Page 20 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
She shook her head. The housekeeper stood above them, holding a lamp, stiff as Lot’s wife, her gaze directed at the landing above them. “It was Kingsley.”
“Lady Kingsley?”
She shook her head again. Green muck from the Kingsley garden clung to the sides of his pretty patent shoes. He had large feet. He was all around as large a man as Papa, and right now, as with Papa when he was angry, impressive waves of rage swirled in the air around him, reminding her she was naught but a troublesome girl, a magnet for shame, and weak to boot.
She blinked hard and lifted her chin. “Reina and Francisca and Juan are safe. And I will be fine very soon.”
“You will be fine, and you will also be safe,” he said through locked jaws. He lifted her by her arms and threw her over his shoulder like a haversack.
“What—”
“Shhh. Hold tight.”
She clutched at his waist. Blood pounded in her ears, tears filled the back of her nose, and her hair brushed the steps below them. He carried her like a prize, one strong hand bracing her hip, the other wrapped at the back of her knees, and both sending unholy tingles through her.
Dios, this would not do. Her head swam with the pulsing sensations. She must not let him think he could seduce her. She must not.
Across Town....
Carvelle heard the pounding of a great gun, every reverberation crashing through his head. He cursed the powder, cursed the man who had sold it, the mate who had tested it, the sailor who...
He lifted his head and the room teetered as in a bad squall. He swore and...he smelled a rot like channel dredge, only it was mixed with a floral perfume and...
He raised his shoulders and felt a sharp pain in his middens.
A long stream of oaths poured out of him and did not ease the pain. She’d had a blade. Was the bitch still here?
Damp fog prickled his nose. He rolled, wrenched himself to his knees, and squinted into the gloom. The window was wide open. Rattling wheels, the clomping of hooves, grew louder, nearer. It might be the Kingsleys returning home.
He searched his pocket. The key still rested there. Three stories up, would Kingsley’s whore have exited out of the window, or was she cowering under the bed?
When she was his, the windows would be barred. When she was his, he’d tie her down and she would take it. When she was his, once he had her money, her father’s compliance, and the matters with Lord Kingsley settled, he would dump her and make a proper marriage. A titled lord’s daughter, the younger the better. Someone with proper bloodlines for his children.
Until then, the Kingsley chit would do as well as any hole to quench his wick, and one who paid him instead of sucking off his coins.
He slid the blade from his boot and rose. She’d surprised him though. He’d had a whore in Lisbon once who’d tried to rob him, as this one was trying to slip away with the money that should be his. This one would know his wrath also. In the morn, they’d wed, he’d haul her off to Kent and fix her. Her face need not be pretty for their brief marriage, as no man would be looking at her again.
He groaned. “Come help me to my feet, Miss Kingsley. You fight quite well, and I need your help.”
Nothing.
He heard a muffled entrance below stairs. Crawling to the bed, he hauled himself up, cursing, and then felt his way around the room until he found a branch of candles and a tinder box on the mantel. Once lit, they showed the room in all its disarray. Unmade bed, a broken pitcher, a downed vase, the flowers scattered all about, and the dark spot upon his belly where new blood oozed and pain pricked him with every breath.
He staggered about, checking every hidey-hole. She was gone.
A red haze cast itself upon his vision. No man or woman got the better of Gregory Carvelle. No stupid, headstrong, spoiled chit of a whore stabbed him and ran away. She would not be allowed to think she could make a fool of him. She was his, that money was his, and she would be knowing it as soon he’d recovered her.
Carvelle met Kingsley and his lady on the stairs. Lord Kingsley’s eyes widened and the woman gasped and clutched the handrail. The single aging servant guiding them almost dropped his candle. All but deaf, he was, Kingsley had promised, as was his wife.
“Get my man from the stables,” Carvelle shouted. “And here.” He thrust the branch of candles at Kingsley. “We’ll go below. You,” he said to his pinched-up cow of a cousin, Blanche, her with her scheming, “Get linens and hot water.”
Her mouth puckered. “Is Grace—”
“Now,” he bellowed.
Kingsley pulled a candle from the branch and handed the rest to his wife.
“But the servants are not—”
