Engaged in Sin (30 page)

As Ashton waited for the response, he leaned toward Devon. In the gloom, Anne could not see his lips move, but guessed that he spoke. Devon’s expression grew hard in response.

“Christ Jesus,” he snapped, and his deep, commanding voice froze everyone on the spot. “Ashton, put down your damned pistol!” he roared. “The rest of you, do it also.”

The grooms hesitated. Even though Devon could not see, he barked, “Do it, damn you. I will not have you pointing weapons at Cerise. Now, you on the horse, I don’t know who you are, but I am the Duke of March. You will release the woman and you will send her here to me.”

Mick did not lower his gun. Anne almost choked as his grip tightened around her chest. “My name is Mick Taylor, Your Grace. This woman is suspected of the murder of a woman in London. I’ve been sent to collect Miss Anne Beddington and bring her back to face justice.”

Anne Beddington. She saw Devon flinch at Mick’s use of her real name. At the sudden jerk of the duke’s body, Abednigo shifted uneasily underneath him and pawed at the ground. Anne’s heart caught in her throat as Devon swayed on the horse, then regained his balance. “The woman is Anne Beddington, you say? I know her by a different name.” Suspicion kept his face brutally cold and his eyes so narrow they were shadowed wells.

Oh, God. Now that she had been caught in yet another lie, he would never believe her real story. But she was desperate. She had nothing to lose. “He’s lying!” she cried to Devon. But she had seen his face look so ice cold and hard only after one of his nightmares. “Mick Taylor worked for my madam. He’s not a Bow Street
Runner. He is not going to take me to the magistrate. He’s been paid—” She broke off. She hadn’t said the most important thing. “I didn’t kill anyone, Your Grace.” She dared not call him by his Christian name. “Mick can prove my innocence. He
knows
I didn’t kill Mrs. Meadows, who was known as Madame Sin.”

“That’s to be determined by the courts, Miss Beddington,” Mick said behind her. “I’m not a Runner, but I have an interest in seeing the murderess of my employer swing.”

“Assuming she is guilty,” Devon coldly pointed out.

Anne didn’t know whether to despair or grasp at faint hope. At least Devon spoke as though he was willing to doubt her guilt. “I am innocent,” she cried. “I had to rescue three young girls from Madame—virgins she was going to
sell
. She threatened to
shoot
one of them. To get away, I had to hit her. I meant to hit her arm, so she wouldn’t kill the girl, but I struck her head. Yes, she collapsed, but Mick has told me she was
alive
.” Her story sounded like a jumbled mess, but she was so desperate to spill it out. It was as though she had only seconds to convince him. “It’s the truth. I did not kill her. Someone
else
did.” But the more she gasped out protests, the more she feared she sounded guilty.

For an instant there was a stunned silence. Then Ashton began to speak, but Devon held up his hand. At that, all his men steadied their mounts. It was as though they were waiting for him to shout,
Charge
.

“I don’t give a damn who you are.” How calmly he spoke. But each word vibrated, like a slicing rapier. “You will turn over Cerise—or Miss Beddington, or whatever her name is
—now
.”

She felt Mick tense behind her. “With all due respect, Your Grace,” Mick protested, “I don’t feel comfortable giving her over to you. How do I know you will hand
her over to the magistrate? Seeing as how she’s your mistress—”

“I’m the Duke of March, Taylor. I have no intention of letting you leave with her. Do you understand? Surrendering her now will make this go easier on you.”

Mick’s laugh was harsh and snide. “Considering I’m holding both her and a pistol, Your Grace, I don’t see how you plan to do that.”

Anne felt the end of the weapon slide along her cheek, and she quivered with shock. She knew exactly what Mick was going to do, even before he gave an evil chuckle. “Admittedly, I’ve got only one shot. Not enough to stop your men, but one shot is all that’s needed to mete out justice to a wanted criminal. Back off with your men, Your Grace. I’m not letting this whore get away. She’s mine. If there’s a reward for her capture, I’m getting it.”

Reward? There couldn’t be a reward. She understood what Mick was doing. He had to give a plausible reason for his determination to take her—one that did not involve her cousin Sebastian.

“You are a bloody idiot, Taylor.” This time Ashton snapped at Mick. “Release her.”

Gazing helplessly out at Devon and the other men, Anne gritted her teeth. Would Mick shoot her? She didn’t think he would—if she was dead, what good would she be to Sebastian? Why was her cousin willing to go to such lengths to have her?

This was madness. She couldn’t just sit here, like a sack of potatoes balanced on a horse, her body acting as a shield for Mick. Devon had demanded that his men lower their weapons rather than put her at risk. What was Devon going to do? What
could
he do?

Devon dismounted with easy grace. That, she hadn’t expected. Resting his hand on his horse’s flank, he shouted, “Taylor, last chance. Let her go.”

Mick’s horse shifted, hooves smacking against the dirt of the track. Devon began to walk toward the sound. Anne’s heart leapt into her throat. She wanted to shout at him to go back, but she couldn’t yell orders at Devon in front of his men and Mick. She should tell him to walk away, keep himself safe, leave her to her fate. But her foolish heart, her fear, wouldn’t let her.

“Stay back, Your Grace,” Mick warned, but his voice rose with nervous uncertainty. He wouldn’t want to shoot her. Dear heaven, he wouldn’t be mad enough to shoot a duke, would he?

For almost five years, she’d kept herself safe by trying to understand Madame and her lackeys, by trying to learn what they would do so she could anticipate rage and violence and avoid it. Would Mick fire a shot at the duke, something to frighten him? He was aiming at Devon, who had now moved out from the line of his servants. But Devon couldn’t see him. He didn’t know the danger. He would not do as Mick expected—

“Your Grace, please don’t come closer,” she cried out. She knew Mick was vicious when thwarted. Once, he had tried to rape one of the girls, and the young woman had scratched him to stop the attack. He had bided his time—then the poor girl was found outside the house, beaten to a pulp. Mick had insisted it was done by a footpad. But all Madame’s girls had guessed the truth.

Devon possessed a calm and confidence that astounded her. But then, he’d run into battle, toward hundreds of men who were firing rifles and cannons at him with the intent to kill.

Mick would not shoot her. She had to break free of this numbing terror and
do
something. Mick had her body clamped to him, but she had two free hands. She hit out, slamming her right hand into his wrist, trying to jostle the pistol free. With her left hand, she jabbed
wildly behind her, praying she could stick her fingers in his eye.

“Bitch,” he barked. He swung his free arm at her flailing hand.

Devon was moving across the black ground for her—his steps fast but uncertain. He had never looked harder or more ruthless. “Taylor!” he shouted.

“The wench is mine, Your Grace, and I’m taking her back to London,” Mick retorted.

Devon’s arm suddenly arced toward them, and he lifted a pistol and trained it on Mick’s head—he must have followed Mick’s voice.

“You wouldn’t dare shoot!” Mick sneered. “You’re blind—you’d hit her by mistake.”

Through the buzzing in her ears, Anne heard Devon issue a curt command, and she felt Mick twist around in panic. Black shapes seemed to ooze from the trees. She saw fists flying—more of Devon’s men. One grabbed for her, pulling hard at her arm, but Mick held her tight. Another came at Mick from the right side, swinging a stick at him like a club. Mick had to let her go to defend himself. He had the pistol but, she realized, he didn’t want to waste the shot.

“Bloody hell,” Mick snapped. “All right, Your Grace, you win this round.”

She was pushed from behind. She slid off the horse, cried out, and fell into a man’s arms—one of Devon’s grooms. The man jerked her quickly away from the horse, away from Mick.

“Where is she?” Devon barked.

“I’ve got her,” the groom answered, though she struggled in his arms like a beached eel. A moment later, Devon’s strong arms plucked her from his groom, hauling her to his chest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mick’s horse rear up on its hind legs. Long powerful forelegs pawed through the air, and she was frozen,
watching disaster begin to slowly drop, as though magical strings guided the animal’s movement. She would be crushed beneath those hard hooves, and Devon would be too.

She was too stunned to warn him, but a man yelled, “Look out, Your Grace!”

Devon jumped to the right, pulling her with him. He landed on his back, she fell on top of him, and his breath flew over her in a
whoosh
.

His men were shouting. Devon lifted her off him and leapt to his feet, amazing her. She knew she’d knocked his wind out, yet he seemed unfazed. She had to struggle to get up—until Devon’s hand clamped around her wrist and she was jerked swiftly to her feet.

“Damn it,” spat one of the men. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but he’s run. Once the horse reared, we couldn’t get near him. He must have jerked that animal around in midair.”

“Two of you, go after that man. He threatened me, and I want the truth of what is going on here.”

“I’ll take up the chase,” yelled Lord Ashton. He and a servant spurred their mounts and took off along the track in fierce pursuit of Mick.

“They’re riding too fast,” Anne gasped. “They’ll kill themselves.” Unless Mick fell first. She hoped he did and broke his neck—death was something she would never wish on anyone, but Mick was thoroughly evil.

“They won’t. Ashton is a brilliant rider,” Devon said coolly. “I hope I didn’t frighten you with that pistol. Taylor was right: I wouldn’t have taken the shot, but I needed to distract him while my other men got in position to attack.”

“It worked!” Her voice shimmered with gratitude, but his face remained hard. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “You rescued me.”

All he said in response was, “Your dress is wet.”

She hadn’t realized her dress was like a cold vise clamped to her body. Obviously she was more soaked than she’d suspected. But when she shivered, it was because of the frostiness she sensed in Devon, not because of her wet clothes. “I fell, trying to cross the stream.”

“You’re shaking like a leaf. We need to get you home, dried, warmed.”

Those words flooded her head. Would he get her dried and warmed to hand her over to the magistrate? Perhaps he would. He had rescued her, yet he sounded so cold.

“Then, I want the truth, Cer—I mean Anne Beddington. Assuming that is your real name.”

“It is,” she answered numbly.
The truth
. She would give him every single piece of it. But would he believe her?

UPPING A BRANDY
balloon, Anne huddled in Devon’s warm greatcoat, surrounded by the familiar scent of him. They were alone in his study—he had sent his servants away. He had carefully poured the liquor, held it out without a word. When she’d taken it, he sat across from her. She noticed he hadn’t poured any for himself. At least there she’d done some good.

Lifting the glass to her lips, she took a sip. The spirits set a fire in her belly but didn’t ease the icy feeling in her heart—a cold that had nothing to do with her wet dress or the fact that a cool rain was now falling. It reminded her of their first walk outside together, and her chilled heart ached.

Devon must have been listening to the sounds of her swallows and her gasps, for when she stopped, he lifted his head. “You knew the man who captured you?”

Of course his tone would be as cold and foreboding as his expression. “Yes.” She tried to keep her voice steady. She knew Lord Ashton had returned empty-handed. Mick had gotten away. “His name is indeed Mick Taylor. He acted as a kind of bodyguard to my madam, protecting her from irate clients, thieves, and other unsavory
characters. Madame was
horrible
. She was willing to hurt anyone for money, even a young and terrified innocent. She was going to shoot a fourteen-year-old girl. That was why I had to hit her—”

“Shhh. Let’s go about this in order.” Devon leaned back in his chair, his face terribly blank and emotionless. She had told him over and over that she wasn’t a murderess—she was so giddy with relief over it, she couldn’t stop saying it. “Tell me what happened, Cer—” He stopped. “Miss Beddington.”

Finally he revealed an expression. He looked … hurt. She wanted to fall through his floor, ashamed. She felt wretched for lying to him, but she’d had no choice before; she had thought she was guilty. And he
was
being kind to her: He was listening. “I always planned to escape from the brothel, but I was too much of a coward to do it. I truly did fear what Madame or Mick would do to me if they caught me in the attempt. And Madame did keep us locked up. Like prisoners. Like slaves.”