Page 3 of A Kiss Gone Wylde
Clean, fresh, a hint of spice and leather—all familiar scents, and yet as they combined together in the person of this mysterious man—they were something new altogether and quite fine. So she remained in the circle of his arms, shielded within the shadows from whose who intended her harm. She was no more assured of her safety with him than she had been with the other miscreants, but at least in this instance, she felt a spark of hope. And perhaps a spark of another kind.
* * *
He’d been tracking his own quarry for months. When he had finally learned the identity of the man responsible for ruining his life and his future happiness, he’d tracked him to London. From there, he’d discovered that the man often frequented Vauxhall to indulge his baser desires. It was such a scandalous place already, that nothing he did there would even cause a stir. And because he had learned that this man often utilized the Dark Walk for his liaisons, that was where he had stationed himself.
His intent had been to do nothing more than observe him that night, to see what it was he was about and to establish a strategy to deal with him going forward. But all that was done now. Because of her. Because of some willful, young lady who was in the wrong place and the worst possible time. Rescuing her would result in justice being delayed once more. But he could not simply leave her to whatever fate had in store for her via the dangers of the notorious Dark Walk.
“By devil, where did she go?” One of the gentleman shouted. Distant shouts of dismay echoed in the darkness and were followed by the sounds of them beating at bushes as they looked for her.
“How’s your face, Wa—”
“No names, you addled fool,” the man who’d grabbed her hissed. “If she gets away, we don’t want her to know who any of us are.”
Payne already knew. He knew only too well.
“And my face will be fine when she’s sporting marks to match,” the man snapped.
She stiffened in his arms. Whether from fear or anger, he could not say. But he didn’t like the idea that she was afraid while he held her. Against his better judgement, he risked speaking, keeping his words soft and low. “You are safe. It’s so dark they cannot see a thing.”
“Here, kitten,” the first one called out in a sing song manner, like she was some sort of startled pet that needed soothing rather than a woman they had just accosted. “Come out, little one!”
Payne could feel her shoulders pull back and her chin come up. It wasn’t fear at all but anger. She bristled rather like the cat they had just termed her would have done. Anger wasn’t even the word, he thought. It was fury. It rolled off her in waves.
He tightened his hold on her, not enough to hurt her, but enough that she could not easily break free and confront the miscreants. He turned her around so the were face to face, though in the darkness, they could not see one another.
He leaned in and whispered against her ear, “I am one man with only a brace of pistols. There are at least four of them. Let not temper get the better of you, for they will undoubtedly get the better of us.”
She settled then, stilling against him, but he could feel the simmering anger in her. Whoever she was, she had a temper. In another life, he would have liked her, he thought. Women with spirit, with that spark of rebellion in them, had a certain appeal for him. Given the terrible fate that often greeted those of more delicate natures, it wasn’t a surprise that she had sparked his admiration.
Payne was reminded that it had been some time since he had held a woman in his arms. Her figure was very slight, but though she was delicate and slender, it was clear that she was a woman grown. He could feel the curve of her waist and the swell of what appeared to be a truly remarkable derriere. The press of her breasts against his chest was a temptation all its own. For the last year he had been consumed with his current task. All else had been ignored while he pursued the man who had destroyed his future. He was realizing just how much he had denied himself.
The woman in his arms made a slight sound of protest. He had unconsciously tightened his arm about her waist to such a degree that she could not even breathe. Relaxing his hold, he waited there in the darkness with her until they had all passed and the path was devoid of danger.
“I believe they are gone,” he said, finally removing his hand from over her mouth.
“Thank heavens.”
“Thank the heavens later…Wait here while I go check to be sure the path is clear,” he instructed her.
He felt her nod, the softness of her hair brushing against his cheek. The scent of rosewater and something else, something decidedly feminine, stirred his senses. Biting back a curse, he rose and left the concealment of the foliage. Peering up and down the path, he could see no movement and hear nothing beyond the sounds of the night and the distant strains of music.
“It’s all clear,” he said. “You may come out.”
A moment later, after some rustling of branches and leaves, the young woman stepped clear of the bushes. It was too dark to see her very clearly. It was obvious to him that she was wearing silk, though in a dark shade that, when hiding in the bushes, had blended well. The small amount of moonlight that filtered through the clouds illuminated the sheen of the fabric now that they were once more in the open. He had only a brief impression of dark hair and a willowy form.
“What is your name?” It was suddenly imperative for him to know that bit of information.
“Does that matter?” she asked, quite cagily. “If a woman wishes to preserve her reputation, then certainly shouting her name for one and all to hear is not the way to go about it.”
“There is no one here to listen.” Why it was so important to him, he could not say. But he felt a connection to this girl he’d encountered in the dark—this girl who fought like Boadicea herself. “Please.”
She drew in a deep breath, her shoulders pulling back and her chin coming up just a notch. “You first.”
He would have laughed, but feared that if he did, she would be mightily offended. “Very well. Lord Payne Asher, Baron Davenport. Now it is your turn.”
She cleared her throat and acknowledged, “Lord Davenport, I am very thankful for your timely assistance tonight. I cannot imagine what I would—well, thank you. My name, sir, is Miss Benedicta Wylde. I believe that we are neighbors of a sort. We are but a few houses removed from one another.”
It all became clear to him then. “Lady Marguerite. For some reason when I heard that she was bringing her four nieces to London for the Season, I assumed they were all—well, little more than school girls. You do not strike me as that.”
