He could do this all night.
Absorb this pain.
Wait for just the right moment to strike back. Wear them down, lull them into thinking they'd beaten him.
This was his talent, fighting.
Well, this and pleasuring women.
Pain and pleasure.
He'd wait a respectable amount of time and then finish them. He had to seem suitably battered. Enough to calm Thea's suspicions.
He was reeling from a blow and didn't even notice her enter the yard.
He did notice when Bulldog's fist stopped halfway to his abdomen.
Dalton turned to see what had stopped Bulldog from striking.
It was Thea. Standing in the middle of the stable yard, hair completely unbound and streaming down her back, no bonnet, no pelisse, no gloves. Just rosy, delectable woman in gray-and-green patterned silk.
Hips swaying and eyes flashing.
One graceful arm lifted as if giving the scene her benediction. "I am La Gabrielli," she proclaimed. "Audiences weep uncontrollably when I sing Rossini and soar to a high F."
She kissed her fingertips, making loud smacking noises. "‘Che voce divina!' they shout."
"Guh," Bulldog made a confused noise and straightened away from Dalton. He elbowed Red Neck Cloth. "What d'you think she said?"
Red Neck Cloth's mouth flapped open. "Dunno. But she's pretty."
"Silenzio!" Thea commanded in her overblown Italian. "It is your lucky night, gentlemen. La Gabrielli, she will sing for you now."
She flung her arms wide, shook her long, shimmering curls, and sucked in a deep breath that swelled her breasts above her bodice. Then she began to sing.
Must be Rossini, because she'd mentioned him earlier. Dalton didn't know his opera from his elbow, but Thea sounded good.
More than good.
She had a high, agile voice that trilled with warmth and richness.
His erstwhile assailants stood with jaws gaping, rendered mute and harmless by her beauty and the effortless grace of that voice.
All that golden hair glinting in the moonlight, her arms outstretched, and that surprisingly soulful, buttery soprano caressing their ears.
Her eyes sparked blue and silver, and in that dress with her curls tumbling around her shoulders no one would have even recognized her as the same woman garbed in white and tightly wound pearls that he'd danced with only a few evenings past.
He had a feeling he was seeing the true Thea for the very first time tonight. All of her movements were bigger, more careless, less restricted.
She was on stage and she reveled in the power she held.
He couldn't stop staring at her. Why would he ever want to stop?
She was the loveliest sight he'd ever beheld and he knew that this vision would be emblazoned on his mind forever.
Time slowed. Men stared.
She thought she was rescuing him. Why that pinched his chest he didn't know. It was . . . adorable. And brave.
And it was working, too.
Actually, he wasn't very pleased about how well it was working.
He didn't like those brutes undressing her with their eyes, dumbfounded by her moonlit passion, practically panting with lust as they watched her sway and warble. Head back, breasts heaving.
Make that three brutes.
The aria built to a dramatic, passionate crest and then tipped down into silence.
Thea swept toward them.
Bulldog blinked. "Guh . . . you're pretty."
"Why, thank you." Thea gifted him with a smile so dazzling, the man actually staggered back two steps.
"Now that I have your attention, gentlemen, I have one question, and one question only," she said in that ridiculous Italian accent of hers.
"What's that Mrs. Gab . . . er . . ."
"Gabrielli." She favored Bulldog with a censorious frown. "That's Dame Gabrielli to you, sir." She rounded on the other man. "The question is this . . . isn't there anyone inside this inn who may have seen this Mr. Jones and could perhaps confirm that my husband, Mr. Gabrielli here, is not the man you seek revenge upon?"
Her husband? Christ.
Thea drew close enough to touch.
"And just what do you think you're doing?" Dalton asked under his breath.
"Rescuing you, of course." She smiled brightly. "If you hadn't noticed, you're being pulverized. I've seen debutantes duel more effectively than that."
Bulldog scratched his chin. "Well now, I suppose Betsy would know Jones. Seeing as how she, er, entertained him."
Why hadn't Dalton thought of that solution?
"Men," Thea said disgustedly. "Always rushing in with their fists first. Never taking time to think things through. I shall go and fetch this Betsy. Do not move even one finger." She glared at each of them in turn, including Dalton, then glided imperiously back into the inn.
Dalton raised his eyebrows.
Red Neck Cloth gave him a sheepish shrug.
Thea reappeared shortly with a round, apple-cheeked young woman with thick light brown hair. "Is that gentleman Mr. Jones?" she asked Betsy, pointing at Dalton.
Betsy looked him up and down and whistled appreciatively. "Lordy. If that were Jones, I would have stowed away in his carriage and followed him to London."
"But this is Jones's carriage," protested Bulldog.
"I told you," Dalton wheezed, clutching at his rib cage. "I rented the carriage from him."
Red Neck Cloth cleared his throat. "Uh . . . no harm done, eh, Mr. Gabrielli?" He held out a huge paw in a conciliatory gesture.
"Come inside, caro esposo," Thea trilled. "Did they hurt you, those bad men? Should we call for the night watch?"
Bulldog shook his shaggy head. "No need for that, now. Just a misunderstanding."
"You numbskull, Brown," chided Betsy. "And you, Morgan, attacking the wrong man. Mr. Gatling will hear of this."
The men hung their head like schoolboys who'd had their hands rapped by a ruler.
Thea smiled at Dalton. See? That smile clearly said my way was better.
"Come along, caro esposo." She hooked her elbow through his. "These nice gentlemen are going to purchase our repast."
"Say, you're a brick, you are, Gabrielli. Got a stomach like a steel hull." Bulldog placed his arms around Dalton's shoulder, suddenly his best friend. "Let me make it up to you. What's your pleasure? Brandy? Wine?"
Dalton grunted. "Whiskey."
Bulldog grinned. "The finest Ireland has to offer. I'll have it sent to your room."
"We'll need your best chamber," Thea commanded. "Hot water, fresh linens, ointment for his cuts and bruises." She glared at the men and they hung their heads.
"Will there be anything else, Mrs. Gabrielli?" Betsy asked.
"You," Dalton whispered, low and intense so only Thea could hear. "He'll need you."
Too many direct hits to the skull.
Only explanation for those words.
"That will be all, thank you, Betsy." Thea blushed.
"I'll bring the physician who's attending Molly to you," Thea said as they climbed the stairs after Betsy.
"No," Dalton growled. "No physicians."
"But . . . you're cut. And bleeding."
"It's nothing." He winced. "There were two of them is all."
"It's a good thing I came along when I did. What do you call that boxing technique? Flop and drop?"
"Ha." Dalton winced as pain shot through his ribs. "Stop making me laugh. It hurts too much."
"I'm serious. When you return to London you should take lessons at Gentleman Jackson's. You should learn how to defend yourself."
Oh, the endless irony of that.
He could have flattened those bumbling brutes within ten seconds with both hands tied behind his back.
Of course he could never tell her that. She would ask far too many questions.
Ten minutes later Dalton was settled in a low red velvet chair by a crackling fire in the most spacious chamber the inn had to offer. They were eager to stop him from complaining.
The accommodating Betsy brought a basin of hot water, some fresh linens, and ointment. "I'll send your meal soon. If you need me to help wash your wounds, Mr. Gabrielli, or if you need anything at all"-she gave him a flirtatious wink-"just ask for Betsy."
Thea frowned. "That will be all," she said firmly, showing Betsy to the door.
Dalton smiled. She didn't like Betsy winking at him. He had no idea why that pleased him, but it did.
Thea turned back to him. "Those men gave you quite a pounding."
Ah . . . the things he did to stop clever wallflowers from learning his secrets.
"Only a few scratches and bruises. No more than usual." He winced as pain spread through his abdomen. "May have a cracked rib or two. Nothing to worry about. Go and see to Molly now. I'll be fine."
"Are you quite sure?"
She bit her lower lip, leaving a small patch of darker pink that drew his gaze and made him remember their interrupted kiss in the carriage. He'd like to finish that kiss.
End it properly.
True concern filled her eyes. "If you're truly injured I'll have to send for the physician. I won't take no for an answer, Your Grace."
"Nothing a few swallows of whiskey won't cure. Hand me that bottle, will you, lamb?"
When potent grain and honey heated his belly and Thea and her tempting lips left the room, Dalton stretched his legs in front of the fire and closed his eyes.
The spirits dulled the pain of his bruised ribs.
But the whiskey did nothing for the ache of wanting Thea so badly.
Chapter 12