Page 102 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Every time he thought he was taking a step forward, Rupert found himself sliding back to where he started. He tossed the bag containing his cricket kit into a corner of the porch that ran along one side of the pavilion bordering the pitch at Lord's, bending over to draw out his bat as if unsheathing a sword. He would never understand Cece, never in a million years. Just when he thought things were finally perfect between the two of them, she turned into a cold fish once more.

He jerked around, intending to stomp down the porch stairs for a little practice before the momentous game against Denbigh and his friends began, but instead, he nearly thwacked Fergus with his bat.

"Careful, there,"

Fergus said, laughing and holding up his hands. "It's Denbigh's squad you want to beat to a pulp, not me."

Rupert softened his scowl, shaking his head. "Sorry,"

he mumbled, heading on down the steps to the grass.

Fergus followed him, his bright, ginger hair shining in the sunlight and contrasting sharply with his cricket whites. Where Rupert was all frustration and darkness, Fergus looked as though he'd been knighted and handed a sack of gold all at once.

"Why are you in such a good mood?"

Rupert asked him. The question came out like an accusation, leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

Fergus shrugged and followed him out to the wicket, catching a ball that Jack Craig, a last-minute addition to the team, tossed his way. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I get a chance to show up Denbigh and his lot today."

Rupert glanced sideways at his friend just as a peal of feminine laughter swelled from the edge of the wooden grandstands that started several yards from the pavilion. His heart leapt for a moment as he instantly spotted Cece front and center in the group. She and the rest of the ladies wore stylish, white day dresses with some sort of large purple flower pinned to their chests. Cece's blonde hair was piled atop her head and topped with a tall, brimmed hat decorated with purple ostrich feathers to match her flower. She looked like a fashion plate, but considering the simple lines of her skirt and the lighter fabric, she was also dressed as though she might challenge him to another badminton match.

Cece wasn't the only woman who caught his attention, though. Lady Tavistock was laughing louder than the rest of the women. Not only that, she glanced their way and sent Fergus a smile that was so coquettish it might as well have been an advertisement of availability.

"The sun is shining indeed,"

Rupert grumbled, shaking his head.

They reached the wicket, but rather than jumping into practice, Fergus clapped a hand on Rupert's shoulder and turned him to face him. "What have you done now?" he asked.

Rupert glared at him. "What makes you think I did anything?"

Fergus answered with a flat stare, crossing his arms.

"Women are a mystery,"

he said with surprising vehemence. "They say one thing then behave inconsistently. They smile one moment then tell you off the next."

"What did you do?"

Fergus repeated in more ominous tones.

Rupert huffed in annoyance. "Why must I be the one at fault?"

The heat rising up his neck and face stung of guilt. He answered his own question with, "It's Denbigh's fault. Him and his father and their Irish holdings."

Fergus's brow shot up. "Don't tell me you're blaming the Irish for all your problems too."

"No, of course not,"

Rupert grumbled. "But things were going so well at the house party."

A rush of heat of another kind filled him at the memory of just how well. "Then Denbigh's father's bloody steward had to go and get himself killed, and?—"

Fergus held up a hand to stop him. "Never mind. I know why Lady Cecelia is vexed with you."

Rupert let out a hopeless, irritated breath, his shoulders dropping. "All I wanted was to come home from South Africa, leave the army behind, and to take up my duties as Earl of Stanhope with the woman I love at my side. I didn't expect to leave one battle just to enter another."

"Life is full of battles,"

Fergus told him with a rare streak of seriousness. "You're my friend, Rupert. You're like a brother to me. But the whole purpose of serving our country was to put our youth behind us and to take up the responsibilities of men. That includes swallowing your pride now and then and thinking with something other than your cock."

"I'm not just thinking with my cock,"

Rupert argued, though an uncomfortable itch spread down his spine even as he spoke the words.

Fergus raised one eyebrow doubtfully. He let his arms drop and shifted his stance. "If you can't learn to take the slings and arrows of life in stride, you're going to find yourself fighting more battles than any sane man should ever get himself into. And if you refuse to listen to the woman you love, listen to the things she doesn't say as well as the things she does, then you won't even give yourself a safe place to retreat to when the rest of the world attacks."

His friend was right, but pride kept Rupert from admitting it outright. "And you derive all this wisdom from your vast experience with women?"

Fergus grinned impishly, glancing past him to Lady Tavistock and the rest of the ladies, who were moving away from the grandstand toward the pavilion. "I do all right,"

he said, leaving Rupert to imagine what was going on.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

One of the older gentlemen, Mr. Clarke, who had come to watch the match from the pavilion porch called out to the approaching ladies. "You can't come up here."

Rupert's uncomfortable conversation with Fergus and his focus on his own problems instantly dropped. He steeled himself and marched back toward the pavilion, Fergus on his heels.

"What do you mean we can't go up there?"

Lady Tavistock asked, looking like a general at the front of an army of white-clad women.

Mr. Clarke flapped his mouth indignantly before forming words. "Ladies are not allowed in the pavilion."

"Why not?"

Cece asked. She sent an imperious, sideways look to Rupert as he and Fergus reached the scene. "Are you afraid we'll damage the place?"

Some of the other May Flowers laughed. Mr. Clarke didn't look remotely amused.

"It simply isn't done,"

he said dismissively. "Ladies have never been allowed in the pavilion. Ladies should not be wandering free across the grounds at all."

"Are we a flock of sheep that has been set loose to destroy your grass, then?"

Lady Tavistock asked with a look of shock and offense.

Mr. Clarke's face pinched as though she'd said something foul. "I refuse to discuss the matter with a jumped-up female who thinks too much of herself. Where is your husband, madam? Why has he not restrained you?"

Lady Tavistock's expression went stone cold. "My dear, late husband, the Marquess of Tavistock, is in his grave, sir."

Mr. Clarke turned red and stammered, "I'm very sorry, my lady, very sorry."

He then straightened and went on with, "But ladies still aren't allowed in the pavilion."

"Never mind,"

Cece said, catching Rupert's eye with a sideways glance then moving closer to him. She snatched the cricket bat right out of his hand and said, "A lady's place is on the cricket pitch."

A flurry of approval and excitement arose from the dozen or so other May Flowers as Cece rested the bat jauntily over her shoulder and marched out toward the wicket. Lady Tavistock slipped over to take the ball from Fergus's hand before catching up to Cece. Rupert exchanged a glance with Fergus, then both of them rushed to catch up to the ladies.

"You can't possibly propose to play cricket,"

he said, falling into step by Cece's side.

"And why not?"

she asked, one eyebrow raised. "I've handled a bat before."

The look in her eyes that accompanied her words caused Rupert to miss a step and choke on the reply he was about to make.

Fergus caught the meaning of the comment as well and laughed outright. "I'll show you how to bowl, Lady Tavistock,"

he said, crossing behind Cece and Lady Tavistock to take the ball from her. "It's all in the action of your swing."

"What's going on here?"

Jack asked, jogging to meet the invading group of women, along with several of the other players.

"Since your opponents have yet to arrive, Mr. Craig, the ladies of the May Flowers have decided to take up cricket and challenge you instead,"

Cece said.

Most of the other players laughed congenially.

"Lady Claudia is going to be devastated to have missed this,"

Cece's friend, Lady Diana Pickwick, laughed as she stepped away from the group of women to pick up a cricket ball that lay abandoned in the grass. She tossed it to one of the other women, Lady Beatrice Lichfield.

"Lady Claudia would never approve to begin with,"

Lady Beatrice answered with a laugh.

"Why isn't Claudia here?"

Lady Diana asked.

"That lot never approves of anything the rest of us do these days,"

Cece said, ignoring the question.

Several of the other ladies hummed in agreement. Rupert was surprised to find at least half of them scowling. He'd been under the impression that the May Flowers acted as one.

"We should form a May Flowers cricket team,"

Lady Tavistock said, her expression lighting with inspiration.

Several of the other ladies, Cece among them, voiced their agreement and delight.

"You know, there are scientists and physicians who are beginning to postulate that women should be physically active,"

Cece said. "Contrary to the prevailing notions about female fragility."

"Hear, hear,"

Lady Diana seconded.

Jack grinned. "Have any of you ever played cricket before?"

A chorus of no's and disappointment sounded from the women.

"Never,"

Lady Tavistock said. "But there's a first time for everything."

"And you condone this?"

Jack asked Rupert with a smirk.

"No,"

Rupert answered. "Not at all."

"Rubbish,"

Cece huffed, swinging his bat and walking up to the wicket. "How difficult can it be?"

"Far more difficult than you imagine,"

Rupert said, following her. "This isn't badminton."

"My athletic skills do not end with badminton, Lord Stanhope,"

she said, positioning herself in front of the stumps and thumping the ground with the toe of the bat before assuming the most dreadful batting form he'd ever seen.

"No, no, you're doing it all wrong,"

he groaned, walking up behind her. The juxtaposition of irritation at her antics and lust at being able to stand with his arms around her, turning her arms and straightening her back was enough to make him lose his mind. "Your grip is all wrong, for one. Your thumb and forefinger on each hand should form a vee that lines up with the center of the bat's back. Your dominant hand goes on top."

As he positioned her hands correctly, she leaned subtly back into him, pressing her backside against his crotch. Her dress had very little bustle, which meant he took the movement for exactly what it was.

Furious, he took a step back. "Now you've decided to be amorous?"

he demanded in a quiet voice, acutely aware of the players and May Flowers scattered around the field. Fergus was giving Lady Tavistock a few pointers about bowling at the other end of the wicket and most of the rest of the ladies had joined up with a fielder to learn how to throw and catch balls, but there were enough people close by that Rupert kept his voice down.

Cece's playful smile vanished as she straightened and turned to him, holding the cricket bat like a cudgel. "Sport is an ideal time for flirtation,"

she said with stark seriousness. "Death is not. You would do well to learn the difference."

"The difference appears to be whatever you decide it is,"

he hissed in return.

"And what if it is?"

she snapped back, eyes burning with indignation.

Rupert held up his hands and shook his head. "I do not understand the rules of your game, madam, therefore I refuse to play it."

He marched off down the wicket to where Fergus was lining up to bowl.

"Rupert,"

Cece called after him. She was clearly aggravated with him, but as far as Rupert was concerned, it served her right. "Heaven help us,"

she followed with an irritated sigh.

"You're treading thin ice, mate,"

Fergus warned him when Rupert reached his side.

"Just bowl,"

he growled, veering to the side to take up a position where he'd be most likely to catch the ball if Cece managed to hit it.

"Ready?"

Fergus asked Cece, with far too much magnanimity, as far as Rupert was concerned.

Cece resumed her awful batting stance, thumped the bat in the dirt a couple times, then said, "I'm ready, my lord."

Fergus turned to Lady Tavistock and said, "The run-up is important, but so is the bowling action. Observe."

Lady Tavistock watched Fergus with obvious admiration as he charged a few steps forward, then released the ball with what Rupert thought was a pathetic ease. The ball sailed leisurely down the wicket, bounced once, and reached Cece at the perfect height and speed for her to smack it all the way to the border.

Except that she didn't smack it. She missed and missed handily. Her over-exuberant action swung her off balance, and she stumbled inelegantly to the side. Rupert grinned in rude satisfaction and crossed his arms. So his fiendish lady love wasn't an expert in all things after all.

His smirk faltered a moment later when she straightened and looked his way. The raw vulnerability that shone from her at her fumble struck straight at Rupert's heart. It killed him to see her so flummoxed.

"Keep your shoulders square,"

he called to her. "Remember to follow through. Keep your eye on the ball."

She nodded, her jaw stiff, and resumed her stance in front of the stumps as Freddy threw the ball back to Fergus.

Fergus walked back to Lady Tavistock, said something to her that Rupert couldn't hear, then resumed his spot, ran up, then delivered another ball as though it were floating on a cloud. This time, Rupert held his breath and prayed that Cece would hit it. She managed to make feeble contact with the edge of the bat, sending the ball careening lazily off into the slips.

"Oh,"

Cece exclaimed, clamped a hand on her hat, and started running toward the opposite stumps. Her smile returned, and by the time she made it inside the crease, she was laughing. "There,"

she told Rupert as though she'd hit a six. "There's nothing to it."

"You think so?"

he asked, sauntering over to her and snatching the bat from her hands. The gesture was curt and he held himself with a cocky air, but the mood had changed between them. They were on the same side again, in spite of the way the air between them bristled with challenge. "We'll see."

He took his time walking to the stumps, grinning to himself at the oddly swift change in dynamic. He loved Cece. She didn't make the least amount of sense to him. She was proud and shrewish one moment, soft and vulnerable the next, but always brilliant. And if he were honest with himself, he loved her when she was weak, but he adored her when she was strong. He wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and make the world a better place for her when she was helpless, but he wanted to worship at her feet when she set out to boldly conquer the world. That or fuck her until they were both too spent and sated to move.

He reached the far end of the wicket and turned to set up only to find Lady Tavistock holding the ball and practicing her arm swing as Fergus gave her instructions. Sudden dread filled Rupert's gut. Chances were that if Lady Tavistock managed to get the ball across the wicket to begin with, he could hit it so hard it would startle the horses pulling their carriages along Wellington Road. But if he purposely bungled his strike to spare Lady Tavistock's feelings, it was likely she and Cece and every other May Flower there would know and be furious at him for coddling them.

He resigned himself to losing either way and settled into batting stance, eyes narrowed and trained on the ball in Lady Tavistock's hands as she got ready to make her run-up. But a faint commotion near the boundary scattered his focus, and a moment later, Lady Tavistock stepped out of her preparations and raised a hand to her forehead to see what was going on.

Rupert straightened and turned to find a cluster of about eight men in street clothes charging onto the field. At first, he thought they held cricket bats and that they were Denbigh's players, arrived at last but not in uniform. He stepped to the side, prepared to greet the lads and to tell them where they could change, but once the men made it onto the field, they let out what sounded like a battle cry and burst into a run.

"Death to the Irish,"

one of them shouted, raising his bat above his head.

Except, it wasn't a bat at all. It was nothing more than a fat stick. The other men were armed with similar sticks and boards that looked as though they'd been snatched from a construction site. They stormed the field, charging directly toward Fergus.

"Look out,"

Rupert called to his friend, eyes wide as he realized what was about to happen.

He lunged forward, ready to defend his friend with his life if he had to, but he was too late. The crowd of toughs slammed into Fergus, wielding their clubs and their fists. Rupert's heart sank to his stomach at the sickening thuds and crunches that followed. He grabbed the first man he could reach and struggled to pull him away from Fergus.

Screams and shouts of terror arose from the women on the field. Lady Tavistock cried out in rage and threw her cricket ball at the swarm of men attacking Fergus, then dashed to the side, pulled one of the stumps from the ground, and began beating the closest of them across his back with it. Cece instantly did the same, attacking the attackers with a stump. Rupert managed to pull one of the toughs away and to smash his fist across the man's face just before the man Cece was hitting twisted and pushed her so hard she sprawled to the ground on her back.

"Cece!"

Rupert jumped toward her, scooping her under her arms and pulling her to safety seconds before one of the men attacking Fergus would have stepped back and trod on her.

Another of the attackers shoved Lady Tavistock away. She cried out as she hit the ground, but instantly tried to get back up again. Before she could, Freddy and Jack and Reese and all of the rest of Rupert's friends charged in from the edges of the field to clash with the attackers. The crack of blows being landed led to the sharp scent of blood in the air. Cricket whites were splashed with red as the attackers were pried away from Fergus's now prone body.

A split-second later, as if lightning had struck, the eight attackers bolted. Those in the middle of combat peeled away from the men they were fighting with and sprinted for the edge of the pitch. Not one of them looked back, and several dropped their weapons so that they could run faster. The sudden retreat was so disorienting that Rupert's head spun with amazement at it all.

"Oh my God,"

Lady Tavistock screamed a moment later, ending Rupert's bafflement.

He twisted to find her scrambling toward Fergus's sprawled and broken body lying in the grass. Blood oozed from Fergus's obviously broken nose and the corner of his mouth. It dripped from one ear as well, which turned Rupert's stomach with dread. He dashed to Fergus's side, kneeling in the grass and grasping his arm.

Fergus groaned in agony at the simple gesture, but at least he wasn't dead.

"What happened?"

Lady Diana asked hysterically.

"Get back,"

Reese said in a commanding yet calm voice, holding out his arms to shield the ladies from the sight of Fergus writhing weakly and moaning in pain. "If you could all please gather at the edge of the pavilion,"

he went on, gesturing for some of the other men to help him comfort the ladies.

Cece and Lady Tavistock ignored Reese and everyone else.

"We're here for you, Lord O'Shea,"

Lady Tavistock gasped, taking his hand gently in hers. "We're here for you."

"Somebody fetch a physician,"

Cece shouted, standing above them all. "Immediately. Mr. Craig."

"He's not going for a doctor,"

Harrison called from somewhere far away. "He's chasing after the bastards."

It was a sign of just how much distress they were all in that Harrison would use harsh language with ladies present.

"Jack will catch them,"

Rupert told Fergus as reassuringly as he could. "Don't worry."

The fact was that Rupert was worried far beyond anything he'd experienced before. He'd seen men shot and bloody on the field of battle in South Africa. He'd survived an ambush that had killed over half of his regiment in the Transvaal. But he had never seen the kind of brutality that Fergus had been subjected to. His friend could barely move, and any effort he made to try resulted in wrenching cries of agony. A quick assessment on Rupert's part told him Fergus had more broken bones than unbroken ones, and there was no telling what sort of internal injuries he might have. Rupert's mouth went dry at the very real possibility that his friend might die on a cricket pitch in London after surviving the battlefields of Africa, and all because of one man's bitterness and hatred.

Rupert had no doubt at all that Denbigh was behind the attack. He was conspicuously absent, as if already shoring up his alibi for when Rupert inevitably accused him. No wonder the odious Lady Claudia hadn't shown up for the event either.

"Make way, make way. I'm a doctor,"

an unfamiliar voice called from a short distance away.

Moments later, a middle-aged man in tweed dropped to a crouch beside Rupert. He surveyed Fergus with a quick professional frown.

"They attacked him deliberately,"

Rupert said, rocking back to give the doctor room to do his work. "Eight men with clubs."

The doctor grunted as two other men jogged up, carrying an empty stretcher between them. "He's been brutalized,"

the doctor said. "There's an infirmary one street over. We need to get him there fast. He might not make it."

Lady Tavistock gasped in horror. Cece bent over to help her stand and back away so that the men with the stretcher could help Fergus. Rupert stood and moved to Cece's side, wanting to hug her until he was certain she was safe but knowing there was no time. All he could do was watch helplessly as Fergus was loaded onto the stretcher. He cried out in agony, then passed out as the men lifted the stretcher.

"Is he dead?"

Lady Tavistock asked shakily.

"Not yet,"

the doctor said, gesturing for the men to carry the stretcher off the pitch toward the infirmary. "Not on my watch."