Page 43 of Tempting Fate
Tonight, all she seemed to be able to focus on was the roll of his hips against her backside as they rode. The ridges and swells of his torso molded against her. It was like being buttressed by warm granite.
Her home wasn’t far, and when they dashed into the courtyard, Gareth leapt from the saddle before the horse had quite stopped, reaching up to pluck her down without a modicum of assistance from her.
Once her feet were planted on the earth, he stabilized her with one hand, while turning to give the beast a hearty slap on the flanks.
The horse snorted and started before trotting back out the archway and into the London night.
“Holy Moses,” she finally managed.
Propelling her toward the house, he wrenched open the door— this time unlocked— and roughly pulled her inside, slamming it behind him and throwing the latch.
“We— I— you…” She’d begun trembling in earnest now, unable to stop the deep tide of horror that threatened to tumble her beneath the waves. “We should summon someone— the police? What are you doing?”
His hands were on her, roughly turning her this way and that. “Did they hurt you? Did anything touch you?” He tested her joints and what he could see of her skin, inspecting her like some sort of rag doll.
“No,” she answered immediately, then took a moment to really examine her own body, to clench and unclench each muscle. “No. You never let them get close enough to touch me. But, Gareth… your head.”
Oh no, she felt another swoon come on… or perhaps worse.
She clapped a hand over her mouth.
Blood seeped down the brutal planes of his face from a gash near his hairline. He reached up to touch it and seemed surprised to find the wound.
“I’d forgotten,” he said by way of disgruntled explanation.
She whirled away from him, lurching in his grasp, grateful he didn’t let her go. A second hand joined the first over her mouth as dark spots crept into her vision.
“Miss Felicity?” Mr. Bartholomew and Mrs. Pickering rushed from below stairs, the plump housekeeper reaching for Felicity. “Dear God, child, what’s happened?”
She pointed back at Gareth, the tears streaming from her eyes because of her physical reaction to the blood rather than any sort of emotional distress. “He’s hurt,” she croaked, hoping they’d help him.
“Mr. Bartholomew, you must send for the carriage,” Gareth said as if she hadn’t spoken. “It’s still on Barclay Street and must be retrieved quickly. It is imperative that we appear to have left with the rest of the crowd.”
“Bodies!” Mrs. Pickering exclaimed.
“They… they tried to kill me.” There’d been blood spilled in the dark. Her own rushed around, threatening to drown her.
“Who tried to kill you?”
“Hired thugs.” Pulling a handkerchief from his coat, Gareth pressed it to the cut above his eye, bracing against her stumble. “Take her,” he commanded.
Mrs. Pickering’s pillowy arms surrounded Felicity, and she sagged against the woman, fighting to remain conscious. “She’s right, Mr. Severand. You are bleeding rather a lot. Should I call for a doctor?”
“Care for your mistress,” he clipped. “Get her out of that corset so she can breathe properly, and find a cold rag to put to her head. I’ll tend to my own wound.”
“Yes, sir.”
Felicity wanted to call to him as he took the stairs more than two at a time, seeming to escape her without a second glance. Oh, that she could go with him, that she could clean his wounds and stitch him back together.
Why must her body be so treacherous? So weak?
“Do you think they were after you, specifically, Miss Felicity?” the housekeeper asked as she guided her through the house.
“We’ll never know,” she murmured. “Someone threw a knife. He… Mr. Severand. He fought them, he…”
He’d killed them all. In front of her. Two of them with his bare hands. Well… boot, in one case.
He’d done it forher.
