Page 80 of A Duke to Steal Her
Ambrose placed a sovereign on the scarred wood. “Your memory improving?”
“Aye. He was here, but he ain’t coming back. Neither are you.”
The attack came from three directions at once. Ambrose felt the whistle of a blade past his ear as he spun, catching one assailant in the throat with his elbow while drawing the knife from his boot. Years of fencing and boxing in his youth served him well, but the numbers were against him.
Pain exploded across his ribs as a blade found its mark, sliding between his coat and waistcoat to part flesh. He caught his attacker’s wrist, twisting until he heard bone snap, then drove his own knife into the man’s shoulder.
The fight was brutal and brief. When it ended, two men lay unconscious, one clutched a broken wrist, and Ambrose stood swaying in the center of the wreckage, blood seeping through his clothes.
“Anyone else want to discuss my friend’s whereabouts?” he asked conversationally.
The remaining patrons suddenly found their drinks fascinating.
Ambrose made it back to Mayfair through sheer stubborn will, using back alleys and servants’ entrances to avoid being seen.
Blood loss made the world tilt around him, and by the time he reached his study, his vision was starting to blur.
He fumbled with the brandy decanter, needing the alcohol to clean the wound before Emily saw him.
“Dear God, Ambrose!”
He turned to find her in the doorway, her face white with shock as she took in his bloodied appearance. The decanter slipped from his fingers at the sight of her terror, shattering against the floor as his knees buckled.
He felt her arms catch him before he could fall, her strength surprising him as she guided him to a chair. Through his hazeof pain and exhaustion, he was dimly aware that he was getting blood on her nightgown.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Speaking the single word made him feel like he was being cut all over again.
“Nothing?” Her voice shook with fury and fear as she began working at his coat. “You’re bleeding through your shirt!”
“Just a scratch.” But even as he said it, another wave of dizziness swept over him, and he had to grip the chair arms to stay upright.
“Like hell it is.” Her fingers were deft despite their trembling as she peeled away his ruined shirt. “What happened? Where have you been?”
“Emily, I?—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me again.” Her blue eyes blazed with a combination of terror and rage that cut through his defenses like nothing else could. “Not when you’re sitting here bleeding in our study like some common criminal.”
The fight went out of him all at once. Ambrose slumped back into the chair, too exhausted to maintain his walls any longer.
Looking at her face, at the tenderness and fear warring there, he couldn’t bring himself to lie anymore.
“A man I hired, Flint. He’s disappeared,” he said quietly. “Either he’s betrayed me, or someone’s taken him. Either way, Peirce will know everything soon enough.”
He watched her hands still on his shirt. “Everything?”
“About Flint pretending to be a Spanish earl. About the business ventures. About what I’ve been doing to destroy him.”
He met her gaze knowing his eyes were a cold reflection of his heart.
Emily’s hands shook as she pressed a clean cloth to his wound, and Ambrose could see the terror she was trying so hard to hide. The sight of her fear wrecked him.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, trying to gentle his voice. “Head wounds always bleed more?—”
“Stop.” The word came out sharp, broken. “Just stop.”
He watched her dab at the blood with trembling fingers, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. When she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
