Page 73 of The Heart of an Earl

Des lifted his foot and kicked off the man attacking him from the front. “We’re not doing so well, Cap.”

Des didn’t have to yell the words. Roe knew. He just needed someone to say it out loud.

“Fuck.” Roe searched the carnage about them.

“Aye.” Des lunged with a heavy swing, his blade connecting with the stomach of the man in front of him. He looked to Roe. “You okay, Cap?”

His jaw setting hard, Roe nodded.

“What are you thinking?” Des jumped to the side to avoid a dagger swinging at his ear.

“I’m thinking I will do what needs to be done.”

“Roe, what’s that mean?” Des stilled, looking at him square, be damned the swords coming at his body.

Roe looked at Des. “Bockton wants me—let him have me and then you need to cut the rest of the crew off. Retreat.”

“We’re not about to do that, Cap.”

“Do it.” Roe didn’t even look at Des as he ordered it, his glare centered on the line of men protecting the warehouse opening.

Des spun to his right to slam his fist into a man lunging at him with a dagger. When he turned back, Captain Roe was gone.

Des searched the flailing bodies.

Seconds—precious seconds before he spotted him.

Roe was at the line of Bockton men still protecting the opening to the warehouse. A fist slammed into Roe’s face, then another. Des started to work his way through the melee to his captain.

Just as the hilt of a cutlass cracked down hard across Roe’s temple, a roar came from the dock that joined the lane in front of the warehouse.

A band of men—thirty deep—appearing from the dark shadow of the pier, rushing into the melee.

Heaven above, let them be with us.

If not, they were about to be crushed, each and every one of them.

An elbow slammed against Des’s jaw, sending him to his knees.

Into the muck of the street, he managed to spin around in time to see the men from the pier scattering into the battle.

There—that one. Logan.

Logan—Roe’s brother whom Des had met a year ago—was the first to clash steel against steel. Just behind him, what looked to be ten of the fiercest Scotsmen he’d ever laid eyes on were already in the scrub of the battle. The Scots would only be here on request of dear Lady Apton.

They were here to help.

Des jumped to his feet, the weariness in his battered body dissolving. Death would not be his today. Now it was his job to see as many of his men survived as possible.

Renewed fury exploded in his veins and he attacked the closest cutthroat. A blocked swing to the man’s neck and then Des sank a surprise dagger into his gut.

Yanking his blades free as the man dropped in front of him, Des moved onto the next. And the next. Blood splattering, blurring his vision. He kept swinging until his back hit an immovable rock the same size as him.

He spun, his cutlass high in attack before the man could react.

His steel froze in the air an inch from the man’s neck.

The man didn’t react as quickly, his blade stopping only after it had made contact on Des’s neck, drawing blood. Deep, but not too deep.

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