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“Mr. Winterborne is going to tell him tonight.”
Kathleen looked at her alertly, setting aside the napkin. “What? I thought you said he’d come to apologize.”
“Yes, but after that, he’s going to ask for Devon’s approval of our engagement. If Devon refuses, he’ll tell him that he has no choice but to consent since I’m no longer a virgin.”
“Good God,” Kathleen exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “We have to stop him.”
“Mr. Winterborne may have told him already,” Helen said in dismay.
“He hasn’t yet,” Kathleen said, striding from the room while Helen dashed after her. “If he had, we would hear bellowing and things breaking, and—”
At that moment, an unholy clamor erupted downstairs: swearing, shattering, cracking, rattling, a heavy thud, a violent tumble. The walls of the house vibrated.
“Hang it,” Kathleen muttered, “he’s told him.”
Together the two women rushed downstairs, crossed the entrance hall, and ran full bore to the library. By the time they reached it, the room was already in a shambles, with a small table overturned, books strewn across the floor, and a porcelain vase shattered. Belligerent grunts and muffled curses thickened the air as the two men grappled viciously. Managing to gain traction, Devon shoved Rhys with enough force to slam his back against the wall.
With a hoarse sound, Rhys dropped to all fours.
Crying out in alarm, Helen ran to him as he collapsed slowly to his side.
“Devon,” Kathleen shouted, running into her husband’s path.
“Get out of my way,” Devon snarled, his face dark with bloodlust. He was in a fury, the kind that grew exponentially the more one tried to calm it. His kinswoman had been defiled, and nothing less than murder would suffice. There were only two people on earth who could handle him in this state: his brother West, and Kathleen.
“Leave him be,” Kathleen said, positioning herself between her husband and Rhys. “You’ve hurt him.”
“Not enough.” He moved as if to push by her.
“Devon, no.” Kathleen stubbornly stood her ground. Without realizing it, she slid a hand over her abdomen. Later she would confide to Helen that it had made no sense, the impulse to shield her stomach long before the baby had even begun to show, before she’d even accustomed herself to the idea of it.
However, that small, unconscious action was all it took to disarm Devon completely. His gaze shot to her stomach, and he halted, breathing heavily.
Comprehending her advantage, Kathleen told him promptly, “I shouldn’t be distressed in my condition.”
Devon gave her a glance of mingled rage and protest. “Are you going to use that against me for the next nine months?”
“No, darling, only for the next seven and a half months. After that, I’ll have to find something else to use against you.” Kathleen went to him, hugging herself against his rigid form. As his arms went around her, she slipped a soothing hand over the nape of his neck, coaxing him to relax. “You know I can’t let you murder people before dinner,” she murmured. “It throws the entire household off schedule.”
Rhys was in too much pain to pay attention to the exchange. He remained on his side, half-curled, his healthy bronze complexion bleached of color.
Sitting on the floor beside him, Helen eased his black head into her lap. “Where are you hurt?” she asked anxiously. “Is it your back?”
“Shoulder. Dislocated . . . this morning.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Aye.” Letting go of her skirt fabric, Rhys flexed his fingers experimentally. “It’s all right,” he muttered. Moving stiffly, he began to sit up, and paused with a groan of agony.
Helen moved to help him, wedging herself beneath his good arm. She felt him jolt as she accidentally pressed against a sore place on his side. “It’s more than your shoulder,” she said in worry.
Rhys let out a scraping laugh. “Cariad, I haven’t a single moving part that doesn’t ache.” He struggled to a sitting position and propped his back against the edge of a nearby settee. Closing his eyes, he let out an unsteady breath and tried to accommodate the multitude of pains that assailed him.
“What do you need?” Helen asked urgently. “What can I do?” A few locks of heavy dark hair had tumbled over his forehead, and she stroked them back with tender fingertips.
His lashes lifted, and she found herself staring into hot, black-brown eyes. “You can marry me.”
Smiling in spite of her worry, Helen laid her palm against his lean cheek. “I’ve already said I would.”
Devon, who had come to stand behind her, asked irritably, “What the devil is the matter with you, Winterborne?”
“You slammed him against the wall,” Kathleen pointed out.
“I’ve done worse in the past, and it’s never sent him to the floor.” The two men routinely boxed and trained at a club that taught both pugilism and Savate, a form of combat that had originated on the streets of Paris.
Helen twisted to glance at them as she explained. “Mr. Winterborne’s shoulder was dislocated this morning.”
Devon looked surprised and then furious. “Damn it, why didn’t you say anything?”
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Would it have made a difference?”
“Not after the rubbish you were spouting!”
“What rubbish?” Kathleen asked in an excessively calm tone, stroking her husband’s arm.
“He said that Helen went to visit him yesterday. Alone. And they—” Devon broke off, unwilling to repeat the offensive claim.