Chapter Sixteen

NNE CROSSED THE lawns by staying crouched—at least, as low as she could manage in a wretched corset. Clouds shrouded the moon and the velvety dark hid her perfectly, but it made the lawn a treacherous sea of rolling blue-black waves, uneven and ridged, peppered with unexpected holes. Twice she put her foot in a void and went flying to her knees. Each time, she scrambled back up and raced desperately onward.

Deep in her heart, she wanted to believe that if she told Devon the truth, he would forgive what she’d done because it had been an accident, because she’d struck Madame in desperation to protect a young girl, because she had never intended to kill. She wanted to imagine he would shield her, protect her, help her. But would Devon knowingly harbor a murderess? Even though she’d acted to defend those girls, she had committed a crime, and she feared that was how he would see it. Her heart clenched. It wouldn’t matter that they’d been intimate. It wouldn’t matter that she’d helped him cope with his blindness. Heavens, he’d risked his life and given his sight for king and country. He wouldn’t help her escape the law. How could he?

She raced around a clump of lilac bushes and made a mad dash for the woods. She hazarded a glance behind her. Lights now blazed in many of the rooms on the second floor. Devon must be looking for her. Any moment he would guess—

Bobbing lights appeared on the terrace. Lanterns, carried by the footmen. Devon had already guessed, and he’d sent his servants to find her. The lights suddenly parted, streaming in different directions.

Letting out a whimper of fear, Anne sprinted on burning, shaky legs. When she was young, she could run as fast as a boy, but years spent trapped in the brothel had sapped her strength.

When she’d fled from Madame’s brothel, she had bolted through the twisting streets off the London docks, dragging the three young girls with her. She gripped the wrists of Violet and Mary so tightly they were sobbing. She carried Lottie, the smallest, on her back, with the child’s arms clamped around her neck.

But rescuing the frightened girls had given her more strength than her body could dredge up to save herself. Either she was going to throw up or her lungs would burst into flame. She sobbed with relief as she finally reached the woods. Her momentum carried her in a wild, zigzag course among the trees. She stumbled over every possible root, smacked her toes against stones, and wrenched her ankles a dozen times. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, the sounds as loud as gunshots fired in warning. Every servant chasing her must have heard them.

She plunged forward, stumbling over the treacherous ground, falling against dark trees, then finally she had to stop. Not because she felt safe, but because her legs were shaking so hard she was certain they would break off at her knees.

It was no good. She couldn’t push herself any more. Chest heaving, she sucked in as much air as she could. It was dark here—the canopy of dense leaves blotted out the moonlight, and if she stayed still and kept quiet, no one would spot her. Though it also meant she couldn’t see anything. The woods contained dozens of sounds—shivering leaves, the bubbling stream, branches that clacked like bones—but she was sure she heard men shouting in the distance behind her. Anne forced her quivering muscles to move again, and she ran.

The splashing of the stream grew louder. She had described these woods to Devon, but now she had no idea where she was. Slipping through a grove of tightly spaced trees, she emerged to find she had reached the water. A stone bridge lay ahead of her. A collapsed bridge—the center had fallen into the stream. The only way across was to pick her way over the remaining stones and jump the chasm in the middle. Could she make it? She wasn’t sure. But it was also unlikely anyone else would. It might be her best chance of escape.

Wishing she’d worn anything other than a gown, she put her foot on one of the stones. Of course, her boot slid crazily. She clutched the remaining piece of the wooden railing and took wobbly steps over the stones, which jutted up from the water in a jumbled mass.

Heavens, she was shaky, but panic gave her the courage to blindly throw her weight. Poised on the last stable stone on her side, Anne jumped. Her feet landed on a stone on the other side, but it was slimy, and her right foot skidded wildly. She fell, her left leg splashing into the water. But she managed to grasp the railing and pull herself out.

Her skirts hung around her, wet and heavy. Her left knee throbbed with pain. Keep moving. Imagine the pain of hanging. She struck ahead, leaving the bridge behind her, but she was limping and moving far too slowly. Devon’s servants must be in the woods by now, and someone had probably heard the splash—

Behind her, footsteps crunched on fallen leaves.

Her heart plunged so fast, it sucked all her air with it. For some foolish, instinctive reason, she slowed down. The footsteps quickened, and a low, hard masculine laugh sounded a few yards behind her. The evil delight in it made her blood turn to icy slush.

She knew that laugh. It was a sound she would never forget. But it couldn’t be real. She must have conjured it out of her fear-fogged brain.

She couldn’t turn. For some reason, her body refused to twist so she could see. Her heart hammered and her jumbled thoughts coalesced into one command: Run. You must run!

Despite a throat so dry she couldn’t draw in air, Anne yanked up her skirts and ran like the wind. It had to be her imagination haunting her. It had to be one of Devon’s servants—

No. A servant wouldn’t laugh.

She needed a weapon. Anything. A fallen branch. A rock—but she couldn’t see one she could lift. The heavy footsteps behind her drew closer.

She gave a surge of desperate speed, but it wasn’t enough. A black shape swept in front of her eyes. She tried to dart away, but her feet tangled in her hems, and her momentum carried her headlong into a leather-clad hand. Her attacker clamped his palm over her mouth. She was dragged off her feet, hauled through the air, and slammed back against a tree. Her breath flew out as her spine banged against unyielding bark. Pain shot from her head to her toes.

She screamed, but the gloved hand turned her shriek into a muffled squawk.

A hulking body loomed over her. “Hello, Annie love,” the voice said cheerfully. “You caused me a lot of bother.”

She gazed up at a familiar leering grin. She saw a bald head, a beak of a nose, a huge body. It couldn’t be possible. By some nightmare, it was. Shaking, she met the narrow black eyes of Mick Taylor, Madame Sin’s bodyguard.

“Don’t you think you now have the truth?” Tristan demanded. “She’s wanted for murder and she’s bolted. It must mean she’s guilty.”

Devon scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He was carrying his damned cane, and he chucked it to the floor. His gut instincts told him Cerise was the murderess—it would explain her fear, her reluctance to speak of her past, her lies, her flight out into the night. And her story of the rescued innocents matched the motive for the madam’s murder, according to Miss Lacy. “I think she did kill the woman, but I suspect she did it in self-defense.” He could not picture Cerise, who had been so careful cutting his hair, so sweet when she read to him, so gentle with his nephew, as a cold-blooded murderess.

“You’re smitten with her, aren’t you?” Tris asked, his tone filled with astonishment. Tris handed him the cane.

Smitten. He was not smitten. Smitten was for virgin lads and aging codgers, not for angry dukes and their runaway mistresses. He was trying to be logical. “If the woman was a desperate criminal, she could have stolen from me the first night she was here and gotten enough money to flee the country.” He swung his stick and began walking. “Take me to the stables.”

“The stables?” The shocked voice belonged to Treadwell.

“I’m not going to stay here like a bloody invalid, waiting for her to be brought back to me. I want the truth out of her.”

Anne was amazed she hadn’t fractured into a thousand pieces—she felt as cold and brittle as ice. Mick shifted his hand, freeing her mouth, but he gripped her by the throat, pressing hard enough to keep her pinned without blocking all her air.

“It took me a bleeding long time to find you, Annie,” he remarked lightly. She had spent five years living in fear of this man. She had seen exactly what kind of brutality he could commit. When Mick spoke in such a cheerful voice, it meant he planned to inflict pain.

He had pulled her into the middle of a grove of trees. The thick trunks surrounded them. He could do anything to her he wanted here. He could leave her body beneath a pile of leaves and no one might know for days.

“How—how did you find me?” Her voice came as a raw whisper. But a grin spread across Mick’s face, and understanding came so swiftly, she sagged in despair. The pressure of his hand was the only thing holding her up. “Kat.”

“That’s right.” His lips curled. “Eventually I convinced your whore friend to tell me.”

Tears stung in her eyes. Nausea threatened to crawl up her throat. “What did you do to her?”

“Not much, love. Your friend crumbled quickly. Just a few slaps to her pretty face and she told me everything.”

“I don’t believe it. Kat wouldn’t have done that. You must have hurt her badly.”

“I intended to, duchess,” he said mockingly. “But she’s a cowardly little fool, so afraid of having her face and her tits carved up, she broke down after the first time I hit her.”

Perhaps Kat did. Anne prayed it was the truth, that Kat had surrendered quickly rather than suffer a brutal beating. This was all her fault. She had brought danger to a friend who had given her nothing but kindness.

“I imagine she thought I’d back away once she revealed you were a duke’s tart. But I’m not afraid of some fop.”

Anne thought of Devon—the rough-hewn muscle, the strength, and the aura of rigidly controlled power that surrounded him. Mick might be brawny, but she did not doubt Devon would have been able to defeat him in a fight—if he could see. “The duke is a war hero,” she spat out. “Hardly a fop.” The insanity of it struck her. Devon had locked himself away here because he thought he was mad. He had refused to go home, because he feared he could be a danger to his family. And here was a truly deadly madman, who would never have such scruples.

“He ain’t here, Annie. It’s just you and me. I watched the house for a couple of days, waiting to nab you. Damned uncomfortable it was. I thank you for delivering yourself into my hands, but you’re going to have to do more to make up for my irritation.” Mick released her throat, wrenched her arms over her head, and pinned them to the trunk with one hand. His other paw clamped on her bosom.

She struggled beneath him, but he was too strong. He squeezed her breast, smirking with cruel pleasure.

“Stop! Please.” It was foolish to beg Mick Taylor. It would make him worse. “What do you want?” Even as she asked, she feared she knew. Revenge. For Madame’s death.

His hand dropped from her breast. “I could haul you back to Bow Street. Watch you get locked up in Newgate Prison, where you’ll rot away until they decide to hang you.” His bulk leaned heavily against her. He pressed his thigh between her legs, trapping her skirts. The weight of him made her whimper. Somewhere in the woods, far away, she heard a faint crunching—it must be Devon’s men, looking for her.

Oh, God. She could barely speak for the pressure of his chest against her breasts. “I had to hit her. I had no choice—she was going to shoot Violet.” Without even a flicker of conscience, Madame Sin had been ready to shoot a girl of fourteen to frighten the others into submission. “I hit her once to stop her. I meant to hit her in the arm, to knock the pistol out of her hands. I never meant to strike her in the head. I did it to protect an innocent girl.” The blow had been strong, far more than she’d thought it would be. But she’d been driven by desperation. The crunch of the poker hitting Madame’s skull had been sickening. “You know what happened. You were there—in the room.”

“Aye,” Mick said around a chuckle. “Which makes me a grand witness. I remember you hit the bitch on the side of the head with the fireplace poker. I also know you didn’t kill her, Annie. She woke up after you’d hopped it out the window.”

“I didn’t—” Wild thoughts collided in her head. “But she’s dead. In the news sheets, it said she was—but … if I didn’t kill her, who did?”

“That, love, I don’t know.”

She was innocent. Oh, thank heaven. Madame had been horrible, but Anne had felt so much guilt over the woman’s death. This meant … it meant she was suspected of a crime she hadn’t committed. She could be arrested for it. She could hang even though she was innocent. “Mick, you could stop this by telling the truth—”

“You’re a stupid git, Annie. Do you really think I’m going to go to Bow Street and tell them you’re innocent and say, By the way, I was in the room at the time, with the murder weapon?”

She was so numb with fear it took seconds to understand what he was saying. “You—” She almost said, You did it. “You’re afraid the magistrate will think you did it.” There, she could say it without directly accusing him. But the mocking glare in his feral eyes made her doubt her suspicion. Madame had paid Mick a fortune to protect her. He had no reason to want her dead.

“I didn’t do it, you stupid whore. But I believe I know who did, and that’s how you’re going to help me, you little tart.”

She flinched at the names he called her, the venom with which he spat them in her face. Suddenly he lifted his fist. She hopelessly tried to wrench away, but his meaty hand slammed down, smashing into her temple. Searing pain streaked through her head; spots exploded in front of her eyes. She sagged forward in a fuzzy gray void. Mick lifted her into the air, tossing her over his shoulder. She almost threw up as her stomach hit hard muscle.

“The duke’s bloody servants are getting too close. I’ve got a horse tethered—” He broke off and started to lope through the woods with her. She bounced on his shoulder. She was dizzy, confused, as though she’d drunk a whole bottle of brandy. His blow had knocked her almost senseless, and she was fighting to regain her wits.

They seemed to run for an eternity, and the pain was beginning to ebb when Mick stopped and let her drop to the ground. She was too scrambled and jostled to get her balance, and she fell heavily. Mick scooped her up and pushed her against something warm and soft, something that shied from her. A horse whinnied in protest. Mick gripped her shoulder. He leapt up on the horse, and once he was seated he dragged her up with his hands under her arms. Clamping her to his chest with one hand, he grasped the reins with the other.

Her dazed wits finally understood what was happening. She struggled in terror. But Mick was a brawler. Across her chest, his arm was like a cage, and she couldn’t break free.

“I didn’t hunt you down to take you back to Bow Street,” he snarled by her ear as his horse cantered. The impact was jarring. “There’s no advantage in that for me. I was paid by a titled fop to find you. I’m here to protect you from the law, because this gent wants you alive.”

“Protect me!” she gasped. “I’m innocent.”

“Ah, Bow Street won’t believe it without my word, Annie. And I’ve discovered you’re worth a hell of a lot to this man. You’re going to be my ticket to a life of luxury.”

Her mind began to grasp what he was saying. “What man?”

“Lord Norbrook. He’s been scouring the stews for you. But the fine gentleman didn’t like to get dirty, so he couldn’t find you. He paid me to track you down.”

Sebastian? Looking for her? “Does—does he know about the brothel, about Madame?” Of course he must, if he’d found Mick. But why would Sebastian have hired Mick to find her? He had to know what she’d become—a prostitute—and what she was accused of doing. She would have thought Sebastian would want nothing more than to wash his hands of her.

Mick leaned forward and licked her cheek. It was revolting, a parody of a caress that turned her stomach. “Apparently he still wants you. He thinks you would be willing to be his whore, in exchange for your life.”

She understood. She was going to have to do whatever Sebastian asked, whatever he desired, or he would hand her over to Bow Street to be charged with murder. She had been afraid of her cousin years ago when she was naïve and innocent. After everything she’d had to do to survive, the thought of now becoming Sebastian’s whore made her sick with disgust and horror.

Mick gave his horse a kick, urging it faster along the path, which Anne could barely see. He gave a low laugh by her ear. “Thinking about your fancy Lord Norbrook, are you? Thinking how you can stay alive by fucking him? There’s something you’d better understand, angel—”

Angel. Devon had called her that. But when Mick said it, in his gloating, sadistic voice, the name that had sounded sensual on Devon’s lips curdled in her stomach.

“You live and die at my pleasure now, Annie,” Mick snarled. “Do as I say and I’ll let you survive. I’ll let you go to Norbrook. We’ve got a couple of days to travel together, and you’re going to have to keep me happy. I want to see what a whore does for a duke while she’s fucking him. Madame never let me have a crack at you. She wanted to keep you ‘innocent,’ as she put it, for her richest clients. Now’s my chance to sample your slice.”

Anne wanted to gag. But the most horrible thought came into her head. She was a whore—she was supposed to let men touch her when she didn’t want them. If her life was at stake, she could bed Mick, then do the same with Norbrook. She would have to do it.

Then, wildly, she thought of the contract she’d signed with Devon. Why would she think about it now, that piece of signed paper that set out the terms of a love affair? She remembered how it had hurt her feelings. What a fool she had been. He had written it to protect her. He had not used his power to make her feel weak and defenseless. If she hadn’t been suspected of murder, that contract would have given her the dream of a future, of independence.

She wouldn’t have any future at all, hanging from a rope. She had no choice. She must do whatever Mick demanded, then she would please Sebastian, and she would live.

God, she couldn’t do it. Mick’s touch made her feel as though a dozen spiders were crawling over her skin. She now knew what it was like to want a man’s touch—Devon’s touch. She couldn’t face the thought of letting Mick or her cousin near her.

“The duke gave me jewels,” she lied.

Mick gave a kick to his animal’s flanks, urging the horse faster. “Good, then, Annie. That will do nicely to cover the expense and trouble of me taking you to Norbrook.”

“You don’t understand,” she said desperately. “The duke found out about Madame’s death from the news sheets. He learned I’m suspected of murder, and I had to run away. I didn’t have time to take anything with me. The jewels are worth a fortune, Mick. Far more than Norbrook would pay you. If you help me go back for them, I’ll give them to you. I can get into the house while his servants are rushing around looking for me. If you let me go free, a king’s ransom of diamonds and rubies is yours.”

She had no plan. Just the knowledge that she would rather be caught by Devon and dragged to the magistrate than be a whore for Mick and her cousin Sebastian. She’d done so many sinful things to simply survive. She couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t face doing one more thing that made her heart sick and her stomach roil, one more thing she would desperately fight to forget. You couldn’t really forget things like that. They haunted you forever. Just as Devon’s memories of death and battle haunted him.

She prayed greed would drive Mick. Prayed he would turn his horse and take her back to the house. She didn’t know what she’d do after that. Throw herself on Devon’s mercy? She now knew she was innocent, after weeks of fearing she’d killed a woman. But would he believe her?

Mick slowed, obviously thinking it over. Then he began to wheel the horse around—

A new sound broke through the woods. It was the faint but steady beat of hooves. She hadn’t heard it over the noise of Mick’s horse, the hammer of her heart. It rapidly grew louder.

“Shit,” Mick muttered. Now, between the dark columns of the trees, she could see flashes of motion. The sounds of pounding horses and shouting men washed over her like a wave. It was too late for Mick to run.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Mick snapped. “Remember, the duke believes you’re a murderess and will want to see you hang. Don’t think he’s going to save you, Annie.” His horse snorted as he forcefully turned it again to face the oncoming riders.

The mass of horses and riders came completely into view. Her nervous wits distinguished six mounted men. Four were Devon’s grooms and, in the center of the pack, on his black mount, was Devon. He was hatless; he appeared to have thrown a greatcoat over a shirt and trousers. At his side, dressed far more elegantly, rode the Earl of Ashton. At a word from Ashton, all the riders halted a few feet from Mick and her. Two of the grooms and the earl lifted pistols. Anne’s heart stuttered: Three round black muzzles pointed at her.

Something brushed against her back, then stopped beside her head. It was the barrel of Mick’s weapon, and he held it pointed at Ashton. Her heart thrummed in fear. Devon should not have come—he was on his horse, completely reliant upon his hearing and direction from his men and Ashton. Was he so angry with her over her lies, so sickened by her supposed crime, he had come to ensure she was arrested? She wanted to tell him the truth at once. “Your—” she began, but Ashton shouted to Mick, “Identify yourself, sir.”

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?