Page 14 of The Rake’s Absolutely Devilish Reform (The Notorious Briarwoods #4)

H ector headed out from Hartigan Mulvaney’s rough building, having avoided being beaten to a pulp. Oh, he’d been thrown down a few good times, but he’d also learned a few new maneuvers to take down any comers who wished to tangle with him.

Yes, his body was strong, and he’d managed to work off a bit of the pain that was coursing through his muscles and through his soul.

He strode into the night, eager to go and meet his brothers at the Bee and Clover Pub near Southwark Cathedral and vent his frustration about Lord Fitzhubert, misguided duty, and society in general.

He made his way across the puddle-covered street. He was exceedingly familiar with Southwark. It was a dangerous but alive place. The place was a warren of writers, artists, conmen, and ladies on the game.

It was dangerous, but not generally for men like him. Men like him who had been coming for years and knew their way about. Also, lords did not generally get attacked in such places. The repercussions for attacking a lord were so vast that the criminals avoided anything but a few cut purses.

He thought of France and how it was all coming to an end there. And, of course, he thought of his brother, Achilles. He prayed he was all right, prayed that he would come home any day and alleviate the worry in their mother’s heart that she hid so very well.

And it was this thought, this ardent hope, which was his mistake. He did not hear the footsteps of the three men coming up behind him.

It was too late by the time he felt a prickle on the back of his neck. The blow landed fiercely.

It was not a hand but a hard object. And then there was another blow, this time to his cheek, and then another one to his kidney.

He fell to the ground quickly, his knees splashing into a scum-covered puddle. His hands slammed into the mud. He let out a groan, then bit down. He remembered Hartigan’s teachings and swung his legs, whipping one of the men right off his feet.

The tough landed with a hard crash, and his head cracked into the ground. The two compatriots let out a cry of surprise and immediately began kicking Hector.

The brutal onslaught was no small thing.

This was a real fight. This was not some silly business in a boxing arena, and this was why he had come to train with Hartigan. Though such fights did not generally come to men like him, he was grateful that he was prepared. He tried to go for another set of legs. He had no idea what his opponents looked like.

“Get the governor,” said one of the men still standing.

“Trounce him now,” the other on his boots growled.

“Whip his guts out!” shouted the one Hector had brought to the mud.

From their accents, he could deduce they were rough sorts.

The man on the ground rolled with a groan and pulled out a knife. The blade gleamed in the dark night, lit only by the moon overhead.

It suddenly hit Hector that he might die here, that this would be his end. That he had not simply been saying pretty words to Priscilla, that he was not guaranteed tomorrow. No one was guaranteed tomorrow. No one was guaranteed their next hour.

They did not know when a hand would reach out into the dark and grab one and seize life from them.

The horror that hit him then was not horror that he would lose his own life, but horror that he was about to lose his future with Priscilla.

“Now, we’ve got a message for ye, my lord,” one of them men said.

“Stay away from the lady,” the other taunted. “She’s not for you. Apparently, you don’t listen. That’s what Lord Fitz said. And he’s paid us to fix your hearing.”

“Nothing personal,” the man on the ground said as he forced himself up onto his hands and knees.

Lord Fitzhubert had sent them. And they were going to pound him into the ground as a warning to stay away from Priscilla. They might kill him in the bargain.

He would not go down without a fight and as he wrenched himself to the side, attempting to yank another leg out from under them, one of the men’s boots came back and cracked forward, slamming into his cheek.

His world exploded into stars. He could not breathe, he could not think, and he struggled to quickly master himself or he would be dead this night.

Suddenly, one of the men was seized backwards. Then the other.

The man on the ground was yanked up into the dark.

There was an explosion of grunts and fists and wild fighting.

He blinked, trying to get himself together. But his vision was a blur, and his ears still rang from the boot to his head.

He pressed his hands into the ground, but the world seemed to move in a bizarre stuttering pattern. For a second, he caught sight of men in cloaks whirling about, silver blades slicing. And, at last, even as his stomach heaved, he managed to stagger to his feet.

He slammed his fist into the back of one of his attackers.

The man let out a cry and then looked over his shoulder. “This ain’t worth it. Nobody told us there’d be multiples.”

One of them ran into a dark alley, and then the other two followed until, at last, he was standing with two panting men who held cane swords in their hands.

As he narrowed his gaze, he let out a gasp. “Achilles?”

His younger brother gave him a jaunty salute, but there was something in his eyes, a certain sort of madness, as if he’d been willing to kill those men. To skewer them and leave them in a bloody heap to protect his family.

He didn’t know who the other man was, but he had jet-black hair shot with blue, much like Leander’s. The fellow had an aristocratic face with an aquiline nose and was dressed perfectly in clothes that were Parisian.

Hector swallowed, hardly daring to believe his luck.

Achilles looked strong, sun kissed, but hard. Gone was the cheeky young man who had left for an eager spring in Paris. The man who stood before Hector was formidable.

“You saved my life,” Hector managed, each breath agony.

“I rather think I did,” Achilles said, wiping his rapier before he tucked it back into its cane sheath. He then strode forward and clasped his brother in his arms. “Thank God I came to find you. I’ve just gotten into town, and I wanted to find my brothers. Leander told me that you’d gone to Mulvaney’s.”

“You’ve seen Leander?” Hector asked, trying to make sense of the events.

“Briefly.”

Hector nodded, then winced. “Have you seen Mother?”

“No, she was out.”

“Bloody hell,” Hector rasped. “She’d kill me if you’d died before seeing her.”

“Not a chance. After what I’ve seen in France, this was nothing.” Achilles stood back and gestured to the other man. “Meet your cousin, Jean Luc.”

Hector turned and, without hesitation, grabbed the man who had come to his aid and brought him into a bear hug.

“Cousin,” he said. “Family is always welcome.”

The man let out a surprised exclamation. “My cousin,” he said in a thick accent. “I am overcome by your enthusiasm. Still, you are covered in mud. And my clothes… They shall never recover.”

Hector let out a laugh. The droll reply was not serious. It was meant to point out how near death they all had been.

“I’ll take you to a tailor then,” Hector said.

Jean Luc’s eyes widened with horror. “An English tailor? Non.” Then the Frenchman let out a wounded sigh. “I do not know what I will do. Perhaps, French tailors shall come to London because it is so terrible in Paris now. It is the only way I shall survive, of course.”

He spoke of clothes and tailors, but Jean Luc was hard as the blade he had carried. Hector could see it in his eyes and the way he stood.

“Who do you think they were?” Achilles asked, turning the conversation back to the fight.

“I know exactly who hired them. Lord Fitzhubert wanted to warn me off what he thinks of as a prize rather than a person.”

Achilles shuddered.

“Fitzhubert?” Jean Luc said. “Ah, a Norman. Must be careful of people from Normandy.”

“I think his family has been in England far longer than they were ever in Normandy,” drawled Achilles.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jean Luc said. “That sort of passion will out in the blood. He might seem English on the surface, but he’s Norman at his core, and I would be careful if I were you. If the man thinks that you are trying to take his prize, death will be awaiting you.”

“Death almost was,” Hector admitted. “But never again, if that’s how the man wants to fight. I will not be dissuaded.”

“Ah! Love!” Jean Luc exclaimed. “Congratulations. To be in love in such a time? It is the only reason for living, non? But all is fair in love and war, non?” Jean Luc pursed his lips with disgust. “It does seem as if Fitzhubert thinks so.”

“Indeed it does,” Hector agreed.

Achilles wrapped his arm about Hector’s shoulders. “Fitzhubert is a fool. He doesn’t realize the army that you have behind you. Now, are you off to find Ajax and Zephyr?”

“Indeed.”

“Then let us go. I think we should show Jean Luc a bit of London.” Achilles hesitated and peered at his brother. “Unless, of course, you wish to go home. We could nurse you back to life.”

“I shall survive without such care,” Hector said as he touched his sore jaw. “I think being out with you is just what I need. A reminder of life. I think that I have been playing too gentle in this game.”

“Gentle?” Jean Luc returned as if the very idea of gentleness was absurd. “You cannot win a lady with gentle. Such things are only in poetry. You must wage war. It is a fight to the death! You cannot allow this lady to be taken from you.”

But then the Frenchman paused. “Ah. But first. Does she want you?”

“She does,” he said, “but she’s afraid of what her family thinks.”

“Ha.” Jean Luc shrugged. “You cannot allow such petty trifles to stop you on your path to love, my friend. I would not if I were in love.”

Hector grinned, then winced. “You sound as if you are a walking poem yourself, sir.”

“It is because I am French, and you are English. English are too dry. You were not always so. Once you had poetry and fire in your soul! When you were the country of Shakespeare and Marlowe. Now you are not. You are sad, but you are doing better than France. As much as it breaks my heart to say so.”

“Is it that bad?” he asked.

Achilles gave him a hard stare. “You have no idea.”

“Tell me,” he urged his younger brother.

Together they went off into the dark, but for the first time in some time, Hector felt as if he was heading into the light. Because he had been reminded just how important it was to live. There was no time to wait.

And he would not. Not anymore.