Page 8 of The Duke's Daring Bride

And just when she thought she might have a chance, she slammed into something hard.

And tall.

And angry.

Wait—angry?

She wasn’t certain how she felt the man’s anger, considering he hadn’t spoken a word and she hadn’t had a chance to see his face, but she could almost taste it. When he grabbed her wrist and forced her behind him—putting his body between her and her attackers—Olivia didn’t think of trying to break his hold.

The man said nothing, and he didn’t step forward. But he lifted his other hand to his face, and she saw the glow of a cigar illuminating a dark beard and not much else.

“’Ere now,” called one of the men, as they stepped forward, forming a sort of wall across the alleyway. “Ye want to join the fun, ye only had to ask. What’s it worth to ye?”

The man said nothing, and Olivia risked a glance over her shoulder, wondering if she could break away to run from this nightmare. As if he could sense her plan, the man’s grip on her wrist tightened briefly.

As a warning?

He wasn’t hurting her, but he didn’t want her to leave.

Craning her neck, she tried to see his face, but was unsuccessful. While she stood eye-to-eye with most men, his chin was more likely to rest atop her head than break her gaze. His shoulders were wide enough she couldn’t see around him.

“Well, guv? Ye want to join us?”

In the light of the cigar now dangling from his lips, Olivia watched the man slowly shake his head. His hand had dropped to his side, and was gripping…something.

“Well then, if ye don’t want a tumble, let us have the gal and be on yer way.” One beefy fist slammed into an open palm. “There’s four of us, and only one of ye.”

The mysterious stranger shook his head once more.

Good heavens, this was like one of those stand-offs in the western dime novels. Or a lurid mystery.

Or one of your articles about The Dark Knight.

Her subconscious’ dry tone caused Olivia to gasp aloud.

The Dark Knight?

The man certainly had the height and the breadth. She couldn’t see his features, and his hold kept her anchored at his back. But his dark—black?—coat was made from coarse wool and his fingers had calluses.

Oh, how she wished she could reach her little notepad! Also, two hands free to actually take the notes.

Here she was, in an alley in the East End, with The Dark Knight…and she couldn’t interview the man because he was busy saving her.

…right?

She’d been distracted by her realization, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. Between one moment and the next, two of the men darted forward. Olivia sucked in a breath to scream, and The Dark Knight—or whoever he was—turned to the side and slashed downward with—what was that? A stick? A sword? No, no, a cane?

Well, it was something long and sticky, and it sent one man reeling backward, hand across his face, cursing roundly, and the other man huddled on the ground. The other two attackers came at him one at a time, but The Dark Knight’s right arm blurred—perhaps it was the poor lighting or the lack of oxygen in her lungs—and the stick made wet sort of slapping sounds.

Then there was a crack and one man collapsed.

The last cursed and charged.

The Dark Knight stepped to one side, pulling her with him, and twisted gracefully, lashing out with one leg. His boot caught the man in the chest, and a blow from his arm caused his chin to go flying back.

And as easily as that, the men were done.

One down, not moving.

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