Page 47 of Ravishing Camille
Pierce grumbled and stepped around Camille to shield her.
Connor danced backward, keeping pace. “You must not have her, Hanniford!”
“You are being rude, Connor.”
He headed toward the door.
The brute yanked on his evening cape.
Pierce halted. And called to Lee.
Lee whirled, and took Camille in his embrace.
Pierce swung around and peeled Connor’s fingers from the wool, crushing them into the man’s fist. He smelled of alcohol. “Go home, sir. You are making a scene.”
The man cupped his abused hand. Jeering, he followed them out the huge glass doors to the paved walk. “No. No! You’re the one—you’re the one making a scandal, Hanniford.”
Lee and Pierce checked each other’s expression and Lee nodded. His arm in the air, Lee hailed a hansom from those circling the broad Strand.
Other theatergoers, not hearing or seeing the urgency, scrambled to gain their own cabs. The crush was not the most polite and one of them pushed Pierce toward Connor.
The man—fuming—grabbed Pierce’s lapels.
“You would be wise, Connor, to let go my coat.” Pierce had met many a drunk man. Even if this one were sober however, he would not be a match for the arts Pierce had studied at the feet of an elderly Buddhist warrior monk.
“You mustn’t have her.” Connor leveraged stability from clutching Pierce’s coat and rose on his toes.
Pierce winced at the man’s rancid breath. “You talk foolishness, Connor. Do go home.” And with that he grasped the man firmly by his shoulders and pushed him to the walk.
He’d just grasped Camille’s forearm to help her up into the large black brougham that had pulled to the curb, when Connor grabbed her around the waist and dragged her backward.
She cried Pierce’s name. Her eyes black with fright, she clawed at Connor’s hands. He dragged her backward, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other crushing her breasts.
Pierce was on him in two steps.
But the beast gripped Camille with greater strength than Pierce anticipated a drunk could summon. Pierce circled round and hauled him backward to the red brick wall. The man clung to Camille, but when Pierce pried his hands away, her necklace of malachite and the tealchiffonof her bodice came away too.
She gasped and grabbed for her gown.
Pierce seized both of Connor’s arms. But the man wriggled away, then swung round to punch Camille in the face.
She shrieked and Lee grabbed her up.
Pierce growled. With Connor’s offending arm high up against his chest, he slowly, relentlessly bent it backward at such an angle that it snapped.
Connor screamed and sank to his knees. His face white, he braced himself on the pavement with one hand while his other hung limp from his elbow. “You bastard! You broke my arm.”
Pierce took Camille from Lee’s embrace, pressed her bosom to his chest and pulled her evening cloak over her torn gown.
The crowd around them muttered. Someone called out for a Bobby. A few men stepped to surround Connor as if to waylay him should he try to flee.
Pierce stared down at the man. “Now you’ll go home, Connor. Never again come near Camille or me.”
“She’s a fancy piece. You can have her!” His jaw quivered as he whimpered. “But I see you already have.”
A few in the crowd exclaimed. Others were horrified.
“Eh? What’s the problem ‘ere?” A tall, burly policeman in spotless black wool and stove-pipe hat stepped through the throng.
