Page 86 of Tender Blackguard

“You’re hurt.” His words were tight and hoarse with fear as he grasped her shoulders in a hard grip, his gaze intently searching for the source of the blood. It took a moment to realize she was shaking her head.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he argued fiercely, still trying to find the wound.

“The blood is yours.”

As soon as she uttered the words, he noticed the garish red stain soaking his sleeve. Her knife must have gotten him when he’d shoved her to the floor to protect her from Lowndes. The sight and smell of the blood suddenly caused his stomach to give a sickening twist, and he clenched his teeth against the rush of lights behind his eyes.

Somewhere in the queasy swirl of his mind, he noted how odd it was that the reaction hadn’t been triggered when he’d thought it was her blood.

Then he felt her hands framing his face and he forced himself to meet her gaze. Deep and strong and steady. “Alastair, we have to leave.”

Alarm flashed through him at the tone of her voice, and he glanced about to see that the flames from the bin had gained momentum and had spread across the carpet to the drapes covering the window. The room would be fully ablaze in moments.

His debilitating dizziness was immediately swept away by the greater concern. Lifting Lowndes from the floor, he tossed the unconscious man over his shoulder then rushed after Lark as she led them from building.

Chapter Twenty-nine

After turning Lowndes over to the magistrate’s men, they learned that all of the gentlemen present had been taken in for questioning. The magistrate had also given instructions for the marquess to be escorted directly to his office in order to provide his statement on the whole ordeal.

Before Lark even knew what was happening or had a chance to voice her preference to remain with him, Alastair arranged for her to be taken back to Warfield House by the Turners.

Noting her reluctance to leave, Dell explained that such things could sometimes take several hours to conclude, and with so many people involved, the marquess wasn’t likely to be finished any time soon. He suggested she’d be better off returning home to gain some rest in case something was needed of her later. Though she would have preferred to stay with the marquess, once she’d given her own statement on the events of the evening, there was no further reason for her to remain.

Portia Turner was thrilled to hear of the effectiveness of her specially designed gown, and she insisted Lark keep the fitted breeches, noting they were quite handy for a variety of activities. Lark accepted though she struggled to imagine how she might use them as a housekeeper.

Dawn was not far away by the time she slipped quietly through the servants’ entrance of Warfield House. She made it safely to her rooms without encountering anyone. It was only a few hours before she’d have to start her day, and though she had no true expectations of getting any sleep, she dressed in her nightclothes after washing away the residue of the night’s ordeal. Then she curled up in one of her armchairs before the fire and listened for the marquess’s return.

She considered waiting in his bedchamber but decided against it.

The goal he’d been working so intently toward had finally been accomplished. And though he no doubt felt significant satisfaction in seeing the brotherhood finally brought to justice, there had been a shadow of discontent in his eyes that had worried her.

More than anything, she hoped he’d finally claim the right to his own happiness.

And she wanted desperately to be a part of it. To show him that he deserved more than what his painful past had given him. That there was no need for any more doubt or fear or resistance between them. That she’d never regret the time they had together, and if he’d have her, she’d remain with him and love him in all the ways she knew how.

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