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A shadow fell across the upper corridor. “Get the girl. She’ll tell us what she knows or we’ll have the tongue from her head.”
Máelodor’s men. But how had they tracked him to Duke Street? He and Helena had been meticulous as they laid their trail that none could track him back here.
A sharp stab of laughter followed. “Aye, Croker. She’s a luscious little peach. Any chance of—”
“Keep your prick buttoned up, lad. Time enough for that if we have to get rough.”
Rage burned along Brendan’s veins like acid as he tightened his grip on the blade’s handle. Felt for the comforting bulge of the pistol in his pocket.
A man appeared around the door.
Brendan never hesitated. He sent his dagger on a whistling arc, knocking the would-be rapist back against the wall, a blade buried hilt-deep in his chest.
The man called Croker shoved his way into the passage with a curse. “What the hell?”
No time for finesse, Brendan drew his pistol, cocked the hammer, and fired.
This time his aim was not quite so true. The bullet exploded into the plaster to the right of the man’s head, spraying him with chalky dust.
He swung around, his gaze narrowing in concentration, words already whispering the curse that sent Brendan to the floor in a twitch of fried nerves.
Mage energy sizzled through him like lightning. Shredding muscle. Knifing tendons. He howled against the agony even as he focused long enough to parry the curse with his own spell.
The man froze for a moment, an odd confusion marring his features as the pain eased in Brendan’s chest. He could breathe again. He could stand.
But it was a short-lived victory.
A second figure stepped from the parlor, adding his strength to the fight. Two against one. The pair of them working in tandem to overwhelm his defenses. Even as he staggered to his feet, an insidious curdling cold infected him. A teeth-chattering arctic burn pulled along veins toward his heart.
He clenched his jaw, limbs as unresponsive as if he’d been plunged into a frozen sea. There was nothing to break the icy grip upon him. His mind seemed to divorce itself from his body. He couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t think.
Upstairs, a woman screamed. A man shouted. There was the sound of breaking furniture.
And not a damn thing he could do about it.
Elisabeth would have been far more successful if she’d been wearing half boots. All she’d managed to do in slippers was bruise her toes against the man’s shin, making him angrier than he already was. His pistol jammed against her temple, he leaned into her face. So close the onion smell of his breath nearly knocked her out. “You do that again and I’ll—”
The barrel of the gun was cold, yet sweat trickled between her shoulder blades and down her back. The lawn of her shift seemed to have plastered itself to her body like a damp, uncomfortable skin. “You’ll what? Kill me? I don’t think so.”
Elisabeth found her gaze fastening on the bit of lunch caught between his teeth. It was that or look up into his eyes and see her terror mirrored back at her in those dark irises. She didn’t need to know how terrified she looked. She was well aware. But she would not let that paralyzing, lung-squeezing, stomach-knotting fear take over.
The man ground his teeth together so hard, his jaw looked in danger of shattering, but his pistol was withdrawn to a jacket pocket, his grip loosened. “You’re damned lucky I’m a gentleman, bitch, or your brains would be all over this room by now.” His notion of gentlemanly behavior definitely left much to be desired if his leering smirk and roving hands were any indication.
She cast a look at Rogan’s inert body, willing him to rouse and come to her aid. But he remained frighteningly lifeless, the blood in his hair altogether too red for her taste. Heavens, what if she’d killed him?
The blast of a pistol shot broke the momentary stalemate. The man’s head came up like a hound upon a scent, his divided attention easing the death grip he had on her arm.
Now or never.
She tore herself free with a shout. Lunged for the dropped poker. She’d barely touched it when he spun back to her, eyes widening for a fraction of a second, mouth curled in a snarl of animal rage. His first hit backhanded her to the ground.
She never felt the second.
The son of a bitch bent to take up Brendan’s knife. Eyed it for a moment, a gleam of a smile on his ruddy features.
“Brendan Douglas as I live.” He placed the knife along Brendan’s throat. Slid it achingly slow along his neck, the incision igniting a stinging fire. “Máelodor’s getting desperate. His price has risen over the last months. We’ll be able to retire as gentlemen on what you’ll bring us.”
Brendan could almost feel the frost layering him over. He stared up into eyes hard as stones, the cold encircling his heart. Slowing it. Every beat sending color bursting across his vision. He would not pass out. He would not give this bastard the satisfaction.
