The Royal Conquest(42)

The silence was painful. Mikhail was about to speak when Calydon strolled in, wet and disheveled, his face carefully neutral.

Now was not the time to reveal his status, though it was tempting. Mikhail shook his head imperceptibly and Calydon raised a cool brow before his eyes flicked to the slightly rumpled bed and then to the very mussed Payton.

“Father, I—”

“Be silent,” her father roared and she jumped, acute embarrassment suffusing her lovely features.

Her father raised his hand and advanced, his intention clear to all present. The chill of violence that tore through Mikhail had him stepping forward and gripping the man’s raised fist in a bone-crushing grip, jerking him away from her. The unexpected move had her father stumbling to face Mikhail.

A fist. Her father would take a fist to her. He would abuse such a beautiful spirit.

“Do not ever make the mistake of raising your hand in anger in her presence again,” Mikhail snarled. “For I will destroy you.”

Shock widened Mr. Peppiwell’s eyes, then anger suffused his features. “How dare you!”

Mikhail jerked the man even closer. “I dare because Payton is all that is sweet and wonderful, and you thought to offer her violence over a situation you do not understand. I will release you, but think carefully on your actions going forward,” he warned softly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “If you hurt her, I will ruin you. The name Peppiwell will be nothing but dirt when I am through. And I will reach out my arms of influence and protect her from the destruction you will suffer.”

He let the promise show in his eyes, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Mikhail looked at Payton, and pride snapped through him. Instead of cowering, she stood straight with anger firing in her golden gaze.

Lord Jensen glared at her father and stepped forward. “Is that it? You allowed this…this bastard to defile your daughter with his mere presence and you—”

“That is enough, my lord!” Payton snapped, a hectic flush rising in her cheeks. “You will not cast aspersions on Mr. Konstantinovich simply because we sought shelter together from the storm.”

Her father latched onto the explanation he had not sought earlier with obvious eagerness. “Is that what happened? The storm forced—”

“Do not be blind, Mr. Peppiwell,” Lord Jensen growled, advancing in the cottage while the other lords discreetly looked away from the scene unfolding. Only Calydon moved farther inside and closed the door.

“Her lips are swollen, and her hair is a mess.” Lord Jensen turned to Payton, his face mottled with anger. “Did you allow this common stable hand to fuck you and plant his seed—?”

The leash on Mikhail’s patience and civility shifted, icy anger settling low in his gut. In a swift and tempered move, he slammed a punishing fist into Lord Jensen’s filthy mouth. The man crumpled.

“Oh goodness, Mikhail,” Payton gasped, hurrying closer. Instead of coming to his side, she stooped to where the man had fallen.

“Do not touch him.” The cold rage in Mikhail’s voice had her flinching, and she lifted startled eyes to his. He was not sure what she saw in his face, but she retracted her hand and rose gracefully.

“I would only check to see if he breathed.”

He throttled back his anger, for it would change nothing, and the only thing that mattered now was protecting her. “I assure you he lives,” he said flatly.

“You have harmed a lord, sir, and assault charges will be brought against you,” Lord Prendergast said with a glower.

For the first time Calydon stirred. “You are speaking to—”

“Do not,” Mikhail ordered, understanding his cousin was about to reveal his identity. This was not how he wanted to inform Payton.

“Then I urge everyone to calm the hell down,” Calydon snapped. “This situation calls for strict temperance from the urge to gossip and utter discreetness, not anger.” He pierced Lord Prendergast and Lord Davenport with steely glares. “This meeting will not leave this cottage, gentlemen. Miss Peppiwell is a treasured sister, and I will not sit idle while rumor twists an unexpected and innocent encounter.”

Lord Prendergast and Lord Davenport gave stiff nods. Her father visibly wilted in relief, and Payton looked to Mikhail, concern glowing in her eyes.

“Lord Jensen,” her father began. “He has—”

“I will confer with him when he rouses,” Mikhail said softly. When he was through, the man would understand he should never approach her again.

“No, I will speak with the young lord,” her father insisted stiffly. “He was only overcome with anger because he and Payton are to wed. He is very honorable and level-headed, and any man would be out of sorts at the idea of his future bride alone with a man unknown to us.”