Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz TynerЧитать онлайн книгу.
myself feels a bit left out.’ His gaze locked on Wren’s face. ‘I have a good bit of coin. A good bit, and I certainly can find better ways to spend it than on gaming.’
The pressure at Isabel’s throat lessened.
‘A man cannot have too much coin,’ Wren said. ‘But he can have too many women about.’ At those words, the knife jabbed forward, tapping Isabel’s neck like a pointed fingernail with a razor at the end.
The stranger’s eyes widened and he caught his breath, speaking as he exhaled. ‘Don’t damage the goods, Wren.’ His voice strengthened. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt an investment.’
Wren took the knife from Isabel’s neck, looking at it as if he’d forgotten he had it in his hand.
In that moment, the man threw his body in front of Isabel, knocking her backwards with a crash.
For less than a second she could only see the ceiling. She pushed herself up, scrambling to her feet. Wren’s back was on the desk and the stranger’s right fist plunged into Wren’s face.
Wren rolled, falling from the desk, kicking the man’s ribs when he moved forward. But the stranger only turned with the blow. He continued forward, driving on to Wren, using his body as a battering ram. His left hand gripped Wren’s neck and he rose, just enough for leverage, keeping Wren pinned to the floor.
The stranger’s fist rose and hammered Wren’s face, pummelling a groan from him.
She could not bear it. ‘No,’ she shouted, the words more a scream than a command. ‘Stop. No. I beg you, please stop.’ The words could have carried to the top of the Tower.
She shuddered, her voice now pleaded. ‘Please stop.’
The stranger looked at her. His eyes held no recognition of the moment, but his fist stilled on the upswing. Nothing from inside him acknowledged her words, but he stopped pummelling. Again his arm moved up, ready for a downswing.
‘No...’ The word pulled her last thread of strength.
* * *
William stopped, pulling the world around him back into focus. The woman’s body trembled in a circular motion. Another second and she would topple. Dazed eyes locked on him, but he didn’t think she truly saw anything.
William lunged upwards and scooped the knife from the floor so Wren couldn’t grab it. He had to get the woman away from the place. Neither she nor his family would be helped by tales of these events.
In one stride, William had a hand at her shoulder. ‘Miss?’ He tightened his clasp.
She blinked, but didn’t speak and her glance fell to his hand.
‘Miss?’ he repeated. ‘Where do you live?’
He released her shoulder and took her chin in his gasp, pulling her gaze to his. His heart slammed against his ribs with a stronger punch than any Wren had managed.
Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her to the door. Stopping outside, he let her feet flutter to the floor. She kept moving downwards and he pulled her up, tight against him. Her colourless face wasn’t far from his own, yet she offered no resistance.
He had a knife in one hand and a woman in the other. The door still open, he led her to the taproom, trying to keep her on the side opposite the patrons.
Everyone in Wren’s looked towards the curtain when he strode through. They’d heard the commotion apparently, but hadn’t moved. Sylvester’s cards fluttered to the table.
A customer entered at the door. Light filtered on to the woman’s hair, showing the unusual colour to all in the room. The stranger stared at William, unmoving. Uncertainty stilled him as if he couldn’t decide whether to enter or run for safety.
Sylvester’s voice jarred the moments, reminding William of the others. ‘Cousin—you must introduce us to your friend.’
‘Yes, I must.’ William tramped forward. ‘Just not today.’
He glared at the man at the door, gesturing him aside—and then Will realised he gestured with the knife. He dropped the weapon and the man jumped backwards, pulling the door with him. William stopped the swing with his boot. The man darted away.
Sprinting the woman into the fading sunlight, William moved towards his carriage. He shouted to the driver, ‘Just go. Keep us moving.’ The driver stared, then his posture straightened and his chin snapped up in agreement.
Once inside the vehicle, William reached across her to lower the shade on her side. She gasped and the sound slashed into him. She pressed against her side of the carriage.
With the same control he’d used when he spoke to Wren, he turned to her.
He opened his mouth to ask her where she lived, but closed it again. He could not deliver such a bedraggled miss anywhere. She’d been so prim on the bench. And her dress had been ripped even then.
‘You must stop shaking.’ He spoke in the tone that could soothe two sisters trying to strangle each other over an apricot tart.
One at a time, he reached for her hands, holding tight to one when she tried to pull away, but freeing the other. He couldn’t have her darting from the door of a moving carriage.
He stared at the slice on his own knuckles and then remembered her arm. If it had meant losing the horses to put himself in Wren’s while she was there, then he would thank Sylvester—at least silently.
He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Even in the darkening light, he saw the moisture, but the wound on her arm only trickled blood.
He pressed and waited, making sure it wasn’t serious. ‘Just relax,’ he spoke in the apricot-tart tone, ‘you’ll be all better in a minute.’ If it would have been his sister, he would have started singing a nursery song, because it always worked, even if they complained about the nonsense.
‘You’re hurt,’ she said.
Relief flooded him. She was aware of something other than the fright.
‘I’m fine.’ He daubed at the dried blood on her shoulder. ‘My horses give me worse bruises and we call it fun.’
She looked at the handkerchief and then her shoulder. ‘Oh,’ she squeaked, not in pain, but surprise.
‘Yes.’ He pressed the cloth at her injury again, not really needing to. ‘But it will mend quickly. I’m sure you’ve had worse.’
She reached up to relieve him of the cloth and for a moment their fingers tangled, then their eyes met, and she breathed in and pulled away.
He hated to move, but he did. He would ask her the location to deliver her and he would see that she arrived safely. Even if it was some distance away, he could direct the coachman easily enough. But his question changed before he spoke.
‘Why were you in Wren’s?’ he asked.
She gazed at him. ‘I was seeking work there.’
He’d been so wrong. His voice strengthened and the first words he thought flew from his mouth. ‘In a brothel?’
Life returned to her eyes. ‘You insult me.’ She straightened. ‘Do I look like someone who would—?’ Her eyes opened wide. She cried out, using both hands to pull the dress over her bare shoulder, then adjusting her grasp, pulling the rip in her skirts closed. ‘Do I look like a...fallen woman?’
‘Not... No. No. Not at all.’ She looked well past fallen, but he had learned as a youth that a pre-emptive reassurance was easier than stopping tears.
‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘You must take me back to that terrible, forsaken place.’ Her eyes widened. Pleading. ‘I need your help.’
‘No. You are not going back.’
‘You don’t understand. I left my satchel. All I have