Page 44 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Abigail gasped. Reade jabbed and sliced the side of Russell’s trousers. Boots pounded on the stairway.

“For God’s sake, Abigail, run!” Reade shouted.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her dart into Russell’s room. What was she doing? Russell advanced, parried left, right, left, right. He was stalling. Reade needed to press his hand. Reade jabbed at Russell’s belly, then dropped to a squat, jabbed Russell’s leg, above his boot. Russell leapt back, but Reade ripped his breeches, then rolled onto his feet. Blood spotted Russell’s gray breeches. The approaching bootfalls quickened.

Russell swung his sword in a wide arc. Reade ducked, spun, and brought his sword down on his opponent’s weapon in a jarring blow. Russell stumbled. Reade swung upward, catching Russell’s blade, and yanking it from his grasp. The weapon struck the wall, then hit the floor with a clatter.

Reade tossed his sword into his left hand, then rammed his right fist into Russell’s face. Russell’s nose spurted blood. Russell reared back, first raised. Female voices rose in Russell’s chambers. Reade grasped his sword with his right hand and pressed the point against Russell’s chest. Russell froze.

Bootfalls echoed in the hallway, then silenced. Reade edged around Russell, keeping the sword tip pressed against his chest. He caught sight of the brute of a man standing near the stairs, a revolver pointed at him.

“Shoot him, you fool,” Russell shouted.

Abigail emerged from Russell’s chambers. The newcomer’s eyes riveted onto her.

“Throw down your weapon or Bruce will shoot her,” Russell ordered.

Abigail lifted her right hand. Reade saw the gun she gripped a heartbeat before she fired. The deafening blast echoed off the walls in unison with Bruce’s yowl when the bullet hit his pistol and the weapon flew from his hand. Russell yanked his forearm up, threw off the blade and lunged. Reade sidestepped him and slammed the flat of his sword against Russell’s shoulders. Russell stumbled. Bruce bellowed and charged.

Reade stuck out his foot. Russell’s boot caught on Reade’s foot and he pitched flat on his face. He shoved to one knee. Reade kicked the side of his head and spun to face the charging man. Bruce flew past Abigail. She swung her revolver and cracked the butt against the side of Bruce’s head. He slumped to the floor, motionless.

Reade yanked his gaze onto Abigail, breath coming in deep gasps. “Abigail, when we are married, there will be no more of these missions. Are we clear?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I believe I was quite clear,” he said.

Mr. Russell groaned. Reade turned and brought his heel down on the back of his head. Russell slumped and didn’t move. “He’ll have a devil of a headache, but he deserves it,” Reade muttered.

“What did you just say?” Abigail said.

He looked at her. “Say? About what?”

“But you are a rake. You have no desire to marry.”

Voices and footsteps echoed from the hallway. Abigail whirled as half a dozen men emerged from the staircase, Mr. Westland in the lead. They halted. His gaze snapped onto the sword Reade still gripped.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

Abigail said, “What is going on is that Mr. Russell is under arrest.”

“Under arrest?” Mr. Westland said. “For what?”

“For stealing the Honors of Scotland.