Page 61 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Drago lashed out with the ebony sheath and knocked the knife from the stunned man’s hand, then whirled and kicked the stocky man, who had been reaching for his knife, in the stomach. The man staggered back, then shot his mate a terrified look and kept going, stumbling away into the alley.
For a second, the tall man stared at Drago, then clapping an arm across his wounded chest, rushed after his friend.
On his toes, Drago swayed, driven by the urge to race after the men. To catch them and wring from them the name of who had sent them.
The pair certainly weren’t locals.
He gritted his teeth and pushed down on the rage that threatened to override all thought. He wanted to chase the blackguards, but he couldn’t leave Meg alone and undefended.
That this was the second time that someone had threatened her with a knife hadn’t escaped him. Nor had the fact that on both occasions, there was no per se reason that he should have been with her, there at that precise time.
No reason at all to suppose that, when she was attacked, he would be by her side.
Sword and cane still in hand, he turned to Meg. She’d paled, but her gaze, concerned, was raking him.
He looked past her, then glanced around. Although there were others on the street, strolling along, none had been close enough to notice what had occurred; their incurious attitudes confirmed that.
His breathing slowing, the battle-ready tension that had claimed him ebbing, he returned his gaze to Meg’s face. “Are you all right?”
Her wide eyes leapt to his. “Me? I’m not the one who engaged with two knife-wielding thugs! Nor am I the one holding a bloody sword.”
He glanced down at the rapier, then huffed and drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the thin blade. “At least this thing finally came in handy. It was my father’s.”
She stepped closer and placed a hand on his arm. Looking into his face, she asked, “What was that all about?” She glanced toward the alley. “Who sent those men to attack you?”
He raised his head and stared at her. “Attack me?”
She met his gaze, concern clouding her blue eyes. “Why would anyone come after me? It has to be you they were after.”
He reran the incident in his mind. He didn’t think she was right, but…
Jaw setting, he returned the rapier to its sheath and clicked the blade home, then reached for her arm. “Regardless, I suggest we get off the street. I doubt they’ll return, but there’s no need to take unnecessary risks.”
Unsurprisingly given she was convinced that he was the thugs’ target, she was entirely willing to stride quickly beside him to the end of the street and into the square, where Milton was waiting with the grays and the curricle.
Drago helped Meg to the seat, then took the reins and joined her. The instant he felt Milton’s weight swing up behind, Drago started the horses trotting.
Meg finally managed to haul in a breath past the constriction that had locked about her chest in the instant that she’d realized the thugs’ intention. The moment she’d seen their knives.
What had Stirs said?
If the lady cares more for the gentleman than for herself, then she can be assured that love is what she feels for him.
Given the emotions roiling inside her, Meg was confident she could, with absolute assurance, conclude that she was in love with Drago. For a moment there, she’d been poised to fling herself into the fray to protect him. Only the experience of having been close to so many brotherly and cousinly fights—wrestling and fisticuffs, not all of which had been benevolent at the time—had held her back. She’d known beyond question that Drago wouldn’t have thanked her for getting in his way and distracting him.
She made a mental note to ask Louisa about the small revolver Louisa routinely carried in her reticule. As a soon-to-be duchess, Meg rather thought she should carry one, too.
The reassurance of feeling Drago—hale, whole, and as far as she had ascertained, without a scratch—sitting close beside her brought her turbulent feelings down a notch.
But only a notch.
As they rattled along, the flaring concern triggered by the attack solidified into determination.
She now knew, on a wholly conscious and even visceral level, that she wanted to be the Duchess of Wylde. It was, therefore, right and proper that she work to protect her husband-to-be.
As they rattled smartly back into Mayfair, that determination grew.
She focused ahead. “Where are we going?”
