The Falcon and the Sparrow (31 page)

“Lord Markham, I—”

“What is this I see around me?” He waved his arms about the room, the lace fluttering at the cuffs of his sleeves. “You fondled my leg, you placed your fan over your lips in that seductive way that said you longed for a kiss, and then you left the box seat. Now I find you all alone waiting for me in this anteroom. You cannot deny it.”

Dominique had forgotten about the fan and its many different uses as a coquettish tool. “I know what it must look like, milord, but it is not—”

“No more talk. I will not be denied.”

Dominique gulped. From the look in his eyes, she knew he meant what he said.
Lord, help me.
she glanced across the room, praying that her angel would appear once again to save her. But the tall, dark man was nowhere to be seen.

Lord Markham stormed toward her. She bolted for the curtains, scrambling around a chair. Almost there. Almost there. She heard him grunting behind her. She reached for the curtains. One more inch.

Strong arms grabbed her waist and hoisted her off the ground.

Terror stole her breath. Visions of the man in Paris coming at her in the shadows blasted through her mind. At the time, she had believed she would lose her purity in a dark, filthy alleyway in Paris. Now, though her surroundings were better, the result would be the same. No Marcel to come to the rescue this time. No angel. No one knew she was here.

She pounded Lord Markham’s chest. Gathering what little breath she could gasp, she screamed with all her might. His hand slammed down upon her mouth. Pain shot to the back of her throat as the scent of brandy stung her nose. He dragged her into the supply room, closed the door behind them, and shoved her to the floor.

She screamed.

Lord Markham gave a low, satisfied chuckle. “No one will hear you in here, Miss Dawson.”

C
hase shifted in his seat, trying to concentrate on the actors flitting across the stage below him but finding it impossible. Where in the blazes had Miss Dawson gone? she’d seemed quite flustered when she left, her face blanched, her hands trembling as if she had seen a ghost. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well. No doubt her stomach was agitated from all that food she had consumed at dinner. He found himself smiling at the memory then quickly replaced the expression with a frown. He should not be thinking of her at all. She had made her choice.

And that choice sat in front of Chase at the moment, uttering a guttural chuckle at something onstage. Why, Percy didn’t seem the least bit concerned about Miss Dawson’s absence. What sort of gentleman was he?

Speaking of escorts, Lady Irene’s chair sat conspicuously absent beside Chase. But he was not so fortunate as to have her leave the room entirely. He could hear her and her new beau, Lord Wichshur—who had entered shortly after Miss Dawson had left— blathering away in the corner. The odd thing was it delighted him rather than bothered him. His only regret was the obvious letdown to his poor sister, who had given up firing looks of reproach at the new couple and now sat moping in her chair to his right. He had never seen her quite so distraught.

Chase’s gaze landed on the empty seat in front of her. The true source of his apprehension was that Lord Markham had gone
missing, as well. Although he had left several minutes after Miss Dawson, the thought of him running into her alone in the hallways sent Chase’s blood boiling.

Yes, something was amiss.

Chase stood, nodded toward his sister, then placed a finger to his lips to stifle her impending protest. She snapped her mouth shut and faced forward with a huff. Slipping through the curtains, he halted and scanned the hallway, where only a few patrons milled about. A woman’s scream, loud at first, then muffled, rang through the gallery like an alarm. The hairs on his arms bristled. A couple across the way froze at the sound but then proceeded with their merrymaking as if they had not heard a thing.

Chase stormed down the hallway, gripping the hilt of his service sword, hoping the screech had not come from Miss Dawson but somehow knowing deep down that it had.

He strained his ears for another cry, any unusual sound that would give him direction. Anger and fear drove him forward in a frenzied search as he scanned every inch of the passageway.
God, if You are there, please help me find her.
He surprised himself by the prayer. The last time he had prayed, it was for Melody to live. When naught but a smug silence had yawned at him from heaven, he had stopped praying altogether.

A door slammed. Chase halted before a small, curtained room on his right. He tore through the heavy drapes and marched into a dark anteroom. Empty. Save for one overturned chair, all seemed in order. He turned to leave. A slight scraping sound scratched his ears. His gaze sped to a door at the back of the chamber. It opened to his touch, and he barreled into the room.

Boxes, stage props, and costumes swept past his vision in a blur of flickering lantern light. A screech, a groan, and a sudden movement caught the corner of his eye, and he swerved to the left.

Lord Markham angled his body toward the wall in a dark corner of the room—at least it appeared to be Lord Markham. He wore the same ostentatious tailcoat as his lordship had been wearing earlier that evening. Chase squinted into the shadows. Markham shoved something against the wall…no, not something, someone. Blue
silk and white lace fluttered behind him. The woman struggled as Markham flattened his body upon hers, whispering obscenities that putrefied in Chase’s ears. Was this another of his lordship’s many
affaires d’amour
? No. The woman gasped and moaned as if her mouth were covered. Chase recognized the delicate timbre of her voice.

Dominique!

Fury blasted like cannon fire through Chase—fury such as he had never felt before. He bolted toward them, grabbed the back of Lord Markham’s coat with both hands, and tossed him like a rag to a pile of boxes nearby. Lord Markham, arms and legs flailing, crashed into the crates, crushing two of them and spilling their contents onto the wooden floor.

Chase turned to Miss Dawson. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks from eyes that screamed with terror. The front part of her gown had been torn away. She trembled like a leaf in a storm. He touched her arm, longing to comfort her, but a thump behind him alerted him that Lord Markham had recovered.

“What is the meaning of this, Randal? How dare you interrupt?” The inebriated man struggled to his feet and wiped the dirt from his coat.

Chase clamped his jaw. “How dare
I
? You assault an innocent woman as if she were a common harlot, and you question me?”

“Scads, man.” Lord Markham gritted his teeth. “I assure you, she was quite willing. We were but playing a game, weren’t we, my dear?” He raised a salacious brow and stepped toward Miss Dawson, but Chase moved between them and crossed his arms over his chest.

“By the look on her face,” he hissed, “She does not appear to be a willing participant in this
game
of yours, Markham.”

Lord Markham’s upper lip extended as he peered down his nose at Chase. “You will address me as
Lord
, if you please.”

“I will do so when you begin to act like one.”

“What the devil do you mean, sir? How dare you impugn my character?” He adjusted his cravat and wobbled on his feet. Composing himself, he continued, saying, “You who have no title
to lay claim to. Why, you are naught but a miserable aging admiral pining away for his dead wife.”

Chase felt blood surging to his fists. How he longed to bash that pretentious smirk off Lord Markham’s face. He took a step toward him.

Lord Markham flinched then threw back his shoulders. “Mark my words: I’ll not be giving my daughter away to the likes of you.”

“Yet I do not remember asking for her hand.” Chase thought to tell his lordship that he would not marry Lady Irene if she were the last woman in London, but he had no desire to malign her—’twas her father he took issue with.

Lord Markham’s sordid gaze weaved around Chase and landed on Miss Dawson. “Do you think to have this lady’s hand, then? I would be quick to tame her if I were you, before she has a go with every young stallion in town. Why, she practically begged me to meet her down here.”

Chase would stand no more of this man’s slanderous impertinence. He slammed his fist against Lord Markham’s jaw.

Miss Dawson gasped.

Markham’s face snapped sideways, and he reeled backward, trying to catch his balance before he once again tumbled to the floor.

“You will not ever speak of Miss Dawson in such demeaning terms,” Chase roared, rubbing his burning knuckles.

Lord Markham scrambled to his feet. His face swelled into a purplish red. Fury stormed in his eyes as he rubbed his cheek. “You will pay for that, Randal.”

“Another time, perhaps.” Chase grinned but kept his narrowed gaze upon the vermin. “Now be gone with you, you lecherous sot.” He dismissed him with a wave and turned to Miss Dawson.

She stood frozen in place against the wall. Her lips quivered as her moist eyes rose to meet his. He heard Lord Markham’s footsteps behind him, but he thought the man had enough sense to leave, to know when he was defeated—that is, until Miss Dawson’s eyes widened as she glanced over his shoulder.

“Chase.” His Christian name upon her lips would have sounded
sweet if her tone had not been so urgent.

He flung around just in time to avoid the tip of Lord Markham’s sword thrust in his back. Dodging to the left, Chase plucked his blade from his scabbard and leveled it upon his enemy. “You do not want to do this, milord.”

“And why not?” Lord Markham huffed. “Because I should fear the skill of the great Admiral Randal?” He twirled the tip of his blade tauntingly before Chase. “I fear you will discover I have acquired my own exquisite skill.”

“Though the thought causes me to tremble, milord, you are in no condition to fight. It is my wish neither to hurt nor humiliate you further.”

Lord Markham snorted. “Never fear. I will not suffer you to do either.” He lunged forward, but Chase sidestepped the attack with ease and pummeled Lord Markham on his back with the hilt of his sword. Markham groaned and stumbled forward before swerving around. He held his blade high and charged toward Chase, growling like a rabid dog.

Chase met the man’s sword with his own and their blades clanged together, sending an eerie chime through the room. His lordship advanced again, his face a knot of twisted rage, but Chase met each parry with one of his own. With a snap of his blade, he forced Lord Markham’s sword aside. “Enough of this, man.”

Lord Markham hesitated. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his breath heaved, but he shook his head and lunged once again toward Chase.

Chase tilted his sword down in defense and then swung it back up, snagging it hilt to hilt with Lord Markham’s. Grunting, he forced his lordship back then shoved him, releasing the locked hilts. Markham swore under his breath, staggered, then composed himself and crept forward, his eyes ablaze with cruel revenge.

Chase waited impatiently for his next charge. Enough of this defensive frittering. He should attack Markham and be done with it. Yet despite the man’s assault on Miss Dawson, despite the fact that he was an insidious rogue, Lord Markham was an old family friend, and Chase had little desire to actually harm him.

Markham drove his blade toward Chase. With a huff of frustration, Chase hopped aside and, before his lordship could pivot for another blow, jabbed the tip of his sword into Markham’s arm, not deep enough to cause any real damage, but deep enough to inflict pain.

With a screech, Lord Markham dropped his sword and threw a hand to the wound. The blade clanked to the ground as the stinging odor of blood permeated the air. He peered beneath his hand with horror then snapped his gaze to Chase, his nostrils flaring. He eyed his blade, not two feet from where he stood, as if he considered snagging it up again to resume the fight.

Chase planted his boot firmly upon Lord Markham’s sword and wiped the tip of his own on a costume that had spilled from one of the crates. “Now will you leave?” He sighed.

“You have not heard the end of this, Randal.” Pressing a hand over the gash on his arm, Lord Markham raised his chin as Chase retrieved the belligerent man’s sword and extended it, hilt forward.

Grabbing it, Lord Markham shot a look of repugnance at Dominique before plowing out of the room.

Easing his sword back into his scabbard, Chase shrugged off his coat and tossed it aside, then ran an arm over the sweat on his brow. He faced Miss Dawson. Her gaze locked upon his, a whirlwind of fear, gratitude, and hope brimming in her misty amber eyes. She took a shaky step toward him.

He must resist her. He must resist the tug she had on his heart. For his own survival, he must resist her.

He couldn’t resist her.

He reached out and drew her into his arms.

She fell against him, the warmth of her body merging with his. In that instant, something hard inside of him melted into a soothing balm that flowed through him, enveloping all his wounds. He released a long-imprisoned sigh and caressed her hair as she laid her head on his shoulder and began to sob. Wrapping his other arm around her, he embraced her, giving in to his need to comfort her, to protect her.