.” Lucy’s gaze flicked down. Not lisping. He didn’t hear the speech impediment often anymore, only if she was distressed or unsure. She was neither right now. Instead, the porcelain of her skin held a soft blush.
“Please,” he said in a husky voice. “Come into the bath with me. Look,” he said, nodding at the surface of the water. “There’s bubbles.”
Lucy released him but not before dragging her thumb along the head of his cock.
She’ll be the death of me. I swear.
Standing, she shrugged the robe off her shoulders, revealing some filmy bit of silk that, honestly, revealed more than it hid.
