Page 74 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke
His face twisted. “Don’t speak of my father, you little wench.”
He stepped forward and seized her by the hair. But at that very moment, a sound like thunder came from the front door. A crash. Then another. And then Barron was flung back into the warehouse, landing with a cry.
Markham released her and spun around.
“What in?—?”
But before he could finish, Eammon burst through the door, Thomas right behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Markham shouted, drawing his dagger.
Charity saw what he intended—he would use her as a shield.
She wouldn’t allow it.
She leaned back, curled her knees to her chest, and with all her strength, kicked. Her feet struck him square in the chest. He staggered backward, losing balance and landing hard on his back.
He kept hold of the dagger, but Eammon had caught up. He tripped over Markham but flung his arms wide and somehow steadied himself.
Markham scrambled to his feet and a flurry ensued. The two men crashed into crates, fists flying.
“Oh,” she gasped, trying to move. In her effort to help, she had torn the skin on her wrist. Blood ran freely now. The pain was sharp and the smell of blood filled her nostrils. Unable to move, for she was now on her side at an angle that would not let her up again easily, she searched for Eammon—and found him still mid-fight. Yet, for a moment, their eyes met and she saw the rage ignite in them when he saw the blood. And then, before her eyes, she saw that Eammon had meant every word. He cared for her. He loved her. And he would stop at nothing to protect her.
CHAPTER39
Eammon
She was bleeding. She was hurt. Markham had done this. Eammon would not allow it to stand.
With a surge of rage, he charged forward, wielding his pistol—not to fire, but as a bludgeon. He turned it in his grip so the barrel pointed behind him, the butt clenched firmly in his palm. Mid-run, he leapt, striking Markham across the side of the head. He ought to have shot him. Had they been alone, he likely would have. But Charity was there. He would not have her witness him commit murder—that would not bode well for harmony in the home.
Markham flew to the floor, blood gushing from the wound now opened at his temple. Yet the man was tenacious. Bleeding, wheezing from the well-aimed kick Charity had delivered earlier, he was still not ready to yield. He reached out, seized Eammon by the ankles, and yanked, nearly toppling him.
But Eammon was not going to fall. Not like this.
This man had come onto his property, stolen his wife, chained her like a beast, and threatened her with a blade. Eammon had wanted to storm the place immediately, but Thomas had urged caution. They had waited until Barron, Markham’s cousin, had emerged from the building. They had kept hidden, feigning no suspicion. Only when the moment was ripe had they charged in, kicking the door to the warehouse and confronting the wretched man inside.
Now it was time to end this.
Markham gave another tug, and this time Eammon allowed himself to fall forward. The sudden motion startled Markham, whose eyes widened in alarm. Eammon struck fast, slamming his elbow into the man’s chest. Markham cried out. Eammon grabbed him, hauled himself upright, seized the man by the hair, and yanked him to standing. Only then did he deliver a punch directly to his face, just as his father had taught him, shattering the man's nose and sending blood flying. A second punch sent Markham collapsing to the ground.
He was alive. Still breathing. With a little tending, he would recover. His nose might be more crooked than before, but he would live. For however long their peers in the House of Lords deemed him worthy of doing so.
“Thomas!” Eammon called.
His cousin had finished subduing Barron and was already tying the man’s wrists with a length of rope, securing him to a support beam.
“I’ll see to them both. You see to your bride,” Thomas called.
Eammon turned at once.
Charity was slumped to her side, her arms stretched above her head, bound to a rusted iron fixture embedded in the wall. Blood streaked down one arm. The sight of it made Eammon want to turn back and strike Markham again, but that could wait.
He rushed to her, pulling her into his arms. With the dagger he carried—a precaution he was suddenly glad for—he cut through the ropes. She fell into him, weak and trembling.
“Oh, Eammon, you came,” she whispered. “I was so frightened. I feared you wouldn’t. That you’d think I ran away again—that you wouldn’t want to come for me.”
“The moment Ambrose returned without you, I knew something was wrong. I would never leave you. Never. You are my wife. You are my life, my future. You are mine. And no one will ever take you from me.”
