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But Vale didn’t finish the sentence. Sam rose, low and fast, and charged him, catching him about the knees. Vale went down with a thunderous crash, Sam on top. Several women shrieked and the crowd scattered away from them. Sam began to crawl up him, but Vale twisted, and they both went tumbling, rolling toward the stairs. A matron screamed as she fled down the stairs, pushing other ladies ahead of her. Their skirts swept across suddenly cleared steps.
Sam grabbed the top banister to stop the momentum of their roll. He teetered, his shoulders over the first step, until Vale kicked at his undefended stomach and Sam had to let go to shield himself. He slid, head-down, but managed to snatch Vale’s arm, bringing the other man with him. They careened without control down the stairs, tangled together in a murderous heap. Each tread raked painfully across Sam’s back as they thumped down. He no longer cared if he lived through this encounter or not. He just wanted to make sure he took his enemy with him. Midway down, they slammed into a banister, halting their descent. Sam hooked an arm around a wood pole and kicked viciously at Vale, catching him good and solid, low on the side.
Vale arched under the impact. “Hell!” He twisted and pressed his forearm down on Sam’s windpipe, thrusting hard. Sam gagged from the weight. Vale brought his head close to Sam’s and spoke low, his face black with rage. “You stupid, shitty colonial. How dare you put your filthy hands on—”
Sam let go of the railing and slammed both hands against Vale’s ears. Vale rocked back, freeing Sam’s throat, and Sam gasped painfully for air. But they were sliding farther down the stairs. Vale pummeled him, hitting at face and belly and thighs. Sam jolted with each impact, but strangely, he didn’t feel a thing. His entire being was filled with rage and sorrow. Sam punched the other man, striking anything he could hit. He felt his knuckles split against Vale’s cheekbone and felt the wet smack as the other man’s nose broke. His back jarred into the landing. Vale was on top now, a clear advantage, except that Sam didn’t goddamn care. He’d lost everything, and right now this man was the cause of it all. Vale might have righteous anger, but Sam had the rage of despair, pure and simple. There was no match.
Sam lurched up, right through Vale’s punches. He could feel their impact on his face, but he plowed through the blows. There was only the need to kill. He caught Vale and threw the bigger man down, and then Sam was hitting him, slamming his fists into Vale’s face, and the feeling was glorious. He felt the crunch of bone, saw the splatter of blood, and didn’t care. Didn’t care.
Didn’t care.
Until he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He swung up and froze, his clenched, bloody fist only inches from Emeline’s face.
She flinched. “Don’t.”
He stared at her, this woman he’d made love to, this woman he’d poured his soul into.
This woman he loved.
She had tears in her eyes. “Don’t.” She reached out one small, white hand and wrapped it around his bruised and bloodied fist. “Don’t.”
Below him, Vale wheezed.
Her gaze cut to her fiancé and her tears overflowed. “Please, Samuel. Don’t.”
He felt, vaguely, the pain begin, both in his body and in his heart. Sam lowered his hand and lurched upright. “Damn you.”
He staggered down the stairs and out into the cold night.
Chapter Sixteen
That night, Iron Heart lay chained in the dank, cold dungeon and knew that he had lost everything. His baby son was gone, his princess wife was in despair, the kingdom stood undefended, and before the dawn, he would be put to death. One word from his lips would exonerate him. That same word would send him back to sweeping the streets and kill Princess Solace. He did not care how his life ended, but he could not be the instrument of the princess’s death. For a strange and wonderful thing had happened in the six years of his marriage.
He’d fallen in love with his wife....
—from Iron Heart
When Rebecca descended the stairs the next morning, she startled two maids. They had been standing, heads bent close together, whispering furiously. At the sound of her footfall, they leapt apart and stared up at her.
Rebecca lifted her chin. “Good morning.”
“Miss.” The older one recovered first, bobbing a curtsy before hurrying away with her friend.
Rebecca sighed. The servants were naturally excited about the events of the night before. Samuel had awakened the entire household when he’d stumbled in the front door with blood streaming down his face. He’d been adamant that she not send for a doctor, but for once Rebecca had overridden her older brother. The blood and his apathy had frightened her half to death. She hadn’t seen Lord Vale, but from bits and pieces she’d gathered from the doctor and the servants, the viscount was in even worse condition.
Rebecca wished desperately that she could tiptoe next door and just talk to Lady Emeline. Sit and commiserate with her. Lady Emeline always seemed to know exactly what should be done in any given situation, and she was the type of woman who could set everything right. Always assuming that this problem could be set right. But Rebecca very much feared that she might never talk to Lady Emeline again. She doubted that there was an etiquette rule that covered this situation. How to approach a lady whose fiancé your brother has beaten into a bloody pulp. It was very awkward.
She wandered into the dining room, her brows knit. Samuel had hardly spoken the night before, and she knew from the servants that he hadn’t stirred from his bedroom this morning. She had the dining room to herself and her worries. Actually, she felt the most lonely since she’d set foot in England. She rather wished that there was someone she could confide in. But Samuel wasn’t talking, and everyone else in the house was a servant.
Rebecca reached for a chair only to find a masculine hand pulling it out for her. She looked up—far up—into the face of O’Hare the footman.
“Oh, I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, miss,” he said as formally as if he’d never talked to her so casually just a few weeks ago.
There was another footman in the room, of course, and the butler lurked somewhere about. Rebecca sat in her chair feeling a bit deflated. She looked down at the tablecloth in front of her and struggled to hold back sudden tears. Now, that was silly! To go weeping like a baby just because a servant didn’t acknowledge one as a friend. Even if one could really use a friend right now.
She watched as O’Hare’s big, reddened hand poured her tea. “I wonder...” She trailed off, thinking hard.
