Page 9 of The Duke's Daring Bride

One making gurgling noises as he clutched at his throat.

One holding his nose, blood spilling from between his fingers.

And one crawling away, making little whimpering sounds.

The Dark Knight watched them for possibly half a minute, until the gurgling man stopped gurgling, then tossed the stick down atop one body.

Body?

Body?

As in…he’d killed those men?

Olivia swallowed thickly, vowing not to vomit, even as she did her best to imprint each detail into her memory so she could write the article the minute a pencil reached her fingers.

As soon as she had the use of both hands.

These men…they’d been planning on hurting her. Worse. And then he’d shown up. Had this been the answer to her indistinct prayer? She hadn’t intended the men to die.

But you didn’t exactly want to invite them to tea and cakes either, correct?

Well, that was a good point, pointed out the small voice in the back of her head that she frequently ignored.

Olivia glanced up at the back of The Dark Knight’s head. What was his real name? She had every intention of asking him, that and more.

An exclusive interview with The Dark Knight? She could milk that for a month’s worth of publication, and it would save her paper!

Instead of reaching for her useless notepad, she poked him in his back, as high as she could reach, which turned out to be his kidney. “Excuse me?”

He turned, but not toward her. No, he turned toward the front of the alley, and strode toward it, pulling her along in his wake. Blast! She wished she could get a good look at him…any look at him! She still hadn’t seen his face!

“Excuse me,” Olivia tried again, stumbling on rubbish and her skirts. “I mean to say— Wait, I want to thank—”

He didn’t slow, but tugged her forward, and she bit off her request with a yelp as he scooped her up and tossed her over one shoulder.

Easily.

It took a moment for her brain to catch up with events.

He was carrying her through the East End over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

Oh dear, she was so distraught she’d begun to think in italics. Never a good sign.

“Put me—oof. Put me down!”

This time when he bounced her, she was certain he was doing it on purpose.

Olivia began to beat at his back, which turned out to be as hard as she’d imagined. “I’m very grateful—oof. Stop doing that! Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer. When she kicked, hard, he wrapped one forearm around the back of her knees to anchor her in place, then swatted her rear end.

Swatted her! Like a child!

Outraged, she began to struggle once more, and he swatted her again.

And still he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t said anything to her. He just increased his pace, taking her God-knew-where.

For the first time, Olivia felt a sliver of unease in his presence.

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