Brentwood's Ward (21 page)

Not in one piece.

From inside the carriage, a warm grip wrapped around her waist. With a grunt and a heave, Nicholas yanked her back.

“Switch places.” His voice was a growl in her ear as he shoved past her, using his body as a barrier between her and the window.

For a second, she breathed easier.

Then fingers bit into her arms from behind and hauled her backward. Downward. Outside.

A scream ripped up her throat and ended as a man’s gloved hand smashed against her mouth.

“Don’t fight this, pretty lady.” Hot breath burned into her ear. “It’ll all be over soon.”

A rag was shoved into her mouth before everything flipped. A man’s hard shoulder cut into her belly, and her face smacked against his back. He carried her as casually as a sack of yesterday’s bread. Her head pounded with a rush of blood, her heart with panic. Would Nicholas even notice she was gone? And when he did, would it be too late? Tears slipped past her lashes.

Either God hadn’t heard her prayer—or He didn’t intend to answer.

As soon as Emily was safely behind him, Nicholas ripped off his greatcoat and shoved it over the windowsill then leaned forward and scanned the situation. Bricks walled his sight, hardly two feet from the carriage. Either they’d stopped perilously close to a building, or they were in an alley.

From above, arms shot down. One pair. Good. He could deal with a single man on the roof. Nicholas snagged one of the arms, dug his fingers into flesh, and yanked downward.

Then let go.

A head, followed by a body, plummeted past the gaping hole that had been the window. Bone cracked against wheel rim. Curses ended with a grunt. Breathing hard, Nicholas turned. Surely Emily would have plenty to say about this.

But she wasn’t there.

Before the realization fully sank in, darkness filled the doorway, taking on the shape of a demon. Or was it a cloak-covered thug? Nicholas leaned back and kicked. His boot heel smacked against bone and flesh, sending a man sprawling into a wall hardly three feet from the carriage.

So, this was an alley.

And that was a thug.

Nicholas snatched his gun off the seat and vaulted out the door.

Like a lightning bolt, a knife blade flashed toward him. He jumped back and cocked the gun with his thumb. Dark eyes peered into his, twin pools of depravity—and something more. Was that a memory skimming across the man’s face, recognition flaring his nostrils? No time to decipher it now. Nicholas lifted his gun.

The brigand turned and ran.

Edging sideways, past horses pawing in their harnesses, Nicholas tore after him. “Stop!”

The thug glanced over his shoulder. Big mistake. His foot shot out on an oily patch of God-knew-what, and he fell. The knife flew from his hand. Before he slid to a stop, Nicholas towered over him.

And fired.

A bullet at close range was never pretty. Neither was the man’s scream ricocheting off the bricks.

Nicholas dropped to one knee and grabbed the man’s face, forcing his mouth shut. “Get to a surgeon. You might lose the leg, but you’ll have your life as a prize. Thank God for that, for I’d as soon have killed you.”

Bolting up, he tucked the gun in his belt and shot forward, following blood splats in the gravel. Maybe one day he’d be thankful for the gruesome trail that would lead him to Emily.

But not now. Not with visions of what he might find. Two paces later, he stopped dead.

His heart twisted like a groan.

Ahead, clearing a corner in the T-shaped alley, a Sampson-sized brute carried Emily over one shoulder. She bounced like a plaything gripped in a dog’s teeth as he pinned her with one arm. His other hand held a gun, the muzzle aimed at Nicholas’s chest.

Nicholas pulled his own gun and lifted a prayer. The screams of the man behind him foreshadowed that this might not end well—especially since he hadn’t the time to reload. Schooling his face, he bluffed. “Drop the girl, or you’re a dead man!”

The man stopped, twenty paces off. “Son of a jackanapes! If it isn’t the mighty Brentwood. Come to aid the damsel in distress, eh?”

Nicholas squinted, the voice dragging a memory from a pit of nightmares he’d long since banished. “Nash!” He spit out the name like a rancid bite of meat. “I should’ve finished you off when I had the chance.”

Emily struggled on the man’s shoulder, her elbow catching him hard in the back of the skull. His head jerked forward, but that did nothing to stop Nash’s grin. “Aye, ye should’ve.”

“Not to worry.” Nicholas lifted his gun higher, eyeing along the muzzle as if about to shoot. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“You wouldn’t take the chance of hitting a lady.” Nash’s face tightened into sharp angles. “Drop the gun.”

“Drop the girl!” Nicholas countered.

Nash threw her to the ground, her backside grinding into the broken bits of glass and other splinters of refuse that made up the alley floor. The cruel blackguard! Apparently happy with his deed, a smile slashed across Nash’s face. “Your turn.”

Nicholas’s heart pounded in his head. What to do? Think…think!
Lord, a little wisdom here
—
now—would be appreciated
. Immediately, a scripture came to mind. The speed wasn’t unusual. The passage was.

“And the great dragon was thrown down.”

“Drop it!” Nash hollered.

The rest of the passage drowned out Nash’s voice…
“He was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.”

Nicholas gritted his teeth.
Is that really what You want, Lord?

“Last warning, Brentwood, if you want to live.”

The scripture condensed into three solid words.
Throw. It. Down
.

His gaze shot to Emily, who scrambled backward like a crab on sand. As soon as she cleared just enough space to keep her safe, Nicholas splayed his fingers. The gun crunched against gravel. Was this it, then? His life ended here in an alley? Not that he wasn’t ready, but what would become of Emily?

And then he saw it.

Nash pulled the trigger. Sparks flew. Metal clicked. Then—

Nothing. No bullet. No searing pain.

The gun did not go off.

Nash’s jaw worked as his thumb reset the cock. Stupid move. The action wouldn’t help him—and it gave Nicholas time to snatch up the other thug’s dropped knife.

Stooping, he grabbed the handle, flipped the knife up into the air, and snatched the blade. Then he whipped it back and snapped a release. The blade sailed true, gouging into the fleshy part of Nash’s gun arm. The weapon dropped against the cobbles and went off with a roar.

The bullet ripped through flesh, muscles, tendons, bone, and shot out the other side of Nash’s lower leg.

Nicholas took off at a dead run. Passing by Nash, who now howled on the alley floor, he pumped his feet in time to his racing heart. Once again, Emily was out of sight. Surely God hadn’t brought him this far to lose her now.

Did You, Lord?

He flew around the corner, chest tight, lungs burning, his muscles flexed to face who knew how many more men.

Then he slowed.

Emily was alone in the passage, pounding on the only door in the dead-end part of the T. Her hair ravaged over her shoulders and down her back, her hat long since lost. The sleeves of her pelisse and the gown beneath hung in shreds. Blood dripped off one elbow.

In four strides, he swept her up and cradled her in his arms.
Thank You, God. Thank You
.

Her tears dampened his shirt. Her blood warmed his skin. A fierce protective instinct stole his breath as she choked on sobs.

“You’re safe now,” he comforted.

Her body shuddered against his. “I was so…afraid!”

“Shh. It’s done.” He bent his face to her ear, breathing in her lily-of-the-valley scent. “I’ve got you, and nothing will take you from me. You hear?”

The tightness in her body slackened, though her weeping continued. Perhaps it was what she needed.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Cry it out.”

He turned, fighting against a rising desire to return to Nash and kick him in his bloody leg for the fear he’d caused her. No doubt Nash was the ringleader of this little escapade…but why? Maybe a few kicks more would loosen the scoundrel’s tongue—and if not, all the better, for he’d be forced to utilize other, less pleasant techniques.

Clearing the corner of the brick wall, Nicholas stopped. He set Emily’s feet onto the ground and stepped in front of her.

The alley was empty.

Chapter 18

A
mbrose de Villet rubbed a hand over his skull. Stubble pricked his palm. Was a decent shave in this godforsaken rat hole of a country too much to ask? And now this. He slugged back a shot of bourbon, relishing the burn as it sank to his gut, then carefully set his glass next to the crystal decanter on the desk.

Turning, he nodded at Skarritt and Weaver, the two men who flanked the makeshift office door. Neither said a word as he strode past them. Their footsteps simply thumped in rhythm to his as they fell in line, echoing from floor to rafter in the abandoned warehouse. Daylight streamed in through cracks in the walls and holes in the roof. The place was a sieve of rot. Half a smile twisted his lips. Funny how all the rays of light pointed accusing fingers at the battered man propped against an empty crate.

Nash. Stupid dog. He should’ve known better than to hire such a buffoon.

Ambrose halted five paces from him. Nash grimaced in his shirtsleeves, one of which was torn and slick with blood. His coat was wrapped like a growth around the bottom half of his leg, the fabric wet and dark. Drip by drip, Nash’s life wept onto the warehouse floor.

Ambrose cocked his head as he studied the man. A mere girl couldn’t have done that much damage.

Glancing over his shoulder, he locked eyes with Skarritt, who in turn looked at Weaver. Both men stalked forward, until Nash stood in the center of their triangle.

“So, my friend.” Ambrose folded his arms. “Where is the girl?”

“Wasn’t—” Nash gasped. A spasm clenched his jaw then slowly faded before more words flowed. “Wasn’t as easy as you said.”

Ambrose sniffed, unimpressed with the English dog’s pain. “What happened?”

“Brentwood happened!” Nash’s voice was as angry as a bruise.

What was this? A code word? Some local jargon? A vein throbbed on the side of his neck, pulsing his skin against his starched collar. “Brentwood?”

“He’s a runner. One of the best.” Nash turned aside and spit then pushed away from the crate. “I’m done with this job, and I’m done with you, Mr. Dee. I came to collect what’s owed me.”

Ambrose slid his gaze to Skarritt and lifted his chin. A slight movement, but economy most often produced wealth.

Skarritt shot forward. Two quick jabs sent Nash to his knees, bone crunching against oak. His howl screeched as off pitch as bootnails sliding down a slate roof.

Ambrose paced forward, stopping inches from the man. “Before we discuss your…resignation, tell me of this man. This Brentwood.”

Nash’s chest heaved. Curses were as thick as his breaths. A fresh trickle of blood leaked from his shoulder. What a pathetic fool.

Ambrose circled him, planting one foot after the other, counting his steps. Counting the last of Nash’s heartbeats. At full circle, he stopped. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Nash. Your lack of decorum is somewhat unsettling. If you hope to walk out of here alive—and I hold that phrase loosely, considering your leg—then I suggest you cooperate.”

Nash lifted his face. Hatred poured off him, vile as his sweaty stench. “Have it yer way, then. Brentwood is ex-military. Keenest eye I’ve ever seen, with a wit to match. Trained Portuguese gunners in ’01.”

The beginning of a smile lifted Ambrose’s lips. “We all know how that one turned out. Oranges for Queen Maria. Disgrace for England. Perhaps the man’s not as invincible as you say.”

Nash shook his head and squinted, a shard of sunlight piercing his eyes. “You don’t understand. The Portuguese would’ve beat back the scarpin’ Frogs had Brentwood stayed on to help fight. You can be sure of that. It took Lord Nelson to finally clean up that mess, didn’t it?”

Ambrose stooped, eye level with the man. His shadow shut out the daylight on Nash’s face. In a measured tone, quiet, firm—deadly—his mother tongue slipped past his lips.
“Le sang français traverse mes veines.”

Nash’s eyes widened. His lips moved, though it took quite a while before sound came out. “You…you’re…” His head swiveled, wrenching a glance from Skerritt to Weaver. “He’s a Frenchie!”

Ambrose smiled in full, mirroring the grins on the other men. Nash’s jaw dropped like an unhinged skeleton’s.

“My full name is Ambrose de Villet, though Mr. Dee suits me better in situations such as these.” Stepping back, Ambrose once again folded his arms. Let the dog think on that for the last few moments of his life. Looking past Nash, he met the gazes of Skerritt and Weaver. “We’ve a few things to work out, then. Not only has Payne vanished, but his daughter appears to be unreachable so long as this Brentwood is in her attendance. Yet appearances often deceive, hmm?”