Page 27

27

Rupert

Ten minutes prior.

Rupert dragged a hand over his face as he stepped through the door of Scythe Tavern on the outskirts of Littlebredy. It was coming on midnight and still no sign of Franny. A part of him wondered—feared—if she had absconded with that man she’d been riding double with earlier in the day. It was part of what kept his gut clenched up inside his throat all night while he searched for her. But the stable boy had said she had turned down East Road, which was in the opposite direction of the tenant farms.

He had scoured the town of Littlebredy’s village, including scaring the innkeeper half to death with his threats. The old man hadn’t been hiding Franny anywhere. And it didn’t appear anyone else in the village was either, though he had left word with the local magistrate to keep an eye out. He couldn’t imagine Franny had somehow managed to get herself taken in by a villager.

Which led him here, to the Scythe Tavern. He stepped around an indeterminable pile of liquid and grimaced—a despicable place he had only visited once before and promptly made the decision he would never again. With good reason. The food was terrible, the drink watered down, and the patrons…Well, they left much to be desired.

He strode through the taproom, scanning quickly with narrowed eyes. According to the stable boy he had interviewed after Mrs. Higgens had alerted him to his wife’s…whatever this was…Franny would be wearing a bicorne hat, a navy coat, and buckskin breeches.

He blew out a breath. He truly didn’t know what he was going to do with her. Throttle her? Most likely. Rail at her? Definitely. Kiss her senseless and then beg on his knees for her to stop being so careless? Unlikely, though, it was very tempting.

Second scan complete, his heart deflated. No sign of Franny. God, where was he going to look next if she wasn’t here? He approached the bar, and the barkeep hurried over.

“How can I help you, mi’lord?”

“I am looking for a woman dressed in men’s clothing. Have you seen any questionable gents here tonight? She has green eyes and delicate features.”

“Now that you mention it, there was a lad in the card room earlier that was rather…pretty you could say. Wearing a bicorne hat that he wouldn’t take off. Though that’s not unusual round ‘ere.”

Rupert’s pulse picked up. “Is this lad you speak of still here?”

“That I’m not sure of, mi’ lord. Last time I checked, he—or she— was.”

“Thank you.”

Rupert tossed a crown on the bar and hastily made his way toward the back door of the taproom. The door he knew led to the card room. He had played cards here once before, a young man thinking to have a reckless night of fun. But after having seen what kind of rabble the tavern drew and their penchant for cheating, he had gallantly accepted his losses, knowing full well he’d never be coming back.

He stepped into the hall. Well, he was back now, wasn’t he? He walked toward the doorway to the card room. He could barely make out two men at the far end of the darkened hall, one hunched over, groaning. Rupert stepped a foot into the card room when one of the men’s words stopped him dead in his tracks.

“The bitch! Arnie better have caught her. Let’s get out there. That wench needs to be taught a lesson.”

His stomach clenched, a part of him pulling back toward the men, the obligation to help the endangered wench tightening his muscles. But Franny first.

He stepped farther into the card room and quickly searched the faces of the players. No sign of a bicorne hat. No sign of Franny. Fuck.

He spun on his heel and rushed from the room. The men were gone. His pulse shot through him so fast it was barely a beat. Please don’t let the wench be Franny.

Rupert headed straight for the exit, pausing when his boot kicked something. He bent down quickly. A bicorne hat. Fucking hell!

He took off at a run.

He threw open the back door and lurched outside. And stumbled to an abrupt stop. In the light of the moon, he could make out three large figures standing around a smaller one on its knees.

Franny.

His heart screamed.

Her head was wrenched back by one of her captor’s grips, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, her chest heaving under her ivory lawn shirt. Another man held her arms secure behind her back, immobilizing her. And the third—

Rupert’s blood flew through him like a lit line of gunpowder. The third man was pulling out his cock right in front of Franny’s face. Rupert went up in flames. Oh, bloody fuck no.

“Now darlin, are you goin’ to be a good wench for me? I don’t have to worry ‘bout you using them teeth of yours, now do I? Perhaps we need a little assurance. To be safe. Bert, I think a knife to her back would be wise,” the man in front of her said.

Those were words of a dead man.

“I would advise you to reconsider whether that is a wise decision,” Rupert said softly. Lethally sharp in how it sliced through the night.

“An’ who in the bloody hell do you think you are?” the man scoffed.

“I am the Marquess of Rutledge.” He cracked his knuckles.

The man snorted. The two other men shifted; the whites of their eyes stark in the moonlight.

“I would suggest you remove your hands from my wife. Immediately.”

“I don’t want no trouble,” one of the men said in a low rasp. He dropped Franny’s arms and stumbled backwards toward the stables.

“You’re saying this chit is a highborn lady? Without a shilling to her name?” He let out a snort. “I’m not buying it. Just trying to steal another man’s fun,” the man in front of Franny said.

He appeared to be the leader. And the one with the smallest brain.

Rupert growled and started forward, his muscles tightening in anticipation. The sandbags in his wine cellar helped take the edge off, but they were a poor imitation of the real thing. A true fight. The cellar bags absorbed the blows, but they didn’t fight back. They didn’t give him the impact of knuckles against flesh, the sharp crack of bone, the draw of blood. Now that was what he needed.

The shorter man behind Franny released her hair, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s not worth the risk, Lionel,” the man murmured.

Franny twisted and shot up, driving her shoulder into the shorter man’s groin. He should have known his girl wouldn’t take her assault lying down.

Rupert was moving before his brain registered his actions. He lunged for the man who had exposed himself to Franny. They slammed into the ground, the man breaking the fall for Rupert. His left hand instantly went to the man’s throat, his other pulling back, then crashing into the man’s face. The smack of flesh on flesh rang through the night. Rupert growled, adrenaline careening through his veins. There was nothing more satisfying than smashing a man’s face, of a battle well fought.

The man threw his own punch, snapping Rupert’s head back, but Rupert shook it off. He didn’t feel pain. He felt nothing but fury, fury erupting from him, coursing through his blood, underneath his skin.

There was only one thing on his mind.

One objective.

Murder.

The scum beneath him thrashed and bucked, forcing them into a roll, and Rupert found himself trapped beneath the man. Hand still at his assailant’s throat, Rupert squeezed. The man’s hands pulled frantically at Rupert’s, but Rupert’s grip was unbreakable. He wouldn’t be letting go.

Choked gasps filled the night air, and then the sharp grit of gravel and dirt scraped across Rupert’s face, whatever debris the man had picked up off the ground embedding in Rupert’s skin.

He let out a roar and whipped his head forward, smashing it into the man’s face. A sharp crack rent the air. The man screamed, falling off Rupert and gripping his face. Rupert grinned, a dark chuckle escaping him. Busted the cove’s bloody nose.

Rupert stood, the man’s groan echoing through the still night air, mingling with the sound of heavy exhalations and scuffling. Rupert turned, his gaze landing on Franny grappling with her other captor in the dirt. Franny thrashed wildly beneath her weighty assailant. Who was about to be fed his ballocks for dinner.

Rupert strode over to them and leaned down. He wrapped his hand around the man’s throat. Squeezed. And lifted. The man choked, his shocked exhalation a mere gurgle.

Rupert cocked his head. “Tsk, Tsk. I said to remove your hands from my wife.”

The man’s face began to darken. Probably purpling from lack of oxygen, Rupert mused, though he couldn’t be sure in the dark of the night. The man opened and closed his mouth, but nothing more than a gagging rasp escaped.

Rupert grabbed the man’s shirt with his free hand and heaved him backwards. The scum fell flat on his fat arse, his head following with a hard smack on the ground. The man lay motionless. Excellent.

Chest heaving, Rupert turned to see the other assailant stirring. Rupert advanced on the man. Apparently, the first beating wasn’t enough for the blackguard.

“You dare to expose yourself to my wife?” Malice dripped from his voice, and he pulled his blade from his pocket. “Considering what you had planned for her, let’s see what you think of having your ballocks shoved down your throat.”

A gentle hand settled on his forearm, and he paused. He stared at the pale hand softly curved over the sleeve of his black coat. He caught Franny’s gaze, and the breath halted in his lungs. Emotion roiled in her eyes, darkened and amplified by the night. And all of a sudden, he desperately wanted to storm off with her to a remote cave and prove to them both that they were safe, unharmed. Alive.

“Rupert,” she whispered. “Leave him. Take me home.”

He dipped his chin in a clipped nod. A slight shuffling drew Rupert’s gaze, and a fresh wave of rage flooded his veins as it landed on Franny’s attacker. Walking away was too meager a consequence for what the man had done, for what he had aimed to do. Rupert walked up to the man, and the cad scrambled backward. But he was too slow. Rupert crashed his boot down onto the man’s bent knee. It gave way with a sickening crack, and the man’s piercing scream cut through the night. That would do.

Rupert turned back to Franny, her eyes wide, mouth agape. He bent over, grabbed her waist, and threw her over his shoulder.

“Rupert! This is not what I meant!”

He strode off toward the carriage. Rage still pumped through his veins. He was beyond infuriated with his wife. But he could get used to throwing her over his shoulder.