Page 82 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Yes,” Isobel said, shoving the man off of him and half dragging him up by one arm. “Don’t talk. We need to get out of here. More will come when they smell opportunity.”
Places like these were filled with parasites. Locals protected their own, but God help any nob who wandered into their midst. Isobel could feel the stares of the hidden eyes watching her from the densely packed houses. They would wait until there was no danger to them and then run out to collect the spoils from whatever was left—clothing, coin, weapons, anything that could be reused or sold.
“What are you doing here?” her husband repeated on a slur as they stumbled toward Hellion where she pawed the ground beside Winter’s horse.
“Rescuing you,” she said.
Isobel glanced over her shoulder, feeling a prickle on the back of her neck, but there was no one there except for the four bodies…two insensible and two groaning from their wounds. She had to get them out of here before a mob ensued. “Do you have any shot or pistols?”
“One,” he rasped. “In saddle.”
Good, that was good. It meant they weren’t totally defenseless. Propping Winter against his horse, she debated how to get him into the saddle. He was a large man, and built of pure muscle. Even bolstered between her and the horse as he was, he was heavy.
“We need to go,” she urged. “Can you get up on your horse?”
Bloodshot gray eyes met hers as he blinked rapidly. “Where’s my wife? Need to tell her sorry.”
“You will, Roth, but for God’s sake, you need to mount that horse now.”
She frowned, watching his uncoordinated motions with some trepidation. Why was he so sluggish? Had he gotten hit in the head? Stabbed?
“Roth, please,” she begged, forgetting to lower her voice and drawing his stare. His brow dropped in confusion, and Isobel knew what he had heard—her true voice pleading with him. Not Iz’s. Perhaps he wouldn’t remember. He gave a weak nod and pulled himself up.
Once he was in place, she turned to mount her own horse, only to freeze at the well-dressed gentleman who stood a short distance away in front of a plain black coach, watching her efforts with amusement, a gun held carelessly in each hand. She blinked in disbelief, wanting to shove her cap and mask out of the way. Surely, her eyes were playing tricks on her.
It couldn’t be…
“Not one move, boy,” he drawled.
That voice. That leer. Bile crawled into her throat as she lunged for Winter’s pistol, only to freeze in place at the sound of cocking hammers.
“Not so fast, lad.” His gaze flicked up. “Or you, Roth. Unless either of you wants to tempt your odds with a bullet each. On the ground. Now.”
Isobel didn’t dare glance at Winter, whose body had gone rigid, but he complied, sliding from the stallion with a grunt. She took comfort in the fact that he didn’t seem as muddled as he’d been a few minutes ago.
“Don’t try anything, Iz,” he said, his voice still choppy, but his words less erratic. “Do as he says and you won’t get hurt. All will be well, I promise.”
But she wanted to scream that it wouldn’t be well because sheknewthe man holding the guns pointed at them. She knew exactly what he was and every cell inside of her quaked with fear and loathing. That man had ruined her sister’s life, nearly ruined hers, and did not have one drop of integrity in his miserable body.
The Earl of Beaumont had returned to London.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dearest Friend, a swift, hard knee to the ballocks will drop any man, no matter how large.
– Lady Darcy
Winter cleared the remaining cobwebs from his brain.
Christ, where was Isobel? Where was hiswife? The groom had said she was safe, but maybe he had imagined that, too. His head was ringing. His skull felt as though it’d been caved in. He had to get to her…had to figure out where she was…tell her how sorry he was. The notion that the last words she’d heard from him were such untruths tore at him. Ripped his insides to shreds. Fuck, he truly was a cad. The worst kind of cad.
Winter blinked, forcing his fuzzy thoughts into focus. He’d taken a blow to the temple from a bludgeon. If he hadn’t dodged, it would have broken his jaw, but as it was, the makeshift club had glanced off the side of his head, making him lose vision for a moment.
He’d been lucky that he hadn’t been knocked out. And then Iz, of all people, had come to save his sorry hide. Winter couldn’t fathom that kind of courage, though now, he could feel the boy trembling at his side with fear. Who wouldn’t, staring down the business end of two pistols?
He focused his attention to the man holding said pistols and forced his mouth to curl into an unconcerned smirk despite his surprise. The former Earl of Beaumont was a gutter rat. But Winter didn’t doubt for one second that the man couldn’t—or wouldn’t—use those deadly weapons pointed at him and the boy. Had the earl set the ruffians upon him?
Whywashe here?
