Page 69 of Taming Ivy
The suffering at Timothy’s hands paled in comparison to what Ivy endured at hisown. Sebastian now understood when she said a friendship would benefit them both. She not only wanted to keep her wolves at bay; she was using the alliance to absolve guilt in Timothy’s death.
Shame gnawed him. He forced Raven to greater speeds. He must find her before it was too late. Hewouldfind her.
Cantering up the lane of the Red Bell Inn, Sebastian recognized the Basford coach. Pulled into a far corner of the courtyard, the horses already changed out, the coachman stood at the head of a new team. Checking the harnesses, the man’s attention was not on approaching travelers on such a dreary night. Now and again, he glanced from his task to the brick and timber building a few steps away.
Even close to midnight, the inn was lively, fiddle music pouring from half-shuttered windows. A stream of raucous laughter and raised voices tumbled into the muddied yard. The coachman probably hoped to grab a tankard of ale and a bit of warmth before continuing on the journey but he would find no such comfort this evening.
Sebastian dismounted at the edge of the cobblestones. It was unlikely Basford was with Ivy inside the inn. He would not risk the chance of an attempted escape, nor her appealing for a stranger’s assistance. Possibly, he allowed her to use the facilities, but more likely, she remained inside the coach, and he with her. Or, he had restrained her while he ventured into the inn. The coachman would need dispatching, but that was of little concern. If the man proved a loyal employee, his elimination would be instant.
A harsh voice barked from inside the coach, followed by a choked sob. That one desolate cry sealed Basford’s fate.
A bloodlust to protect his own swelled inside Sebastian. The urge was so strong, so overwhelming, he swayed with the force of it, lightheaded. He never experienced anything like it. Nothing on earth, in the heavens above, nor hell below, would stop him from reaching Ivy.Nothing.
Hearing the feminine sound, the coachman shook his head in disgust. It was then, by the faint light cast by a rain-shaded moon, he caught sight of the dark figure standing at the edge of the mist filled courtyard. Dressed in stark black, materializing like smoke from swirling, drifting shadows of light and the murky fog, with an ash-grey, steam-breathing stallion clip-clopping delicately at his heels, Sebastian must have appeared as an avenging devil of death.
“Attempt to stop me and you won’t draw another breath.”
The coachman swallowed hard at the softly spoken threat, nodding his wholehearted cooperation. Securing the horses to the hitching post with unseemly haste, he disappeared into the stables just as the coach rocked on its springs with lopsided violence.
“Don’t. Please…oh, please, stop…”
Sebastian froze…his eyes closing in brief agony.
That washisIvy’s quivering voice. His Ivy.Begging. Her pleas echoed, crystal clear above the racket spewing from the inn. He heard the sharp crack of a heavy hand striking flesh and then…a tormented moan.
Bile, sharp and bitter, choked Sebastian. His vision clouded red, pinpointing the coach until it was the single object within his line of sight. Vaulting up the steps, he jerked the door open with hands trembling from rage.
At first, he saw only Basford’s broad back. Not until a handful of the man’s coat was in his grasp and the viscount physically wrenched to the side was Ivy finally visible.
She was a tiny heap of blue satin pinned against the far interior wall, legs sprawled open. Her skirts were shoved up past her knees, the gown’s shoulder hanging to her elbow in a flounce of torn lace. Broken glass from a rosebud sconce glittered like moondust, sprinkled across her skirts, on the seats and the floor. Dazed, she stared at Sebastian from over Basford’s shoulder.
If not for his concern for her welfare, Sebastian might have murdered the viscount right on that very spot, using the coach seats as a butcher’s board. Snatching the man up by one arm, Sebastian’s roar of fury was one commanded from the depths of Hell itself.
“What the hell-?” A horrible cracking sound interrupted Basford’s indignant shout. Gaping in speechless shock at his arm, now dangling at an unnatural angle, the viscount did not struggle when yanked from the coach. He flew through the air, hurled nearly ten feet to land in a heap against a pile of crates. His high-pitched shriek of pain abruptly died away on a groan as he crumpled.
Sebastian intended, at that precise moment, to march over and break the other arm as well. And his legs. And ribs. The bones in his face. Every goddamn bone in the man’s body.
“You goddamn, bloody bastard. How I’m going to enjoy ripping you limb from limb.” Landing soundlessly on the cobblestones, Sebastian advanced on his prey. Single-minded in his purpose, he anticipated the crack of bones beneath his fists, the viscount’s gasps of pain. His pleas for mercy...
Ivy’s low moan swung his full attention back to the coach.
Not one soul ventured forth to investigate Basford's strange scream, a credit to the drunken energy of the inn. Only the burly coachman was curious enough, or perhaps foolish, to do so. Poking his head from the stable entrance, he squinted in alarm at the sight of his employer sprawled in a comatose slump. With a nod of respect to the earl, he stood apprehensively, unsure what action to take in this potentially dangerous situation.
“I require a moment to calm my lady,” Sebastian growled. Without waiting for the servant’s approval, he vaulted back into the coach, slamming the door in his wake.
Ivy huddled against the coach’s wall panel, trembling uncontrollably. She whimpered when he reached for her and the sound shattered Sebastian’s heart.
“Shhhh, my love. Shhhh….” His hand smoothed over her hair with exquisite tenderness. “It’s me, little butterfly. It’s Sebastian. I’m here now. I’m here and you’re safe. Hush now.”
He had reached her in time. She was alive, relatively unharmed, still whole. And while he doubted he held the Good Lord’s ear after all the wickedness in his life, Sebastian sent a prayer heavenward anyway.
Thank you, God. Thank you.
Ivy shook violently. Brushing away the broken glass, he located her cloak, drawing it over her shoulders. Her skin was like ice, teeth chattering with the discordant rattle of tin cups. Having long ago worked free of its pins, her hair hung in a messy tangle. Sebastian removed his gloves to smooth the curly waves back from her face.
He passed a gentle thumb over her swollen lip. Faint red marks discolored one pale cheek; in the dim light, he saw bruises on her wrists, dark smudges in the shapes of fingers marring her upper arms. The muscles of his stomach tightened. He would beat the viscount until nothing remained but a pool of blood and broken bones. Hopefully the bastard would survive that, because Sebastian then planned on killing him. Very slowly.
“Sebastian?” Her face pale as ivory, Ivy’s eyes held a misty, haunted air. She stared right through him.
