Page 7 of Lie Down With a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den)

D áire stood on the side street in full view of the porch of the small church in St. Pancras.

To clog the street, he had hired a hack to idle on the opposite side of the entrance to the church. He stood to one side of his own carriage. Both coachmen were experienced getaway men. One had made his reputation at age ten as a marquess’s tiger who often took the reins. The other had brought his own horses to this event.

Dáire glanced at his watch fob. No word came from Abbott yet. As for Blanche, she was five minutes late. He pulled at his cap, a signal to all that time flew past. Once more, he surveyed the other carriages that moved along the street. A lorry full of chopped wood headed for the alley behind the church. A lone rider stopped to talk to a lady and her maid beyond the street. Dáire didn’t recognize him. But the man didn’t appear to be one of Rivers’s. Dáire prided himself on knowing by face every man who worked for the gang leader. At last count, Rivers had twenty-two men. More than Dáire employed. But then, Rivers had his fingers in every sordid deal known to man.

A hired coach pulled to the front of the church and stopped.

Across the street, a young man ran to the corner, stopped, and tipped his cap at Dáire. The fellow nodded. So this coach was Blanche’s.

Wisely, she had decided to hire a public conveyance. Prettier and cleaner than most, it appeared to be from Dáire’s vantage point.

He grimaced, still waiting for Abbott to show up. Getting a man out of his bed before noon was always a trial. But if Abbott did not show, Dáire had a bigger problem. He had no substitute for whomever Rivers had appointed to marry his daughter.

The driver of her carriage climbed down from the box and opened the door, and Blanche appeared. Her lips were drawn tight against her teeth.

Afraid, my darling? I don’t blame you. If you knew what you walked into, you’d run.

She clutched a small bouquet of flowers and idly fixed her skirts. She was a vision in an iridescent pale-blue gown and long white gloves, wearing a tenuous smile. My darling, you do this so alone. Not even a maid.

Whatever her emotions, she put her chin up, lifted her skirts to avoid a puddle, and strode toward the church. From the look on her face, she did not know that her father had kidnapped her bridegroom. Nor that there were so many men guarding her. Dáire snorted. If they all took each other’s scent, the fight would be a melee.

Another carriage took the corner at a screaming turn. Everyone paused to notice. If it had not stopped when it did, a huge crush of people, horses, children, and dogs would have filled the street.

Blanche jumped back.

And out of the open door of the racing carriage came a man of tall height and heavily lashed black eyes.

Jack Winthrop. Born on the wrong side of the blanket to an earl of ill repute, Winthrop was a handsome devil. Known to seduce a lady out of her skirts or a man out of his pocket money with a kiss or a smile, he was the worst possible choice of bridegroom. The man was in league with Blanche’s father. Had been for years. In fact, Winthrop ran Rivers’s racing bets.

Abbott had not shown. But Winthrop would never wed her. Rivers and Winthrop were not getting what they wanted today!

No, by God.

Blanche Rivers is mine!

Dáire pulled his cravat up over the tip of his nose. He lifted his right hand, and his man on the church porch knew he would take off after her.

But Winthrop was there first. Grabbing at her arm.

Damn him!

She yelped.

Winthrop seized her around the waist.

She screamed.

Hell.

Pedestrians gasped.

But Winthrop clamped a hand to her mouth to muzzle her.

Dáire flinched. He’d warned all his men so hastily assigned to this watch this morning that whatever happened, the lady was to remain unscathed. All were to treat her gently.

Blanche, however, knew only feral despair. She writhed and kicked at her attacker.

Winthrop screamed and snatched his hand away. It was bleeding.

She’d bitten him!

Dáire got to Winthrop. Pulled at his shoulders. Yanked at his arms…and pulled him off her.

She whirled for the door of the church, but with a punch to Winthrop’s chin, Dáire downed him. One of his men was upon Winthrop, and the man howled at his captors.

Dáire caught a recoiling Blanche. One arm around her breasts, one around her hips, he pressed her to him.

She squirmed and kicked backward. “Get away! Away!”

Dáire did the only thing he could: he ripped his cravat off his neck and stuffed it in her mouth—and threw her over his shoulder.

She fought him like a banshee. Writhing, hitting his back, she gave him such grief he lost his breath—and nearly lost his grip.

But he made it to the coach. His man had the door open. He nodded. A quick glance told him others had abandoned the street—and the chaos. His guards at the ends of all three streets had done their work. The way was clear.

Dáire shoved her inside to the squabs and followed. She squirmed around him to claw at the handle to the door, but he bound her to him.

The coachman lashed the reins, and off they charged down the cobbles. With the sudden movement and the speed, she toppled to the floor.

He caught her, then held both her wrists, her heaving body flush to his. He fought to keep his voice soothing. “Listen to me, Blanche.”

At his use of her name, she paused, groaned behind the cravat, and twisted. Then, for perhaps the first time, she recognized who held her. She froze and frowned at him. She tried to push out the scarf from her mouth but failed and growled in frustration. “Mou? Adibobo!”

He shook his head at her gibberish, to which she elbowed him in the stomach. Well, that hurt. He seized her shoulders. “Blanche, stop.”

She shook her head side to side so forcefully that he had to jerk back before she broke his nose.

“Blanche!”

“Undunme!”

He winced. “I cannot let you go.”

“Mundidisdinel.”

Whatever that meant, he had to ignore it. “You must listen to me.”

“Mo! Aman wanto murry ma.”

“Mr. Mercer was not waiting at the altar.”

She froze. “Wha?”

Dáire would get the truth out quickly. “I know Mr. Mercer was supposed to marry you, but you see that is not the case.”

“Mo? Mo?”

“No.”

Her whole body went still in his embrace. It was heaven to hold her, hell to have her in the circumstances.

“Misder murder didn wan ma?”

“He did. Oh, he did. But this morning, he was abducted by your father’s men.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Why?”

“I think you know why.”

She froze. “Hou do mou kno ths?”

He winced. “I know because I had men watching Mercer.”

She blinked hard. “An me?”

He nodded.

She pummeled his chest. “Le me go!”

“I can’t let you go, Blanche. We do not know who is out there with the man your father wanted to marry you to.”

She scowled.

“That one who attempted to catch you. He’s a nasty piece.”

She either didn’t believe him or didn’t want to. “Mou throwl-mouth mig!”

Even with the rag jammed in her mouth, he understood her colorful curse. He glanced out—they were far from the little church by now.

“Look, I’m going to take this scarf away.” He tugged on it.

She pushed more with her long pink tongue. “Blahhh.”

“Here, give it to me.”

As soon as it was out—and out the window—she was after him with a torrent of insults. “Of all the scoundrels! Outrageous cad! Who do you think you are to kidnap me from my wedding?”

He took his hands from her, sat back, and gave her as sheepish a look as he could muster in the circumstances. He had to calm her down to listen to the full explanation. But his physical retreat did not assuage her anger. Instead, he crossed his arms and let her have a royal time denouncing him.

“What is the matter with you?” she barked, flailing her arms in her rage. “Why are you here? Why do you say Mr. Mercer is not at the altar? My father doesn’t know I’m to marry. And Mercer is a good man. He is! He promised. He is reliable. Mrs. Dove-Lyon says he is reliable. And I…I had it from my man of investigations that he was good.” She took a breath. “Why are you here ruining this for me?”

“It’s not what I wanted.”

She harrumphed and crossed her arms. In the lovely crepe gown, her breasts rounded.

His desire went straight to his groin. Not what was needed here, certainly. “Let me explain.” Then he reached for her, which was the wrong thing to do.

Blanche squirmed away from him. “Get off me!”

Dáire complied, hands up in the air.

She could smell him. The mellow mix of rosemary soap and sandalwood cologne. No man ever smelled so good.

She flinched. Held in Mr. Dillon’s arms—more like imprisoned —she felt the contours of that huge, muscular body she had so admired and had touched only once before in that blissful kiss.

What was he doing here? Taking her away from her wedding. Yes, but…why?

If he had wanted her, would he not have wooed her or at the very least asked her to marry him? She’d told him everything. Why she wished to marry. How she had decided to go about it. Yes, she’d told him all of that. Well, almost all, except who her father was.

And now, did it seem that he’d always known who her father was? By reputation, if not in person.

She tried to apply more logic to his actions. Stealing her away like a common criminal. Abducting her…from a man whom, supposedly, her father had substituted for Mercer. Had he been paid by her father to abduct her? Was that to make her pay for having the audacity to marry without her father’s approval?

That would mean she must fear Mr. Dillon. In his presence, the emotions she felt from her toes to her lips burned with a desire she could not douse.

I object to his insolence to carry me away. But I don’t fear him.

Not before.

Not now.

She slowly turned and met his calm gaze with one of her own. “Have you a flask in that hamper?”