The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell(35)

Her teeth chattered. “I fired into the cushions, to create a distraction while I fled.”

The cold rain came down in torrents. She raised her violently trembling hands to Anthony’s cheeks. “Is it really you?”

“You’re freezing.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Here,” he muttered, bundling her into the voluminous cloak. It was warm and smelled like Anthony, and she sank into its comfort. He’d come for her. She was safe.

Pounding footsteps came through the trees, and she gripped the pistol tight. She really would shoot Orwell this time, before she let him hurt Anthony.

But it was the coachman. He broke through the thick brambles of the forest and screeched to a startled halt when he saw Anthony. “I— I—”

His stammer was cut short in a wheeze when Anthony delivered a short, brutal jab to his throat. He fell with a crash into the thicket, choking, then stumbled off, running in the direction of the last village they’d passed.

“Stay here,” Anthony ordered her.

Not a chance. The dark pressed in on Phillipa, and she scrambled to keep up with Anthony as he strode back to the carriage. His fine white shirt was plastered to his broad shoulders and rain ran in rivulets down his golden hair. He looked like an avenging angel.

Orwell drew up sharply when he saw them, quickly masking his astonishment.

“Lord Anthony,” he said with a sneer, stepping down from the carriage into the rain.

Her mouth went dry at the dangerous glitter in Orwell’s expression.

She started to warn Anthony, but she realized it was unnecessary. She flinched from the cold rage that gleamed from his emerald eyes.

“Are you really willing to go to the gallows over this tease? This lascivious slut?” Orwell smirked, strolling with insolent confidence toward Anthony.

Hadn’t they just had this same conversation? But this was worse. They were talking about Anthony now.

Anthony did not deign to answer. Instead, he backhanded Orwell when he came within striking distance, shocking her with the viciousness of the action. Orwell snarled and charged him. Anthony grabbed Orwell’s lapel and yanked him forward, then slammed a fist into his face.

Phillipa stood rooted to the spot, trembling, as Anthony punched Orwell again. Anthony gave him no quarter, no chance to retaliate. Anthony slammed his fist in Orwell’s gut, doubling him over. Orwell groaned.

Thankfully, it was over almost before it started. With Anthony landing another vicious blow to his face, Orwell crumpled to the ground. Anthony casually walked toward the carriage. She stared at him in ill-concealed shock, feeling faint. Rain pasted his hair to his scalp and ran in rivulets down the sharp blades of his cheeks into his soaking jacket.

“Get in,” he growled with barely leashed fury, flinging open the carriage door.

She jerked into motion, stepping gingerly over Orwell and scrambling into the equipage just as the sky opened with fury. Anthony leaped in after her and sank into the darkened shadows of the carriage, silent and cold. They sat mutely, listening to the sound of thunder and clouds pouring out torrential rain. She trembled, freezing and nervous, feeling the palatable tension in the air.

“Anthony—”

“Quiet.” His voice cracked like a whip.

She shuddered. Tumultuous emotions glazed his eyes, as if he fought for restraint. She did not know how to respond to this unknown side of him. Before, he had been so sensually teasing. She would never have thought him capable of brutality. The beating he had given Orwell could have been far worse, had he truly lost control, but it made her realize how little she knew of Anthony.

She had never imagined any of this would go this far. With Orwell or with Anthony. She swallowed, tears burning her eyes, shivers racking her.

And yet, Anthony had rescued her. He had come for her.

Weak moans came from outside; Orwell had regained consciousness. She didn’t dare ask what would happen next.

“Let’s go,” Anthony said, saving her the trouble, and stepping down from the carriage.

She scrambled after him, avoiding the curled-up form of Orwell on the ground. The cold rain caressed her cheeks like a dark omen. It shook her to the core.

And knew her life was forever changed because of this night.

They halted at the massive black stallion. “What will we do?” she beseeched Anthony, hating the rage he thrummed with. She wanted her sweet lover back again.

He drew her to him. His head slashed down and his lips captured hers in a hard, rough kiss. Her lips parted, but before she could sink into his kiss, he lifted his head again.

“We are about fifteen minutes’ hard ride from my manor house in Baybrook. We can rest there for the evening.” He raked a hand through his wet hair. He looked as if he’d been about to say more, but stopped.