Page 10 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
“You’re too pretty to cut.” Marco grasped her chin and forced her face toward his as the clopping continued. “I guess I’ll just have to show you what happens to Mayfair snobs who visit Covent Garden.”
The clopping suddenly stopped, and just as Freddy cut her eyes to the door, a deep, dark voice filled with the promise of violence spoke. “Get off her now, and I’ll let you live.” A pair of shiny black Hessians appeared in her line of vision, and her heart leaped.
Marco tensed on top of her. “Beckford. I—”
“There’s another man in the house!” Freddy called out, wanting to warn Mr. Beckford.
“Already dealt with,” Blythe’s brother said, without looking at her. His gaze bore steady into Marco. “I’ll give you to the count of two,” Mr. Beckford said as Freddy really took in his appearance. In the shimmering light of the bedchamber, his features appeared harsh. His square jawline was shadowed by stubble, and his full lips formed a challenging smirk. His blue eyes held a lethal glare, and the slash of a brow was raised almost in the hint of a taunt. “One. Two.”
Had she blinked she would have missed the astonishing speed with which Mr. Beckford moved. He hovered over her and Marco in one motion, and in the other, he yanked the man up and off her as if he were lifting a pesky bug off the ground.
Blythe’s brother moved with predatory grace and flung Marco against the wall. The thud of Marco’s head resounded in the room for a moment, and the man looked dazed as he brought his head to a stop, but as soon as he did, Mr. Beckford delivered a blow straight to the man’s nose that cracked bone and brought a stream of blood gushing forth. Before Marco had recovered from that, Mr. Beckford said, “Why don’t you show me what it is you intended to do to the lady?”
The way he put the question made Freddy’s breath catch deep in her lungs. She’d never seen a man so enraged on her behalf. It didn’t frighten her, not one bit. It thrilled her. She swept her gaze over his solid form that looked as if it could not possibly be stopped by any human force. He was controlled power, and when he wanted to, he could destroy with hardly much effort.
“She’s a snooty—”
Mr. Beckford’s fist blurred through the air—once, twice, three times. Each hit gave a resounding smack. Marco’s lip split. The skin of his cheekbone, too. “She’s a what?” Beckford paused, circling his prey without ever moving from where he now held the man against the door.
“She…she…” Marco tried, his voice nasally as blood flowed from his nose. “She’s a lady to be treated with respect.”
“Aye,” Mr. Beckford said, that slight Scottish burr she had recalled from the night she’d met him coming out. A flutter went through her as she scrambled to her feet, and he frowned fiercely.
“Belle is a lady, too,” she snapped at Marco, “and you turned a blind eye when Brooke hit her.”
“Brooke is my employer!” the man cried out.
“That’s no excuse,” Mr. Beckford said, his English once again perfect as was the delivery of another blow. This one was to the gut, and Marco doubled over. Freddy came to stand by Mr. Beckford, the power of the man giving her a new set of chills that tightened her belly. The intensity of his gaze landing on her made her mouth slip open. Before she could even shut it, he’d turned his attention back to Marco.
Freddy followed his lead and stared at the back of Marco’s head, as the man was still doubled over, hands on his thighs, and blood splattering the ground and his boots.
“If you ever set foot in Covent Garden again, what I’ve done to you now will seem like mercy.” Mr. Beckford’s statement would have frozen the Thames with the chill of its delivery. “Now get out and collect your friend. He’s at the bottom of the stairs.”
As Marco straightened and his gaze fell on Freddy, a burning anger consumed her. It wasn’t until her hand connected with Marco’s cheek, sending a sting across her flesh that she even realized she’d slapped him, but once she got over the momentary shock of what she’d done, she did it once more. “In case you were wondering,” she said, chest heaving, “you made my skin crawl.”
Freddy tensed when Marco opened his mouth as if to speak, but Mr. Beckford said, “If you want to keep your life, you will shut your mouth and depart directly.”
The man’s beady eyes widened, and he turned to the door without hesitation and strode out of the room.
Freddy inhaled a long breath, and then once she could see Marco no more, she let it out in a shudder, her legs suddenly buckling. Mr. Beckford caught her, slipping one arm against her back and the other under her legs. He silently swooped her off her feet and held her to his chest. It was like being pressed against a wall, a warm one that had a heart hammering in it. She looked up at him to thank him and found his attention focused on where Marco had departed. She frowned, seeing no one there, but then the distinct tap of someone walking came to her. She tensed, but the hand curled under her legs gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s just Blythe. I heard her banging on the bedchamber down the hall on my way to find you, and unlocked the door, but told her to stay put until she was certain it was safe.”
“You took your time finishing him,” Blythe’s voice suddenly filled the room as she appeared in the doorway. “What’s this? Is she injured?”
“Are either of you?” Mr. Beckford asked, sweeping his gaze over his sister and then turning the full intensity of his stare upon Freddy. Every time he looked at her that way her heart did the strangest flip in response.
Was she hurt? No, she wasn’t hurt. Irate to have a kiss forced upon her from such a loathsome creature, furious that she had not been able to properly defend herself, but not hurt.
“No,” she finally said.
Blythe’s brows dipped together. “If she’s not hurt, why are you carrying her?” The question was directed at Mr. Beckford.
“Her legs gave out. I imagine,” he said, staring at her, “that you were frightened.”
She didn’t want to be frightened. In fact, she refused to be. She shoved the feelings down. “No, I’m more furious that I didn’t know how to defend myself than anything.”
“Well you ought to be frightened.” Irritation laced his words. “You ought to be more than frightened,” he continued. “If you had any sense and knew what was good for you, you would be a quivering mess. If I’d not come in when I did, that man would of—Well, he would have—”
“I know,” she interrupted, knowing precisely what he was having trouble getting out. “Which is why I need to learn to properly defend myself.”
