Page 20 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Sometimes a bastard lives up to his name. Sometimes he lives down to it. Both experiences are dangerouslythrilling.

B ram paced outside her window. It was nearly midnight. Her window was open, a candle burning brightly inside. He’d watched as one light after another was extinguished—Eleanor’s and the servants’. But Bluebell’s still danced in the breeze.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even be thinking of the easy climb up the ivy to her arms, but he needed to tell her the truth. He needed to confess his sin from a week ago when they were in Hull. He’d taken her virginity—albeit accidentally—and she needed to know that before she accepted any high society marriage proposal.

He had to tell her. He had to risk her bedroom window knowing—once he confessed—that she’d throw him out. Then she’d go on to the life she was meant to lead as the granddaughter of an earl.

A black wall of bitterness rose inside him at that thought. An honorable man—bastard or not—would do this. He would ensure that she tossed him aside so that she could have the life she deserved. And so he stripped off his shoes and climbed.

He’d gone barely three feet when he felt a knife cut across his ribs. Not deep. Barely grazing the skin, though his clothing was ruined. And while he was still processing that, rough hands jerked him down hard. He landed with a thump that rattled his teeth.

“What—”

“Good evenin’, my old friend.”

Jeremy. He’d know that bear of a bastard anywhere, if only by the looming shadow and the man’s foul breath.

Bram blinked several times, pretending to be knocked stupid. It wasn’t hard. He’d been so focused on Bluebell that he’d had no idea Jeremy was there. And then he was pelted with rocks. Very specific rocks. Tiny ones that smarted where they hit his chest and his arms. They only missed his face because he was shielding it behind his battered forearms.

“What are you doing?” he cried. Ow. Ow.

“This ’ere’s my treasure from Lord Linsel,” Jeremy growled. “Rocks. Rocks in a chest meant to ’old gold.”

Right. He’d known back in Hull that things weren’t over, but a certain blond vixen had distracted him so much that he’d clean forgot.

Jeremy ran out of rocks, so Bram lowered his arms. He hoped his expression looked ignorant. “There were rocks in that chest? Rocks?”

The brute stepped into the moonlight, his bloodshot eyes doing more to worry Bram than the welts from the rocks. The man was drunk.

“Where is ’e?”

“Who?” Bram pushed himself upright slowly. If he was going to get a boot in his ribs, he wanted to see it coming. He also wanted to locate the other two brutes who always flanked Jeremy.

“Lord Linsel, ye blighter.” And then he went for the kick.

Bram twisted away from the blow, grabbed hold, and jerked Jeremy forward. The large man was drunk and off balance, so Bram was able to force him sideways while still gaining his feet.

“I don’t know where Dicky is. He took my money too,” he lied. “Then he ran off while I was fixing the damned carriage.” He glared at Jeremy. “That same carriage you tore apart. Probably with your bare hands.”

He hoped that the backward compliment would stave off the man’s fury. It was a touchy thing talking to a drunk. Especially when the man was spoiling for a fight.

“I’m going to tear you apart—” Jeremy growled.

Bram cursed. Jeremy was too pissed to see reason, but perhaps Bram could narrow the odds. He glared into the shadows where the two henchmen lurked. “I got no quarrel with you. Linsel played us all for fools, and I got—”

“Me father was right furious when I gave him that treasure box. Rocks!”

Worse and worse. He’d thought Jeremy would open the box long before London, but he hadn’t. He must have proudly offered it to his father, only to see what was really in there. And Jeremy’s father wasn’t a forgiving man.

“Blame Dicky. I thought there was gold in there, same as you.”

Jeremy had regained his footing and was now raising his fists as he stomped forward. Like the steady creep of a behemoth.

“Where is Linsel?”

“I don’t know! Scotland?”

“I went there. ’E never showed.”

So that’s why he’d had this week’s respite. Jeremy had been up to Scotland and back.

“He sailed for the Colonies, Jeremy. Went up to Scotland and took a boat from the coast.” Well, he’d tried to. “Jeremy, think. Why would I give you a chest full of rocks?”

“Because you ’ave it.”

Bram felt his belly clench with fear. He could hold his own against Jeremy despite their difference in size. But with the two others? His odds were not looking good.

He scanned the alley. Two shadows solidified into Jeremy’s men in one direction. The other way was choked with debris, but he might be able to use it to his advantage. He was tensing to do that when he chanced to look up. A small figure in breeches was climbing down the wall. Bluebell. And she was carrying something long and badly wrapped in cloth.

Idiot woman!

He couldn’t run now. Not with her about to drop into the fray.

“Jeremy, the blighter didn’t pay me either. Took off to America, and I haven’t a bloody clue where they are!”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I think?”

Not a lot and not well.

“I’m dying to know.” Probably not the best choice of words, but his mind was split between Jeremy, his thugs, and Bluebell as she dropped silently onto the ground.

“That’s just it. Dying. I think they tried to run off, but I think you caught ’em.”

“I was stuck with the bloody carriage and no horse.”

“You’ve done more with less,” Jeremy said as he cracked his knuckles. Oh shit. He always did that before a fight.

“Exaggeration. Some of it outright lies. I haven’t done half of what they say—”

“Half is enough.” Jeremy took a slow, halfhearted swing. It was a testing blow to see how Bram reacted. The man might be drunk, but he still knew how to fight. “I want me father’s money.”

“I don’t have it. Dicky does.”

“Dicky’s dead.”

“What?” A shot of panic went through him. “How would you know that?” Such was his distraction—trying to watch Bluebell without actually looking at her—that he was being stupid. It was a thoughtless response, not meant to imply anything, but suddenly, Jeremy was grinning.

“I knew it. You killed him.”

“Are you daft?” Bram asked.

“You just said it. You said he was dead. How did I know it? I know ’cause you said it.” Jeremy advanced slowly. “’Cause you did it. He tried to run off with yer money.”

“I didn’t kill Dicky! Bloody hell, we were friends.”

“So were you and me.”

Of all the times for Jeremy to use logic.

Jeremy punched. It was quick on the left, then faster on the right. Bram evaded both swings, but he was being maneuvered around. Before long, he’d be in the center of the three men.

Normally he wouldn’t have allowed it. He would already be down the alley in the other direction. He was faster than any of these blighters. But not with Bluebell gripping—

A bed warmer? Part of him was impressed that she’d made it down the wall while keeping that quiet. The other part was thinking that she was absolutely, completely insane.

He had to make a show of it. Now. Before Bluebell got any crazy ideas.

“Don’t do this, Jeremy. If I killed them, I can kill you.” He pulled a knife from his hip. He had another strapped to his other side for emergencies. But only emergencies because his left was better at punching. Or grabbing. Or anything else except wielding a knife with skill.

“I want me money!” Jeremy bellowed and rammed forward.

Bram sidestepped and slammed his fist into Jeremy’s jaw, whipping the man’s head around. The lug stumbled but recovered quickly and Bram’s hand ached. Damn, the bastard’s head was like granite.

Meanwhile, Bluebell was raising the warmer, preparing to strike.

“I’ll get you the money,” Bram tried desperately. “Whatever you need. I’ll get it. Just go.”

That was enough to make the other two pause, but not Jeremy. He either knew Bram was bluffing or didn’t care. He drew a knife longer and deadlier than Bram’s and attacked.

Bram leaped backward, avoiding the flashing blade, but he couldn’t go far. Not with a brick wall to his back and rubbish fouling his footing. Jeremy swung again, and Bram countered.

Quick swipes, quicker footwork. Anything to keep the man dancing as Bram drew the fray away from Bluebell. Maybe she would be smart. Maybe she would wait until Bram took care of Jeremy before revealing herself. Maybe—

Clang.

He heard the impact of the bed warmer on someone’s head. So did Jeremy, and he swung around to look.

Fortunately, Bram already knew what was going on, so he wasted no time. If he could subdue Jeremy, maybe the others would run. They hadn’t been aggressive so far.

First punch was to the knife hand, and Jeremy’s weapon went skittering away. Then he followed up with blow after blow, while he held off sticking him with the knife. Even with Bluebell on the line, he was loath to make anyone bleed. If he could knock Jeremy unconscious—

The brute came back at him tenfold. For such a big man, he was quick with his fists.

Clang. Clatter.

“Eeep!”

That cut-off cry set him off. No more holding back. He rushed at Jeremy with a vengeance, knife and fist working hard. He got a few good cuts in, but nothing deep. Damn it, he’d only slowed the bastard down.

“I got ’er! I got ’er!”

Bram slammed a hard blow to Jeremy’s face. He was desperate to end this, but it wasn’t enough. And the pause, as Jeremy stumbled backward, gave the idiot enough time to hear his henchman.

Jeremy straightened, one meaty fist rubbing his jaw as he peered down the alley. Bram was already looking. At least Bluebell had gotten one of them good. One henchman was on his hands and knees, shaking his head, clearly dazed. But the other had his arm wrapped around Bluebell’s throat.

She was struggling, but the more she fought, the tighter the hold on her throat. Much more and she would be dead.

“I got ’er!” the man said again, as he wrenched his arm tight.

That ended the struggle and made Bram’s vision run red. “Let her go,” he said softly. “That’s the Earl of Cavener’s granddaughter. You want him angry at you?”

“That’s no granddaughter. That’s the chippy from Hull,” said Jeremy. “Wot you doing all the way down ’ere? And with ’im?”

Bluebell didn’t have the breath to speak, but she was a master at making her opinion known. Even without breath, she screwed up her face and spat straight at Jeremy. Which was the wrong thing to do.

The bastard raised his fist, ready to subdue her. Bram didn’t hesitate. He simply drew from his hip and threw.

Thunk.

The knife sunk deep in Jeremy’s back. A kidney shot. Hell.

Jeremy roared and reached behind him, whirling around. Bram didn’t stop. He punched the man as hard as he could.

Jeremy stumbled but didn’t go down. If he’d headed for Bluebell, Bram would have killed him. But he didn’t. He stumbled past the man on his knees and headed away, blood rapidly darkening his shirt and coat.

Bloody hell. That was a lot of blood.

The third man—the one holding Bluebell—watched with terrified eyes as Bram adjusted his grip on the other knife. “It’s a close thing with you hiding behind her,” he said menacingly. “But I’m good with my knife. Or you can let her go, take your other man, and run.”

“Naw. Naw, I won’t—”

Bluebell twisted. Apparently, he’d loosened his hold enough that she could jerk her elbow back hard. She got him under the rib cage, and Bram heard the man’s breath explode out while she slithered down, right out of his hold.

Clear target. Open chest as he—

Bram held back throwing his knife. The man turned and ran. The one on his knees was a split second behind him.

Gone. They were gone.

And then she was in his arms.

“Are you all right?” she was asking. “Did he hurt you? Bram, talk to me.” She grabbed his face, turning him to stare at her and not down the alleyway. “Where are you hurt?”

“My jaw,” he muttered. “Right where you’re pressing.”

“Oh!” She jerked her hand back, but he had already wrapped his arms around her. He was holding her tight, smelling her cranesbill scent, and feeling the solid—alive—weight of her against him.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” he said into her hair.

“That you were outnumbered,” she said.

“I could have run. If you weren’t here, I would have—”

“And they would have chased you. And I wouldn’t have known how to follow. I was too far away. I couldn’t help.”

“You should have helped by staying safe. By staying away.”

“No. Never. I won’t.”

“Bluebell,” he groaned. Then he kissed her. He pressed his lips to hers, and thrust his tongue inside. He plundered her mouth, her sweetness, her everything, as she wrapped herself around him, gripping his shoulders tight. He loved every second of it. Every heavy weight, every gasping moan, every heaving second as they separated to breathe.

“Are you ’urt?” she said against his neck. “Tell me.”

“Hurt,” he corrected, emphasizing the h . “I’m fine.”

“He hit you pretty hard.”

He gestured weakly to the dented bed warmer. “So did you.”

She looked at the bed warmer that was now rubbish. “It was his head that was hard.” Then she smoothed her hand over his jaw, her touch both painful and infinitely sweet.

“Why were they here? What did they want?”

“They think I have Dicky’s money.”

She spat out a curse. “Not too smart, are they?”

He shrugged. “Jeremy has his own form of logic. He was embarrassed in front of his father and wanted someone to take it out on.”

“But why you?”

“Why not me? I tricked him. And he thought…” He swallowed.

“He thought you’d killed Dicky and taken their money.”

“Yes.” It wasn’t often that his reputation worked against him, but when it did, it was very bad.

“Bram,” she said softly. “How many men have you killed?”

He closed his eyes, the sight of Jeremy’s bloody coat stark in his mind. “One,” he rasped. “Tonight. Jeremy.”

“Jeremy? But…but he ran away.”

“He’ll never survive that.”

“And there’s never been anyone else, has there? What about the French spy?”

“I thought she was a house burglar until Mr. Wulfson came home. He’s the one who sent for the Home Office.”

“And the bear at the county fair?”

“When I was twelve? It was a bad-tempered dog—”

“That’s dangerous!”

“It was my dog.”

“Oh. So you didn’t save any children carrying puppies?”

He shook his head. “Who told you that?”

“Everyone! Eleanor especially has a love of the tales, but her maid did too. And Seelye relayed a few. And—”

He pressed his hands to her lips. “Exaggerations. Some lies. I’ve never…Bluebell, I threaten. I intimidate. I’ve never killed.” Before today. Before Jeremy threatened her.

“That’s what I thought,” she said softly. Then she shivered.

“You’re cold,” he said. “And wherever did you get these clothes?”

“They’re mine from home. You don’t think I worked the garden every day in a skirt.”

“But why—”

“I told you. You climb the wall by midnight, or I come looking for you.”

He chuckled. Of course she did. And she was a woman of her word. “I have to talk to you. I have something I must tell you.”

“I do too, but not out here. Not in the rubbish and the cold.” She took his hand and led him to the ivy. Then with a wink, she began to climb.

“Wait!” he said, holding her arm. “You can’t mean to climb back up.”

“I won’t risk waking the servants. What I have to say is not for their ears. Besides, I don’t know where the servant entrance is.”

“It’s right over there,” he said, pointing. But she was right. It was likely locked and…

And she was already halfway up the wall. Bloody hell, she was a talented woman. And barefoot, he noted. She’d come down barefoot, cudgeled a brute with a bed warmer, and kissed Bram senseless.

What else could he do but climb after her?