Page 11 of Undoubtedly Reckless (Rebel by Night #2)

Salty Air

He would not lose control. He saw her on the ground through the crowd of people walking obliviously past and forced himself to be cold.

Roland came up behind the ruffian quietly. Swiftly, Roland lashed out his heel, catching the man in the shins. Sabina’s attacker fell to his knees in surprise but twisted to face his opponent. Roland never gave him the chance to recover. He had already snatched the ugly sword off the ruffian’s belt and smacked the ruffian across the face with the hilt.

The blow stunned the ruffian for barely a moment before he recovered and attempted to launch himself at Roland. Roland clinically fended off the trunk-like arms and slammed the sword straight through the ruffian’s shoulder. The ruffian made a choked noise and slowed to a stop in front of Roland.

Roland examined the other man coldly and landed a savage right hook across the ruffian’s face. The force jerked the terrible man’s body off the knife, opening the shoulder wound wider and allowing the ruffian to slide gracelessly off the blade. Roland threw the blade far down the alley.

With the bulk of the fight done and his opponent slowly bleeding at his feet, Roland turned to Sabina, who had spent the duration of the battle frozen in the position she had fallen. Roland took one look at her face and an inhuman growl issued from his throat. He turned and kicked the ruffian in the stomach, splattering blood all about the cobblestones.

“No more. Please,”

Sabina wheezed. Roland scooped her up, no mean feat considering the weight of her clothes. They had lost the basket long ago but it was no matter.

“I have you. I have you safe,”

Roland said, darting into the street to hail a cab. It was a wonder one had stopped for them so quickly, considering the bizarre sight they made.

Roland bundled her in to the cab, swiftly and gently. Closing the door behind him, he unceremoniously pulled her onto his lap and she went gladly. He was unspeakably gentle with her, as if to make up for the other man’s rough handling. Roland pulled the edges of his coat around her like a blanket. Here, in the privacy of a filthy London cab, he could cocoon her against him and let her rest.

He held her quietly and gently until her trembling subsided. Her skirts had ridden up and he could see her blue clocked stockings. Roland pulled her skirts down to cover her feet and hated himself for wanting to touch her ankle, to know the shape of her calves. She had been assaulted and he wanted to maul her, cover her, possess her.

It was insanity. Sabina worked in the household of another man and he was the lord of his own house. He had other, much more pressing concerns than the safety of one governess. Roland was Viscount Schofield, Baron Darewood, and currently the main shareholder of Percival Shipping. He had hundreds of lives depending on him.

Roland castigated himself for wanting more and made no other move. It felt like a privilege to be able to hold her in her hour of need. They had not been this close since the long ride to York and he was shocked into silence at the perfection of it.

Sabina fit against him as if made for him. He was meant to care for her. Once the thought had occurred to him, it blossomed into a conviction. They had saved each other’s lives once, the scales were even, but he wanted to take on her protection of his own accord.

****

Breathing in the earthy musk of him, Sabina could easily pretend she was protected and loved, as she had not been for so long. She often wondered if she would have been better off never knowing what it was like to be loved. These traitorous thoughts shamed her but some days were too harsh to bear.

Sheltered against a strong man, her head against his neck, she dreamed. What if this were her sweetheart? What if he loved her? What if she was no longer alone?

She should have been more careful. That had been a careless mistake. It was likely a trap and she had let herself fall into it.

“We must stop meeting in such a manner, my lord,”

Sabina said, wincing at the tremble in her voice. His arms tightened around her and she was glad.

“I know not of which you speak, madame, for it has been more than a fortnight since I have washed up on a Yorkshire beach,”

Roland said in serious tones. “Dire peril has hardly been our regular mode of meeting.”

As he wished, she laughed. It was more of a gasp, but at least she was not in tears.

“I lost the knife,”

Sabina said suddenly.

“Come again?”

Roland shifted under her. Abruptly, it occurred to Sabina that she was being held in a most unseemly position. She could feel his strong thighs through the thick cloth of her skirt, his arms bracketed her, guarding her from all dangers.

She was a governess. He was a lord. This posture was wildly inappropriate no matter how delightful it felt. She attempted to extricate herself and he resisted briefly. He halted her progress enough for her to know he was releasing her of his own will, not because she could make him.

Sabina sat herself next to him and stared out the window.

“George Templeton’s knife. I lost it,”

Sabina said. She was in shock. She needed to shake away this stasis.

“You kept it?”

Roland asked. His voice held a strange tone she could not interpret, did not currently have the capacity to interpret.

“Of course. It’s my only protection.”

Sabina turned to him and paused. Roland had murder in his eyes. “Are you angry with me? It was a careless mistake. I should not have given chase to a street mongrel.”

“I’m not angry with you, Sabina. You did nothing wrong. It occurs to me that it is a low thing, that a woman would need someone else’s knife to protect herself,”

Roland said slowly.

“Aria and Sage are very lucky to have you watch over them,”

Sabina said. She thought she succeeded in keeping the envy from her voice. Roland unwound the burgundy scarf from his neck and draped it over Sabina. She did not argue. There would be bruises soon enough to hide.

“Aria and Sage would never venture into St. Giles alone. Why do you think that bastard attacked you?”

“I would rather not discuss my attacker’s mens rea, if it is all the same to you,”

Sabina said stiffly.

“He went after you because you were alone. You must never be alone when you venture out from Verdon’s.”

“I live for others to command me. On the one day of each week that I am free, I will do as I please,”

Sabina said in exasperation. “I must be more careful, is all. Please stop soon, I will walk the rest of the way.”

“I’ll escort you,”

Roland said.

“Have you lost your mind?”

Sabina asked. “I’m a governess and this is my place of employment.”

She wound the scarf about her neck, adding a layer of security and obscuring what she knew were to be bruises about her throat.

“I will see you safe.”

“I am not your responsibility.”

Sabina checked her tone and turned to him. “Thank you. Thank you for saving me, again. I apologize for infringing on your hospitality but please understand, if the duke sees a viscount handing me down from a carriage, he will suspect impropriety. I will lose my employment. I am safe in his house.”

“You could be safe in my house.”

“In what capacity? You don’t need a governess. Please allow me my anonymity.”

Sabina took his hand and squeezed. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through his gloves.

Her lips were on his before she could consider the consequences. He cared for her. He was safe. He was warm and strong and she cared for him too, more than was prudent. More to the point, he tasted of heaven and wonder. Sabina had kissed exactly two other men since York so she knew for a fact there was no other who did this to her with a simple caress, with the mere touching of skin.

And bless him, he pulled her tighter and angled her head to kiss her properly. Roland deepened the caress and teased at her lips. All the fear and chill had fled her body, to be replaced with a sensual warmth that eased her muscles.

Sabina opened for him on instinct and was rewarded with the intimate touch of his tongue. Her already relaxed body heated and the telltale wetness between her legs told her she was ready for something she couldn’t allow.

But she wanted him. And now she knew for certain he wanted her too, judging from the hard ridge under her thighs. That was proof, and she felt justified.

Heavens above, Roland had featured in her fantasies for years and was the surest way for her to reach her climax. Having the living, breathing man underneath her, kissing her, holding her safely was a dream come true.

Sabina reluctantly broke the kiss and braced her forehead against his. She almost smiled at the sound of his heavy breathing, as if he had run from St. Giles. She had done that. She had never been so proud of herself. Her eyes drifted open and she saw with a start that they were about to take the final turn to the road in front of the duke’s house. She banged on the ceiling and the cab stopped.

Before he could say anything, Sabina was out of his arms and rushing out of the cab. She mapped out her route so she could get to her room without seeing many people. Sabina’s breath echoed loudly in her own ears, her heart pounded like mad. That was unwise. That was glorious.

Fantasies were costly. She enjoyed an afternoon in the company of an impossible man and was assaulted in an alley. Enough of this. She had responsibilities.

****

Tristan was upset. Roland felt another headache beginning near his temples. Dealing with Tristan was rather like placating a distressed puppy. It had taken them an hour in the carriage to the Docklands and he had bemoaned his fate the entire time.

Aria had insisted on accompanying them and she had summarily taken the account book from his hands. Roland paid little attention, as he was battling against Tristan’s constant whines. He did not have time to care for a whining child. He wanted to shove his brother out of the carriage so he could have some blessed silence. His thoughts were still on the incident the day before.

Roland should not have let Sabina go. It felt wrong on every level and he could do nothing about it. She did not belong to him. So he set about distracting himself.

Yet that kiss, by God. It was the second time he had ever kissed her and he had to have more. She had been so perfect against him. Nothing had ever felt so right, so clearly fitting.

Had she a sweetheart? Had there been other kisses since his? No, he wouldn’t think of it. What mattered was that he was here now.

Roland could still feel the echoes of her lips, as if he had been kicked by a horse. Of all the women in the world, he would have never guessed she would have this effect on him, like a lightning bolt. It knocked him over with the force of a bull.

But it had not erased his utter terror at seeing her attacked.

Roxbury had arrived for dinner the evening before and barely been able to greet Aria before Roland rushed him out the door to Remy’s casino. Remy had taken one look at Roland and ushered them both to some back-alley prizefighting ring. Remy summarily stripped Roland and threw him into a match. All thought of Sabina’s terror and then the very opposite memory of her wild kiss was driven from him as he fought to survive the match. He managed four rounds before his compatriots judged him vented enough for dinner and drinking.

Yet when they dumped him back off at his home, in the quiet of Schofield House, the memories of her flooded back to him, barely blunted. He castigated himself for the larger sin of watching her walk away when every fiber of his being screamed to go after her, to protect her, to possibly strip her naked and see if the kiss had been an accurate indicator of what they could be together. She was right, damn her eyes. She was not his to care for but he wanted to.

He had other means of protection at his disposal. That morning, wincing at the bruises on his body, he had drafted the invitation and sent it before breakfast.

Then Roland had dragged Tristan from his bed and they were at the offices of Percival Shipping to drop off the last of the contracts and to see the goods that were to be loaded onto Cormorant, their newest barque. He needed to finish his business in the city. Cress and her late husband had purchased the lease on these offices for a song when the original lessees had defaulted. They still had thirty-two years left on the lease and Roland was determined to keep these offices for the next generation.

Roland intended to glean the workings of the company from Tristan but it was becoming rapidly apparent that Tristan had never been part of the management. Tristan seemed more than content to spend the money the company earned, yet was not remotely interested in how it was earned. In fact, now that Roland saw how Tristan was not at all business minded, giving him any control over the management of their shipping company would surely be absolute folly.

Mr. Cathcart continued to prattle on and indicated the back window. Roland looked out and surveyed the ships, his chest hurting. None of them were Ariadne. Roland gestured for the manager to lead the way and they left the offices for the warehouses. Tristan hunched down into his coat and complained about the venture loudly.

Most certainly, a number of these ships were finer than Ariadne had been, but that had been his ship. She had been quick and perfect, and she had been his home.

“Cormorant sails in ten days,”

Mr. Cathcart said, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

“How much weight is unencumbered?”

Aria asked. Roland squinted at his sister. That was a question his brother should be asking, or himself.

“Half a ton. We could take more cargo. Would you like to see?”

Mr. Cathcart asked. After a moment, Aria kicked him gently in the calf.

“Yes. Let us to the warehouse,”

Roland said distractedly. They passed another building on the way to the warehouse.

“Will Van Dellen Shipping rent us the warehouse in Bristol?”

Roland asked.

“No, the board refused.”

“Did they give a reason? We offered a more than suitable price and they’re not using it anyway.”

“Iffen I may, ma’am, the board is being swayed by one of the shareholders who’s just contrary, he is. Makes me yearn for the days of old man Van Dellen, he was a good ‘un.”

“I never met him. What happened there?”

“Van Dellen died several years back, he was best of this lot, for sure. Controlling shares have been in dispute for just as long, I reckon. The last Van Dellen on the board has been itching to sell to the East India Company but the rest of them would have none of it. However, I think they may put up a few ships for sale.”

“Please watch for that. We could add three more to our fleet,”

Aria said, her eyes sharp. “Yes, we can afford three if Van Dellen can be bargained down.”

As Roland walked up and down the warehouse with the foreman, his brother and sister trailed behind him. Being siblings, they began to bicker. Loudly.

“The allowance you give me is a pittance. You don’t understand how important appearances are, Roland, which is understandable because you never spent time in London growing up. I’m a viscount’s brother, I need to show that I am on par with the rest of the ton. I cannot make do with three new coats a year, ‘tis simply unacceptable,”

Tristan complained as he trailed his siblings.

Roland turned to survey Tristan. The younger man had chosen an impeccably ensemble of a sky-blue coat over a ruby red waistcoat and mustard-colored breeches. His stockings almost glowed, the silk was so pale against the clocking. The intricate embroidery bordering his coat were works of art.

“When you contribute to our accumulation of funds, then you can have a say in the distribution of said funds,”

Roland started.

“Good heavens, could you say that any more loudly?”

Tristan said crossly. “We can’t have people know that we’re in trade.”

“Indeed,”

Aria said wryly. “Tristan had insisted everyone address him as Schofield from the moment of Percy’s passing. Mr. Cathcart, I thought we had guards on the warehouse. River pirates took Hodgson’s cargo last week, did they not?”

“Aye, milady, I’ll go see where they are. Perhaps they are on break.”

Mr. Cathcart went around the corner.

“If the lock is sturdy enough then we would not need guards, wot?”

Tristan said. “Making men stand outside in the cold, how horrid.”

“God forbid anyone work for a living and earn an honest wage. Trade and hard work are what paid for the clothes you wear and the food you eat and the roof over your head,”

Roland pointed out.

“Would you stop being so ungrateful for once?”

Aria asked.

“Go decorate a bonnet or whatnot,”

Tristan sneered.

“Enough, both of you,”

Roland snapped. “This is not a game or theater. This is our livelihood. We must make money, society be damned. We will ensure our legacy is firm and if that means getting dirty, then so be it. Am I clear?”

Aria looked at him seriously, truly looked at him, and nodded. Tristan asked to wait in the carriage, and Roland nodded. He did not miss the flask Tristan pulled from his coat pocket as he flounced away.

****

Sabina entered the Schofield home and almost smiled. After the incident some days back, she had not had reason to smile, but the charming house and delightful company were reason enough to be at ease.

Moreover, this was Roland’s house. He lived here and she was always safe wherever he was. It was a ridiculous notion but she believed it with a faith that was in fact justified. How many times had Roland saved her?

The Villiers had been invited for afternoon tea, which the girls had been all too delighted to accept. Sabina watched Lenoir and Isolde hurry through the Schofield doors. Lenoir was more reserved and happily allowed Isolde to voice their shared frustration. They were bored. They needed to socialize with others of their class. Therefore, Sabina was happy to ignore that the girls were training with weapons.

Sabina missed her knife immensely. She had hated that her main defense came from a man who had destroyed her life but there was a measure of security in knowing that she could defend herself. She would never tell the girls they should not immerse themselves in physical activity because the other choice was to leave themselves vulnerable to the civility of others, which was an illusion.

Sabina hid the fact that the twins’ Italian lessons were in fact fencing lessons. She taught the girls to always take note of their surroundings and to check behind them when they walked. These lessons were necessary for common women, not members of the Ton, but she would not leave her charges vulnerable to the whims of others, as she had so often been.

Sabina had been able to disguise the bruises about her neck with a creative arrangement of her fichu and her trusty brown shawl. She dare not wear Roland’s scarf to his own home, because there was no proper way to explain why she possessed it.

Even as Aria and Sage welcomed them, Sabina still found herself waiting for Roland.

“Mrs. Kembrooke, are you quite all right?”

Aria asked as she poured Sabina a cup of tea redolent with milk and sugar. Sabina forced herself to smile at the young woman.

“A touch under the weather is all. But never mind me. I understand that Isolde and Lenoir have some sword techniques to share and there may perhaps be some boxing lessons in return?”

Sabina asked with interest.

“Indeed,”

Lenoir interjected, genteelly draining her teacup. “I am most intrigued about something Sage had mentioned before, about knives.”

“Might I have a biscuit first?”

Sage asked dryly.

“You have the rest of your life for biscuits,”

Isolde said bluntly. Sabina could see that Isolde was refraining from leveraging her status as sister to a duke, but only just. “Lenoir will show you basic parries but heaven knows, we cannot carry swords.”

“I would like to know what situations you plan on entering that would require you to defend yourself.”

Aria carried her teacup to a table and drew back the cloth, revealing a number of training knives and swords.

“Oh, one never knows,”

Lenoir commented. She tested the weight of the swords with disturbing ease, then picked up a saber and ran through a decidedly practiced series of exercises. “A ballroom could be deadly.”