Page 18 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

A ndre seemed ready to return to London, but Stan wasn’t so sure this had been the wisest move.

They’d been in the carriage for more than half an hour, but Stan had not wanted to leave the ball.

Least of all, without exchanging another word with Nurse Wendy.

Her delicate hands in his, the sensation of leading her in rhythm with the waltz lingering in his thoughts, a tether he hadn’t wished to sever so abruptly.

Just then, the sound of distant hooves broke through the peaceful hum of night.

At first, it was almost ghostly, faint and rhythmic, but then it grew—a heavy, menacing cacophony crashing through the silence.

It didn’t sound like another carriage with travelers.

Stan tensed, his ears straining as the dirt road beneath them seemed to vibrate in warning.

The air thickened, the scent of damp leaves and earth suddenly laced with the sharp tang of something colder.

Danger.

His pulse quickened, pounding like war drums in his chest.

He turned to the carriage window, catching Andre’s uneasy glance.

“Lock the door,” Stan said, the words clipped, his voice low.

He snapped the latch into place himself and moved back, one hand already brushing his boot where the concealed knife waited.

Somewhere in the shadows, something was coming for them.

No, not something—someone. And Stan had the terrible suspicion they had been waiting.

The cries came next. Sharp, jagged screams sliced through the muffled drumbeat of hooves.

A chill clawed at the base of his spine, coiling there like a snake poised to strike.

Hell was bleeding into the night, its entry marked by shouts in a language that made his blood burn.

Prussian. He clenched his fists, his nails cutting into his palms. This was no coincidence. No accident.

The carriage jolted. Stan caught himself against the door as the horses reared up, their terrified whinnies shredding the quiet.

His body moved almost independently, a soldier’s reaction carved deep into instinct.

He stepped between Andre and the door, his stance rooted, braced, as though no force of nature could move him.

“Do you have a pistol?” he barked. The words were sharp, deliberate.

Andre shook his head, his expression one of raw fear. Stan kept his gaze forward, his jaw locked. He expected nothing less. Andre was a healer, not a fighter. The burden would fall to Stan. It always did.

The handle rattled violently, the sound of metal grating against itself sending adrenaline surging through him. Stan’s body tightened; every muscle taut as a bowstring drawn too far.

“Stay back,” he growled; words meant as a command, not a request. His heart hammered against his ribcage, its rhythm reckless and wild, but his breathing remained calm. Focused. The soldier within him awakened.

The door flew open, crashing against the frame with shattering force. Before they could drag him out, Stan surged forward, meeting the first attacker with his fist. His punches were swift and calculated—a fury honed by necessity. If he survived again, he could protect himself.

The man staggered, his mouth twisting open in a snarl, but Stan’s next blow silenced him. The crunch of bone cracked against the night air, sharp and satisfying, but Stan had no time to relish it. Another shadow loomed.

Stan ducked just as something heavy sliced through the air where his head had been.

The club swung wide, the whoosh of near impact brushing his ear.

He pivoted low, his hand flashing to his boot—and there, the cold bite of steel greeted his fingers.

He slashed upward sharply, catching his second assailant along the arm.

Blood sprayed across his sleeve, dark and viscous, and the man howled as he stumbled back.

The stench of cheap liquor clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as if his attackers had bathed in it before descending on him and Andre in this forsaken wood.

Stan’s lungs burned with each shallow breath, and his eyes darted toward the fast-moving chaos, seeking his next move.

But then, beyond the furious swings and grunts of the brawl, he caught the flicker of a silhouette—a woman’s shape illuminated briefly in the moonlight.

He blinked, unsure if his weary mind was playing tricks on him.

Another blow came swinging toward him, and he barely twisted in time to avoid it as the attacker’s knuckles slammed against his ribcage.

The pain spread, dull and hot, but he gritted his teeth, shoving the man back.

Another scent—the iron tang of blood—curdled the air.

Somewhere amidst the shouts and scuffling boots, a gasp rang out, light but piercing enough to slice through the fog of battle.

Stan’s head whipped around despite the risk it posed.

An attacker ripped the sack off a figure hunched to the ground.

The fabric fell away, and moonlight caught the cascade of her hair, loose and soft, glowing like liquid silver.

His blood ran cold, freezing him in place for the heartbeat it took to whisper, “Thea?”

My sister.

Before the name even fully left his lips, a heavy fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Pain erupted, white-hot and blinding, and he stumbled back into the fray of bodies.

His heart hammering against his ribs as his vision cleared just enough to see her—the woman who was with a child.

He blinked but couldn’t understand. His lungs seized.

He’d left to keep Wendy safe and there was… No, not Thea.

Her face came into sharp focus despite the chaos.

Tears tracked glittering paths down her cheeks, her wide eyes locking onto his.

The raw fear in them tore at him more deeply than anything his adversaries had inflicted.

For a fragile moment, the battle seemed to slow, the sounds dulling as he stood transfixed by the face he’d never wanted to see here, in a place like this. Why was she here?

Another attacker lunged, and Stan moved without thinking. His hand clasped his sister’s trembling arm, half-hauling her to her feet as he propelled her roughly toward Andre. “Protect her!” His voice was rough, almost a roar, as he spun to intercept the next blow aimed at her.

Her tear-filled eyes lingered—fear and apology locked in them.

But there was no time. He swung his blade upward, catching an assailant’s shoulder with just enough force to drive him back, and wrenched his focus away from her.

His arms felt heavier now, his stamina fraying under desperation, but there could be no hesitation.

“Inside!” His shout merged with the hollow clang of steel meeting steel as another attacker closed in. His sister was disappearing behind Andre’s frame, but the lingering chill of her presence stayed with him, sharper than any blade that had struck him.

They were shadows in his periphery, barely there—but their fear hit him like a sword to the chest. Failure was not an option. Failure meant blood and death.

Stan lunged. A third man barreled toward him, his dagger gleaming like a second moon.

Their blades met in midair, the metallic clash screaming against Stan’s eardrums, vibrating up his arm.

He shoved forward, snarling as their bodies collided.

The earth beneath them seemed to tilt. Stan’s back hit the dirt hard, the impact jarring through his frame, but he twisted, rolling free before the man could pin him down.

He came up swinging, slashing. A vicious slice opened his attacker’s thigh, a cry tearing from the man’s throat like an animal wounded. One down.

Still, they came. Shadows emerged from the edges of the lantern light, more hits, more weapons.

Stan’s skin glistened with sweat, every muscle burning, but he held his ground.

Pain flashed from a strike he couldn’t dodge in time—a fist catching his ribs like a hammer to glass.

He fought regardless, his blade an extension of himself, cutting and stabbing with ruthless precision.

A girl’s whimper cut through the chaos, sharper than any blade.

Stan twisted his head toward the sound; her small, tear-stained face shone like a beacon in the dark.

The child was clinging to Andre’s leg like he was the last solid thing in the universe.

Why was a child with Thea? Her cries gutted him, but his distraction cost him—a stray boot collided with his side and sent him sprawling.

“I said go inside!” Stan shouted.

Stan hit the dirt again. His vision blurred momentarily, stars bursting against the black cloak of the night, but his grip on the blade remained steady.

A roar erupted from his mouth as he surged upward, plunging the knife into the thigh of the man above him.

The attacker spasmed, his breath hitching in a crude, guttural sound before crumpling beside him.

The remaining few attackers faltered then, hesitation curdling their momentum. Shadows receded; the clang of weapons replaced by retreating hoofbeats. His enemies melted into the forest, leaving only their failure behind.

Stan staggered toward the carriage, his lungs heaving, his fists burning, and his blade still clutched tightly.

Thea.

His sister’s face came into focus, pale and trembling beneath the lantern’s glow.

“ E?ti r?nit? ” Are you hurt? His voice was low, frayed, the Romanian rolling from him almost without thought—

She shook her head but collapsed into his arms, her body wracked with fear.

Why was she here? How? And who was the little girl?

He held her firmly, his frenzied heartbeat just beginning to return to pace.

Andre still stood nearby, quiet but unshaken, the girl tucked protectively in his grip.

He nodded once—a silent assurance they were safe for now, though Stan doubted that.

These were the precursors of war, small battles with surprise hostages.

Whatever this night had wrought, Stan knew one thing—it wasn’t over.

List’s threat coated this night like a shadow too thick to shake.

This had been a warning or else they would have killed him.

But why?

What gruesome plans did List spare him for?