“I’ll come with you,” she rasped, but as the knife lowered and he released her mouth, she took her chance, launching a knee to his groin and raking his face with sharp nails.
The oaf bellowed but neither doubled nor dropped to the ground as Flora had insisted any assailant would. Instead, as she twisted to run, he yanked at her hair and slammed her to the trunk of the pear tree, that knife returning to her breast.
Rough bark and raw fear scraped her spine as he pressed close.
“You little bitch. I’ll ’ave first fu–”
A broad forearm encircled the oaf’s throat; a menacing shadow spread.
“You were saying?”
Nothing but a choked gurgle.
“I thought so. Now release the lady’s hair or I will snap your neck in two.”
Soaring behind was the duke, his bare forearm rippling and tightening with every burble the man produced. She was unable to see his expression in the creeping dark but she could sense it – ferocious and vengeful.
All at once, the thug’s grip slackened, knife tumbling to the grass, and she gasped for air, staggering to the side.
“Copperhouse?” the duke roared into the gloom.
Within a blink, the butler came dashing from the servants’ quarters, sans neckcloth and waistcoat, lantern in hand. “Your Grace?”
Candlelight winked on bronzed hairs as with a final undulation of arm muscle, Casper released the thug, who fell to his knees, choking and clawing the cold night air to his lungs.
“Get rid of this.”
Copperhouse swiftly grabbed the man to standing by his hair, fist tight. “Will that be all, Your Grace?” he enquired, as though serving tea and crumpets.
The duke’s expression altered with the sway of lantern. Stern in the light, satanic in the dark, but with eyes that never left her own.
Evelyn shivered.
“Warmed brandy in my study.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“And arrange for footmen to patrol the gardens. You have my permission to employ more.” At long last, his gaze switched to his butler. “Carry on, Coppers.”
A nod, but as the thug was dragged away, he twisted to spit in their direction. “Mr Filgrave’ll have yer all for this,” he sneered. “And I’ll be dancin’ on yer graves.”
Chapter 26
Houses of cards.
“Lay on the chaise.”
In other circumstances, those words might have produced a ripple of desire, but Rothwell’s manner was of their first meeting – detached and brusque. All ease and lightness from the morning’s outing had been stripped away and a different man stood before her. She lowered herself to the chaise but refused to swoon in distress like some Gothic damsel.
Two lanterns held the study dark at bay, but they merely highlighted his implacable jaw, cast her own in guilty shadow.
“Casper, I–”
“Are you hurt?” He kneeled before her and put hand to cheek, turning her face this way and that. Fingers stroked her arms, noted her flinch.
“No, you arrived in time.”
Brusqueness lifted; a breath from the depths released.
