Page 96 of Noble Scoundrel

He finished speaking just as three more guards came running along a short hall beside the stairs.

Mason squared off against them, but these men had come prepared. He caught sight of a long knife in the hand of one before his eyes locked on the more dangerous weapon, a pistol. As his muscles bunched to dodge a possible bullet, the marquess threw his greatcoat in an obscuring arc that momentarily blocked the gunman’s view. It was just enough time for Mason to leap down the steps with a driving punch, followed quickly by a spinning kick that sent the pistol skidding across the floor.

Unfortunately, he didn’t turn in time to block the slicing path of the second man’s blade as it seared across his back in a shallow, stinging arc. He turned to see Warfield take the man down with a neat jab to the throat, but not before the third got Mason in a choke hold. A quick evasive maneuver had the man flying over his head to the floor.

“Go on,” Warfield stated with surprising calm as he stepped up to one of the fallen who was rolling about, groaning. The marquess placed his booted foot on the man’s back. “I’ll keep these men from following.”

“You?” Mason’s doubt was clear. The man had a nice, clean punch, but if the guards regained consciousness, it’d be one against seven.

The man’s smile was cold. “Me and the length of rope this one is carrying.”

With a hard nod, Mason turned down the short hall to a stairway that obviously led down to the cellar. The way was heavily shadowed but a faint glow illuminated from below. Rushing down the worn steps, Mason could hear the low murmur of a man’s voice echoing off the stone walls. At the bottom extended a narrow hall that led to what appeared to be a well-lit, open chamber.

Mason entered the space boldly. He quickly scanned the scene, taking in every detail.

The room was wide and cavernous. A low ceiling. Walls covered in black silk and a floor of polished white marble. About a dozen iron candelabra stood sentry around the perimeter of the room, flooding it in golden light. In the center was a raised dais.

Shelbourne, he presumed, stood close behind Katherine atop that dais. One hand wrapped tight around her upper arm while the other held a blade beneath her chin.

Relief and purpose flared. She was alive and within his reach.

As Mason met her gaze, his stomach clenched hard at the flicker of fear in her eyes. But shining stronger than her fear was her stubborn, indignant bravery.

His lips twitched. There’s my duchess. “Hello, dove.”

She parted her lips to reply, but Shelbourne spoke first. “Not another step or I’ll slide my dagger across her throat.”

Mason stopped and held Katherine’s gaze for as long as he could, willing her to prepare herself for any opportunity to escape. Then he shifted his attention to her captor. “Threatening her’s a very bad idea.”

“You may have gotten past my guards, but this is my domain. I’m in command here.”

Mason lifted his brows as he began to circle around their position, forcing the lord to turn in place if he wished to keep Mason in his sights. Mason hoped Shelbourne’s focus would be weakened when divided between Katherine and himself, providing an opening they could take advantage of.

“If you say so,” he replied flippantly. “But you should know I didn’t come alone. I don’t see any way for you to get out of this.”

Shelbourne’s features tightened with anger. “None of this would have been necessary if you’d minded your own business.” A red flush crept over the lord’s face as his knife hand wavered, causing the blade to slide gently across the side of Kathrine’s neck. Though she remained still and unflinching, a faint line of red appeared in its wake.

All pretext fled at the sight of her blood and Mason ceased his casual stalking.

Quickly assessing Katherine, he noted she was as steady, alert, and resolute as ever. He sensed with full trust that she was prepared to take advantage of any opening he could instigate.

Also, Shelbourne wasn’t a natural aggressor and wasn’t as confident as he appeared. The old man was a sneaky bastard, keeping to the shadows while ordering others to do his dirty work. His preferred methods of operation were deception and manipulation. It was doubtful he had any experience at all in facing overt aggression.

“She is my business, you bloody rotter,” he growled. Curling his hands into heavy fists and rolling his shoulders, he took a menacing step forward. “She’s everything. And you’ve just made a big fucking mistake.”

Instinctively retreating from the undeniable menace Mason presented, Shelbourne took a quick, frightened step back and lifted the knife to direct it toward the greater threat as he yelled, “Stay back.”

But it was too late. The words hadn’t even left his mouth before Katherine—no longer under the blade—ducked beneath his arm and kicked out against the side of his knee. His grip on her arm loosened as he cried out in pain and his leg buckled beneath him.

Mason charged in. Within a second, he had the old man gripped around the throat, lifting him to his toes as he twisted the knife from his grip with his other hand and tossed it across the room.

Glaring into the old man’s grey eyes gone wide with fear and a lack of oxygen, Mason snarled, “I should snap your neck for all you’ve done.”

“Mason.”

Katherine’s soft but stern voice tempered the violence inside him. With a smirk, he drew back his fist and sent it into the man’s gut before allowing him to crumple to the floor, gasping for breath.

Then he turned and, in two long strides, swept Katherine into his arms. Locking one arm around her waist, he cradled the back of her head with his hand, holding her close. She tucked her face against the side of his neck and held him back just as tightly.

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