Page 5 of The Duke’s Man-At-Arms (The Duke’s Guard #11)

M ichaela paused with a spoonful of tea-soaked bread halfway to her lips and stared at Garahan and the captain. She nodded, pleased that Garahan seemed to have mastered his balance while wearing an eyepatch since the last time she saw him. When her eyes met the captain’s she could not explain her reaction to a man she had never met before. She sensed his steely determination, but it was the innate sense of power radiating off him that had her worrying somehow he knew who had held her against her will and was here to confirm his suspicions. Fear—fear that if the lord’s name were revealed, her father would fall out of favor with the capricious ton and lose his livelihood—washed over her. He would know of her activities through the men of his guard and Gavin King of Bow Street. What else could the Duke of Wyndmere’s London man-of-affairs need to speak with her about?

Lost in the vortex of fear twined with worry, she did not realize her hands were trembling until the warm, callused hand cupped hers, steadying the bowl before it could shake out of her grasp. When she was steady, Emmett O’Malley released her hand and turned to face the captain. “Not now, Coventry. The lass has been badly injured—two broken ribs and a hard blow to the head.”

She felt the intensity of the captain’s gaze, but could not seem to pry her eyes from the unspoken promise in Emmett’s angry green eyes. Was O’Malley offering more than trust? She wished she had the courage to ask him. O’Malley was a man she had come to admire for his ability to heal, his compassion for those in need. She remembered the helpless look in his eyes when the two little poppets he’d carried to safety refused to let go of him when he tried to put them down. If those two little girls could trust him after being locked away in that vile boarding house for a purpose no little one should ever have to face, then she could too. For the first time in far too long to recall, Michaela was willing to share her heavy burden…and mayhap her dark secret.

The captain’s frown was fierce. “Are you challenging me, O’Malley?”

“Ye always were quick to catch on, Coventry.”

Garahan snorted with laughter. “Well now, it seems that me cousin has complimented ye, captain. What do ye say to that?”

“Bloody hell!”

“Gordon! Emma can hear you!”

Michaela watched, fascinated by the scolding tone Miranda used speaking to her husband, and the byplay between the duke’s men and the captain. Unsure if she should speak now or wait for the men to stop challenging one another, she decided to wait. It was difficult to tell whether they did so in jest. The last thing she wanted to do was get in the middle of an argument between these three formidable men.

Captain Coventry ignored everyone and turned to stare at her. Distinctly uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she stared at her lap. She didn’t see O’Malley move, but felt the heat pouring off his back when he became her shield, stepping between her and the captain. “Ye can address yer concerns to Miss Michaela through me.”

“May I?” Coventry drawled.

“Aye. I am her sworn protector. I will track down the man who kidnapped her, bound her hands behind her back, gagged her, broke her ribs, and left her locked in a room in a derelict warehouse with rats scurrying in and out of a hole in the wall.”

“Do you plan to be more than her protector, O’Malley?” Coventry asked.

O’Malley ignored the question and turned to Garahan. “Do ye have room for the lass while she recovers?”

Garahan nodded. “Of course. Aimee and I would do anything for ye, Miss Michaela.”

“You do not need to leave,” Miranda protested. “Emma can stay in our room, or if my husband continues to be rude, he can spend the night upstairs in his office and you will have Emma and me for company.”

Michaela dared a glance at the captain, whose mouth hung open, and then at Miranda, who was smiling.

“Despite my husband’s rude behavior just now, know that he only has your best interests in mind, Michaela.”

“Ye know he wants to batter the lass with one question after another,” O’Malley muttered. “Until he extracts every last bit he thinks she knows, but doesn’t realize she remembers.”

“If I do not ask questions, how do you expect me to uncover the answers?” Coventry demanded.

O’Malley crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at the captain. “If it were Miranda in this situation, what would ye do? Allow her to rest and recover for a few hours, or drag her through her ordeal all over again by asking pointed questions?”

Coventry took a menacing step closer to O’Malley, and Michaela’s heart began to pound. From what she’d heard about the captain, he was not a man to underestimate. He had been instrumental in uncovering vital information concerning some of the women Michaela had helped to rescue, ensuring they would not fall to another predator. London had far too many of those.

The captain locked gazes with his wife as he replied, “I would protect Miranda at all costs. She is my life.”

“I intend to convince Michaela that I feel the same for her.”

The breath whooshed out of Michaela’s lungs at O’Malley’s statement. Her hope rekindled. Did he mean that? Could he care for her in that way? They’d only met a few times, and each time they were tending to others and barely conversed.

Black dots swam before her eyes… She needed air! On the brink of losing consciousness, she found herself plucked off the settee and held firmly against a rock-hard chest. His scent was familiar, though his whispered words were not.

“Close yer mouth and inhale through yer nose, lass. That’s the way. Nay,” he warned when she found herself struggling, unable to do as he suggested. “Ye can breathe. Look into me eyes, now. Aye, see me. Hear me words. Trust me, Michaela. Ye’re safe now. Trust me, lass.”

A feeling of wonderment washed over her, knowing that she was truly safe in Emmett O’Malley’s arms. She’d had the protection of Cameron first, then Greenwood. Both men had been recommended by Gavin King, and both she’d trusted to guard the women who found their way to her door, and those she had found in their time of need. But she had never fully put herself under anyone’s protection.

O’Malley was different. The way she felt in his presence was different. It was the soul-deep knowledge that he would guard her with his life. Cut off his hand before he would raise it to her. What worried her was the possibility he would not want her once he found out what had happened to her before she became known as the angel of the streets. A warrior and protector as noble as the duke’s man-at-arms would never choose a woman with such a dark past—a secret she would take to the grave, because if she did not, her father’s life would be ruined. She could not do that to Papa.

“Much better, lass.” O’Malley tilted her chin up so she could once more stare into the brilliant green of his expressive eyes. Anger was replaced by concern and a hint of something she had never seen before. She blinked, but the emotion in the depths of his eyes remained. He cared deeply for her and meant every word he said to the captain. Emmett the healer planned to convince her that she would be his wife.

Could she let him into her heart? Had the tenuous bond between them solidified to the point where she could willingly open her heart to the possibility that a man truly cared for her? Could she take the chance that he would not spurn her?

God, she was so tired of walking that fine line between the quiet daughter of one of the ton ’s favored physicians, and the stews of London where she spent her nights, helping young women regain that fragile emotion that had deserted her ten years ago… Hope. If she put her heart on the line, and took a chance that Emmet would not scorn her, nor trample her pride and her heart, would she regain a tiny part of herself that she kept under lock and key?

Tears welled up and spilled over.

“ Mo chroí ,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her brow. “’Tis all right to cry.”

She bit her lip to stem the tears too close to the surface to hold back for long. Desperately afraid to give in to them, she had held them back for so long…ever since that night in the garden. She feared once she started that she may not be able to stop.

“Ah, lass. If ye’ve been storing up yer tears, then have a good cry. Ma always says two things are cleansing: fire and tears. Trust that I won’t let go until ye’ve run dry, mo ghrá .”

When he tucked her head beneath his chin, hiding her face from the others, she wished she had the courage to do as O’Malley’s mum said, but she just couldn’t. Though she sensed that she was secure in his arms, and she believed he would keep his word, she could not bring herself to give in to the weakness of tears.

*

O’Malley cradled her head in his hand, mindful of her injury, and felt three sets of eyes on him. He sensed the lass would not unburden her soul with an audience. Not wanting her to hear him ask for privacy, he gave a nod toward Michaela’s head, which he hoped his cousin would understand. Garahan’s frown wasn’t what he’d hoped to see.

Aimee walked toward the sitting area from Emma’s bedroom and moved to stand beside her husband. Her questioning gaze quickly changed to one of understanding. “Darby, don’t you and the captain have plans to go over with Masterson?”

Miranda urged her husband, “Aimee and I will be here to chaperone Miss Michaela until you return. O’Malley can guard us.”

“He can’t take his eyes off Michaela for one moment—how in the bloody hell can he protect you?” the captain thundered. Emma’s wail echoed from her bedchamber, earning Coventry a fierce frown from his wife before she rushed to comfort their daughter. He left the room with Garahan in his wake a moment later.

Aimee stared at O’Malley until he felt the need to ask, “What?”

“I’m going to brew more tea and see about reheating the stew Miranda made earlier. While I’m doing that, why don’t you let Michaela rest on the settee? See if you can convince her to let go of her ferocious need to hold back her tears.”

He appreciated the interference. “Thank ye, Aimee.”

She smiled and hurried over to the other side of the large apartment. When he heard her bustling about the kitchen, O’Malley asked Michaela, “Would you like to lie down?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “I could sit and hold ye.”

Her gaze met his. “Please.”

Warmth spread through him, squeezing his heart. Didn’t the lass realize that she needed him for more than protection? Careful not to jostle her, he sat with her cradled against him. “Shall I tell ye about me parents’ farm back home?”

He felt her head move up and down and took it to mean she did. Pitching his voice low, he began to tell her about the house his great-great-grandparents built, their milk cow—they only ever had one—sheep, and chickens. Gradually she relaxed in his arms, and he heard a soft hiccup. Her hot tears soaked through three layers of fabric, dampening his chest. The overwhelming need to carry her away from Coventry’s building on his gelding, not stopping until they reached his quarters at the duke’s town house on Grosvenor Square, was foreign to him. He had bedded his share of willing women, but never in his quarters, and not one of them had ever tempted him to wrap his arms around her to shelter her, protect her, give his life for her, until this moment. This woman.

Had his three brothers felt the same about the women they rescued and fell in love with?

She burrowed closer, and he dropped his chin to the top of her head. “That’s it, lass. Let it all go. I’ve got ye.”