In Bed With the Devil(34)

Catherine’s heart was pounding so hard that she could scarcely breathe. She moved the curtain aside only a fraction. There was more shadow than light but she could see Claybourne was surrounded. His only weapon was his walking stick.

Then in a lightning-quick movement, he pulled it apart to reveal a rather nasty-looking swordlike instrument.

“I believe, gentlemen, you’ll be breaking fast with the devil this morning, not I.”

He lunged toward the man who held his footman and the footman somehow managed to break free of the hold and send the ruffian to the ground.

Claybourne’s move was a feint, Catherine realized, a ploy to simply distract that man so the footman would be at an advantage, because no sooner had Claybourne made a motion to go one way, he reversed direction, making a jabbing motion toward the man who held his coachman. But the coachman had already elbowed his captor and was skillfully avoiding the knife.

While both his servants were now doing their best to fend off the men attacking them, Claybourne was left to deal with the other four—who were taking unfair advantage of the situation. But then she supposed that was what these sorts of cads were accustomed to doing.

Claybourne had somehow managed to kick one of the men in the stomach. Doubled over, he’d dropped his weapon—a large wooden stick. Catherine thought if she could retrieve it, she could give him a few good whacks on the head and even the odds a bit. Before she could think it through clearly, she’d opened the door and stepped out—

Claybourne’s back was to her and a man with a wicked-looking knife was coming up behind him.

“Nooo!” she screamed.

She felt the agonizing fire erupt across her palm, and only then did she realize she’d put her hand up to stop the knife from slicing Claybourne. The man wielding the weapon seemed to be in shock that he’d attacked a lady.

Catherine looked at the crimson flow invading her glove and staggered back.

“Let’s go, mates!” someone yelled.

She was vaguely aware of someone grunting, the echo of pounding footsteps.

“Catherine?”

She blinked. Claybourne was kneeling beside her. What was she doing on the ground? When had she fallen? Why was it suddenly so very dark?

“He was going to kill you,” she murmured. Or thought she did. The words seem to come from a great distance.

“That’s no excuse to put yourself in harm’s way.”

The insufferable ingrate lifted her into his arms and carried her to the coach. He’d barely gotten her inside before following after her, sitting beside her. “Here,” he said, and she felt him wrapping something around her hand as the coach lurched forward.

“Your servants—”

“They’re fine.”

“What’s that?”

“My handkerchief.”

“It’ll be ruined.”

“Good Lord, Catherine, your hand is likely ruined. I don’t give a damn about a bit of cloth.”

“Your language is vulgar, sir.”

“I believe the occasion warrants it.”

“Indeed it does.”

He chuckled, a soothing sound that made her want to reach out and comb her fingers through his hair, assure herself that he was indeed unharmed.

“Who were they?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“They wanted to kill you.”

He said nothing.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m a man with many enemies, Catherine.” He tucked her up against his side, pressed his lips to the top of her head. “But never before have I had a lovely guardian angel.”





Chapter 9




“It’s my hand, not my legs,” Catherine said as Luke swept her into his arms as soon as she appeared in the doorway of the coach intending to step out.

Luke had instructed his driver to go to his residence straightaway, to the back, where none would witness who was coming inside.

“Yes, but the faster I get you indoors, the more quickly I can have a look.”

“I’m quite capable of moving quickly.”

“Stop complaining and just accept that on this matter you’ll not win.”

“Such a bully,” she muttered, before nestling her head more securely against his shoulder.

Luke was smiling before he realized it. How was it that she managed to stir to life every emotion possible in him? First she irritated him like the devil, and then she had tried to protect him. He’d spun around in time to see her, to see the knife slashing—and his stomach had dropped to the ground. Fury had almost blinded him. At that precise moment, he’d thought he could have killed all six ruffians without breaking a sweat. They must have realized their mistake in turning on her, must have seen the murder glittering in his eyes—to have run off as they had. Luke couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, and even as he thought that, he realized she wasn’t his to lose.