Forever a Lady. Delilah Marvelle
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flew, head down, with a squelched thud that penetrated the ground.
By God, the man and all of that muscle was worthy of a swoon and more.
With a snap of the crop he’d confiscated, he hit the flank of Dunmore’s horse, sending the horse darting, neighing and galloping down the path with a plume of dust. Leaning over the side of his saddle, he down-whipped the crop at Dunmore’s head, eliciting a thwack. “Don’t ever go near this woman again or you’re dead. Dead. Because I’ll gladly hang knowing the world has one less arsehole in it. You tell the watch that when you send them after me. Now if I were you, Brit, I’d catch up to your horse before I send you bleeding down Salt River.”
Lord Dunmore scrambled up, his chest heaving. He glanced toward Bernadette.
The Pirate King yanked out a pistol from the leather belt at his waist and pointed it down at Dunmore’s head. “How fast can you run? Show me. Before I go click.”
Dunmore turned and sprinted, his morning coat flapping and his leather boots thudding down the path until he and his crop were gone.
Silence drifted across the surrounding park and the path, which fortunately was clear of other riders and witnesses. The Pirate King, his devil friend and Georgia all turned their eyes and their horses toward her.
Bernadette swallowed, her jaw still pulsing from the stinging heat of Dunmore’s crop. It was humiliating. Not only to have been cropped in front of them but to have her entire history with Dunmore laid out like a sermon on Sunday.
The Pirate King shoved his pistol back into his leather belt and slowly brought his horse beside hers, his features tightening. He leaned in, the smell of leather, metal and gunpowder lacing the air. “It left a mark.”
Lovely. As if her age didn’t mark her up enough.
He searched her face, his brows coming together against that leather patch. “Are you all right, miss?”
Miss? Did he really think she was that young? Even with those annoying wispy grays peering out at her temples? Bless him. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”
He half nodded and pulled away his horse, still intently holding her gaze with that coal-black eye. “If you have any more problems with that bastard, I’m staying over at Limmer’s. Come find me and I’ll take care of it. My only regret is that I didn’t interfere sooner. And for that, I owe you.”
He thought he owed her. After he’d rescued her.
Her throat tightened. Even worse, he was staying at Limmer’s. ’Twas a cheap hotel for the sporting crowd, known for being incredibly dirty and hosting all things dangerous. Even whores didn’t like going in there, as they usually didn’t come back out. She couldn’t let a man like this, who had just rescued whatever was left of her face, stay there. “Might I offer you better lodgings, sir? Given what you did for me?”
He lifted a dark brow. “Define better.”
She would have invited him to stay at her leased house off Piccadilly, seeing Georgia was residing with Mrs. Astor over on Park Lane, but she didn’t want the man thinking her invitation was permanent. “I recommend the St. James Royal Hotel. ’Tis premier and the best London has to offer. I will ensure your room and board is paid for. Gladly.”
He stared at her, his jaw tight. After a long moment, he set his broad shoulders. “Let me think on it.”
By God, she admired that pride. He wore it so well.
Glancing over at her understudy, he clicked his tongue. “Georgia, Georgia. We never seem to be able to get rid of each other, do we? Much to our own dismay.” He scanned the length of Georgia’s Vienna blue riding gown, lowering his chin in a way that caused that windblown hair to fall across his forehead. He snorted. “You look like Niblo’s Garden on a stick.”
Georgia regally set her chin. “And proud of it. Don’t you wish you looked this good.”
“Ah, you look all right, I suppose.”
“All right?” Georgia circled a gloved finger over her face and gown. “It took me ten months to look like this. And look. No freckles. They’re there, but they’re cleverly hidden. The toiletries these days are unbelievable.”
He swiped his jaw. “A waste of ten months, I say.” Dropping his hand to his thigh, he huffed out a breath. “Since we’re catching up on gossip, I’m sure you’d like to know that your John Andrew Malloy not only went out West, but married. Thanks to you, we’re now damn well known as the Thirty-Nine Thieves.”
Georgia’s eyes widened. “John married Agnes Meehan?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Georgia let out a laugh. “Well, good for him. And Agnes.”
“Good for him, yes. Not so good for Agnes. He’s not exactly what I call the marrying sort.” The Pirate King huffed out another breath. “So. Where are you staying? Coleman and I need to get ourselves out of Town. They bloody stone you like crows out here. Expensive as hell.”
Georgia snorted. “It doesn’t help that you went and bought yourself horses.”
The Pirate King and his menacingly quiet friend paused. They eyed each other, to which the Pirate King adjusted his great coat and drawled, “We didn’t exactly buy them.”
Bernadette blinked.
Georgia gasped. “You stole them?”
He pointed at her. “Ey. A hackney costs a shilling just to roll halfway down the goddamn street. I’m not paying that. And we didn’t steal the horses. We’re borrowing them for a few days and will give them both back once we’re done.”
Georgia glared. “’Tis no different than stealing, Matthew, to which I say you and Coleman get yourselves jobs as sweepers, because I’m not giving either of you spit.”
Matthew. Bernadette almost uttered his name aloud in adoration and reverence. Despite that “borrowed” horse, he seemed so...genuine. And divine. So breathtakingly divine.
Without thinking, she hurriedly dug into her reticule slung on her wrist and pulled out a Bristol calling card, holding it out to him. “I would be honored to provide you with the money and lodgings you need. ’Tis the least I can do after your noble rescue. Call on me. I insist.”
Slowly drawing his horse closer to her own until they were side by side, he leaned over. Slipping the card from her gloved fingers, he held her gaze for a long moment. “Thank you, luv.”
That gruff, yet equally gentle voice made her want to throw her arms around him and never let go.
He wordlessly fingered the card she’d given him, still heatedly holding her gaze. He molded and remolded the card against the curve of that large hand, as if trying to feel her.
Bernadette drew in a breath, wishing that card was her.
“Milton,” his friend called out. “Instead of playing Casanova with the card, give the woman’s generous offer a day and the hour you intend to call.”
The Pirate King tucked the card into his boot and recaptured her gaze. “This Thursday. I’m thinking midnight.”
Bernadette quirked a brow. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Midnight is my version of noon,” he added, still holding her gaze.
He was clearly interested only in linen ripping. And who was she to deny over six feet of brawn? “Midnight it is.”
His mouth quirked. “I’ll see you then.” Rounding his stolen stallion, he glanced back at her one last time, then he and his friend galloped off down the path.
Georgia tsked. “You have no self-control. None whatsoever.”
Bernadette smirked. “Coming from you, Miss Tormey, I will take that to be a compliment.”