The man jerked her to her feet. Casually he dropped the silver whistle to the wooden floor and crushed it beneath his booted heel.
Garrett’s eyes and nose stung as she saw the flattened, split piece of metal, ruined beyond repair.
A pair of shoes entered her field of vision. She looked up and saw William Gamble. Reflexively she reared backward with such force that she would have fallen had the large man not reached out to steady her. For a terrible instant, she felt her gorge rise, a rude churning behind her ribs, and she was afraid she might be sick.
Gamble surveyed her without expression, and reached out to push back a few loose tendrils of her hair, regarding the abrasion on her temple and cheek. “No more marks on her, Beacom. Jenkyn won’t like it.”
“What’s it to him if I rough up a housemaid?”
“She’s no housemaid, idiot. She’s Ransom’s woman.”
Beacom stared at her with new interest. “The female sawbones?”
“Jenkyn said to bring her back to London if we found her.”
“A pretty piece,” Beacom commented, running his hand along the curve of her back. “She’s mine to play with until we get there.”
“Why don’t you take care of business first?” Gamble asked shortly.
“It’s as good as done.” Beacom held up his right hand, which was fitted with a contraption resembling a set of brass knuckles. It was made of jointed iron, with sharpened knobs protruding from the top. He used his thumb to pull back a tiny hook on the side, and pressed a button that caused a talon-like blade to snap out.
Garrett’s eyes widened in horror. The mechanism was like the spring lancets used for bloodletting.
Beacom grinned at her expression. “With this one little blade,” he told her, “I can drain a man as empty as weekday church.”
Gamble rolled his eyes. “You could do it just as easily with a small folding knife.”
“Toss off,” Beacom told him good-humoredly, and loped to the grand staircase, effortlessly ascending the steps two at a time as he headed to Ethan’s room.
A muffled scream tore from Garrett’s throat. She ran after him, only to feel Gamble’s arms latch around her from behind. She used all her weight to plant her feet hard on the ground, just as Ethan had taught her. The maneuver pulled Gamble a degree off balance. Garrett sidestepped and used her bound hands to strike backward at his crotch.
Unfortunately her aim was off, turning what would have been an incapacitating blow to the groin into a glancing swat. But it hurt Gamble enough to make his arms loosen. Twisting away, Garrett raced up the stairs, making as much noise as the gag would allow.
Gamble caught up to her as she reached the next floor, and gave her a hard shake. “Stow it,” he growled, “or I’ll break your neck right here, no matter what Jenkyn wants.”
Garrett went still, panting, as she heard noises in different parts of the house—a crash of what sounded like glass and furniture, and a heavy thud. Good God, how many men had Jenkyn sent?
Flicking a contemptuous glance at her, Gamble said, “You should have let Ransom die from the bullet wound. Would’ve been a damn sight more merciful than what Beacom’s doing to him.” He gave her a slight push. “Show me to his room.”
A few burning tears runneled down to Garrett’s chin as Gamble pushed and prodded her along the hallway. She reminded herself that Ethan was a light sleeper. It was possible he’d awakened in time to defend himself, or hide somewhere. Soon the servants would realize the house had been invaded, and they would come down from the third floor. If Ethan could manage to stay alive until then . . .
The door to his bedroom was wide open. The interior was faintly illuminated by the pilot lights from the hallway lamps, and a weak spill of moonlight from the window.
Garrett let out a muffled cry as she saw that Ethan was in his bed, facing away from the doorway. He lay on his side, making quiet sounds as if he were in pain, or lost in a nightmare. What was wrong with him? Was he ill? Was he pretending to be incapacitated?
Gamble steered her into the room with his hand at the back of her neck.
She felt a hard pressure against her skull, and heard the ratcheting click of a pistol hammer.
“Beacom,” Gamble said quietly. He moved to glance back at the hallway, while keeping the gun to Garrett’s head. “Beacom?”
No answer.
Gamble switched his attention to the man on the bed. “How many times do I have to keep killing you, Ransom?” he asked dryly.
Ethan made an incoherent sound.
“I have Dr. Gibson with me,” Gamble taunted. “Jenkyn wants me to bring her to him. Too bad. His interrogations never end well for women, do they?”
On the periphery of Garrett’s vision, a shadow lengthened slowly on the floor, like a spill of warm tar. Someone was approaching from behind. She resisted the temptation to look directly at the shadow, instead keeping her attention on Ethan’s still form.
“Should I put a bullet in her head instead?” Gamble asked. “As a kindness to an old friend? I’m sure you’d rather have her shot than tortured.” The muzzle of the revolver lifted from Garrett’s head. “Should I start with you, Ransom? If I do, you’ll never know what happens to her. Maybe you should beg me to shoot her first.” He pointed the gun at the figure on the bed. “Go on,” he said. “Let me hear it.”
As soon as Gamble took aim at Ethan, Garrett burst into action, using her right elbow to deliver a sharp blow to his throat.
The explosive jab took Gamble by surprise. Although she hadn’t managed to hit him squarely, it caught enough of his goiter to make him wheeze and clutch his neck with his free hand. He staggered back, barely managing to retain the revolver.
Although Garrett’s wrists were bound, she leapt toward his gun arm, grabbing desperately for his wrist. But before she could reach him, she slammed against a big, dark shape that had come between them. It was like hitting a stone wall.
Shaken and stunned, she stumbled backward and tried to make sense of what was happening. The room was filled with violent motion, as if a storm had found its way inside. Two men were fighting in front of her, using fists, elbows, knees, feet.
Reaching up to the tightly cinched gag, Garrett managed to tug it from her mouth. She spat out the sodden cloth and worked her dry, rough tongue against the sides of her cheeks. Without warning, the pistol came skidding across the floor, its trajectory so close that she was able to stop it with her foot. She fumbled to snatch up the weapon and hurried to Ethan’s bedside.
Croaking out his name, she tugged back the covers . . . and froze.
The man in the bed was Beacom. He was battered and only semiconscious, his body immobilized with a collection of trouser braces and surgical bandages.
Utterly bewildered, Garrett turned back to the brawling figures near the doorway. One of them had collapsed to the floor. The other had straddled him and was pummeling him unmercifully, intent on murder. He was dressed only in trousers, his upper half bare. She recognized the shape of his head, the breadth of his shoulders.
“Ethan,” she cried, running forward. Every movement he made strained arterial ligations and threatened to tear newly healed tissue. Every blow he delivered could start a fatal hemorrhage. “Stop! That’s enough.” Ethan didn’t respond, lost in blind, brutal rage. “Please stop—” Her voice broke with an anguished sob.
Someone rushed into the room. It was West, followed closely by two male servants in nightshirts and breeches. One of them carried a lamp that threw a steady yellow glow into the room.
Taking in the situation with one glance, West dove for Ethan and hauled him off Gamble. “Ransom,” he said, restraining him with considerable difficulty. Ethan resisted, snorting like a maddened bull. “Ransom, he’s down. It’s done. Easy, now. Calm yourself. We have enough homicidal madmen in the house as it is.” He felt Ethan begin to relax. “There, that’s it. Good fellow.” He glanced at the servants accumulating in the hallway. “It’s dark as Hades in here. Someone li
ght the damned hall sconces and bring more lamps. And find something to tie up that bastard on the floor.”
The servants hastened to obey.
“Garrett,” Ethan muttered, shoving free of West’s grasp. “Garrett—”
“Over there,” West said. “She’s in shock, and she’s holding a cocked pistol, which is making me nervous.”
“I’m not in shock,” Garrett said tartly, although she was shaking with full-body tremors. “Furthermore, my finger’s not on the trigger.”
Ethan came to her swiftly. After easing the gun from her hand and pushing the hammer spur back to a resting position, he set it on the nearby hearth mantel. He reached for a pair of wick trimming scissors and cut the cord around her wrists. He made a low animal sound as he saw the pressure marks left on her skin.
“I’m all right,” she said hastily. “They’ll fade in a few minutes.”
Hunting over her as if the past few minutes had been transcribed on her body, Ethan found the sore, throbbing abrasion on her temple and upper cheek. He grew very, very calm, his eyes darkening in a way that chilled her blood. Gently he angled her face for a better view. “Which one of them did this?” he asked in a mild tone that didn’t deceive her in the least.
She gave him a wobbly smile. “You don’t really expect me to tell you.”
Scowling, Ethan looked over her head at West. “We need to search the house.”
“The footmen are going through it room by room as we speak.” West stood over the prone form of William Gamble. “Ransom, I’m afraid your friends won’t be allowed to visit if they can’t learn to play nicely. We caught a third intruder, by the way.”
“Where is he?”
“In my room, trussed like a pigeon for roasting.”
Ethan blinked in surprise. “You fought him?”
“I did.”
“Single-handedly?”
West gave him a sardonic glance. “Yes, Ransom. He may be a trained assassin, but he made the mistake of waking a Ravenel from a sound sleep.” He gestured to the doorway. “Why don’t you take Dr. Gibson to her room while I see to this mess? I’ll have our guests lodged in the icehouse until you decide what’s to be done with them.”
Although Garrett had always prided herself on her steady nerves during an emergency, she couldn’t control the tremors that ran through her. If she weren’t so worried about Ethan’s condition, she might have been amused by the way they walked to her room like a crotchety old couple, both of them stiff and wincing.
She went directly to her doctor’s bag on the table and rummaged for her stethoscope. “I need to examine you,” she said through chattering teeth, fumbling with her supplies. Her fingers weren’t working properly. “Secondary hemorrhage occurs most commonly between the second and fourth weeks after a gunshot injury, although that’s usually in cases when the wound hasn’t closed properly, and yours is—”
“Garrett.” Ethan took hold of her from behind, and compelled her to face him. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Heaven knows what damage you may have done to yourself.”
“You can examine the altogether of me, head to toe, later on. But right now I’m going to hold you.”
“I don’t need that,” she said, twisting to reach her doctor’s bag.
“I need it.” Ignoring her protests, Ethan pulled her to the bed and sat with her on his lap, drawing her in securely.
She was held against the broad, hairy surface of his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. The scent of him, raw sweat and maleness, was comforting and familiar. He smoothed her hair and murmured endearments, his arms enfolding her in a warm, safe haven. She felt herself relaxing deeply. Her teeth stopped chattering.
How could he be so gentle with her, right after he’d dispatched two assailants with unnerving skill and ease? On some level, violence came just as naturally to him as it did to the brutal men who’d come here in search of him. She didn’t think she would ever be comfortable with that side of him. But he had proven that he was capable of empathy and selflessness. He was true to his own code of honor. And he loved her. That was more than enough to work with.
“When I heard a sound from downstairs,” Ethan murmured, “the first thing I did was go to your room. I saw you were missing.”
“I went to the library for a book,” Garrett said, and told him about hearing the geese, and being seized by Mr. Beacom. “He broke my whistle,” she finished, pressing her face to his smooth shoulder, her lashes turning wet. “He dropped it to the floor and stepped on it.”
Ethan cradled her more closely, his lips gently brushing the crest of her cheek. “I’ll give you another one, little love.” He ran a tender hand over her back, the warmth of his palm settling at the center of her spine. “And then I’ll settle the score with Beacom.”
Garrett stirred uneasily against him. “You’ve already thrashed him quite soundly.”
“That’s not enough.” Ethan angled her head to have another look at the abrasion on her temple. “He’s the one who hit you, isn’t he? For that I’ll beat him into a bloody puddle on the ground. All except for the head. I’m going to take the head and use the skull for—”
“I don’t want you to do that,” she said, mildly alarmed by his quiet savagery. “Revenge isn’t going to help anything.”
“It will help me.”
“No, it won’t.” She guided his face to hers. “Promise you won’t go near any of those men.”
He didn’t answer, his mouth set in sullen lines.
“Besides,” Garrett added, “there isn’t time. We have to leave for London right away, before Sir Jasper discovers what’s happened.”
Ethan spoke in a deliberately neutral tone. “’Tis best if I go to London on my own, while you stay here.”
Garrett’s head jerked up, and she looked at him with a mixture of surprise and outrage. “Why would you say that? How can you even think of leaving without me?”
“When I saw Gamble holding a gun to your head . . .” Ethan gave her a haunted glance. “I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life until tonight. It would break me to lose you. I’d have to be put down like a lame horse. Let me handle what I must while knowing you’re safe, and then I’ll come back for you.”
“And leave me to agonize every minute that you’re gone?” Garrett asked, shaping her hand to his taut cheek. “I’m no helpless damsel to be kept waiting in a tower, Ethan. Nor do I want to be worshipped like some marble goddess on a pedestal. I want to be loved as an equal partner who belongs at your side. And you need me there.”
Ethan’s gaze sank inside her, down to places in her heart that were reserved only for him. A long moment passed before he looked away, cursed, and scrubbed his fingers through his short, disheveled hair. As she waited for him to come to a decision, Garrett nuzzled her face against the warm column of his throat.
“All right,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll go together.”
She drew back and smiled at him.
“You won’t always have your way,” Ethan warned, seeming none too pleased by the situation.
“I know.”
“And I will keep you on a pedestal . . . if only a small one.”
“Why is that?” she asked, toying with the soft curls on his chest.
“First . . . you are a goddess to me, and that will never change. Second . . .” He curved his fingers over the back of her head, and brought her mouth close to his. “. . . I’m too tall for you to reach the good parts of me, otherwise.”
Garrett’s soft breath of laughter fanned against his lips. “My dear love,” she whispered, “all of you is the good parts.”
By daybreak, they were ready to depart for the railway station in the nearby market town of Alton. Although West had offered to accompany them to London, it had been agreed that he would be of more use staying at Eversby Priory with Jenkyn’s three agents in his custody. They were being kept in the root cellar under the close supervision of the Ravenel servants, w
ho were collectively outraged that anyone would dare force their way into the manor.
“If any of them give you trouble,” Ethan said to West as the three of them walked out to the front drive where the family carriage awaited, “use this.” He handed him the Bull Dog pocket revolver. “It’s a double-action model. You only need to cock the hammer once, and it will fire a round with every pull of the trigger.”
West regarded the gun dubiously. “If any of those louts give me trouble, I have a shed full of farming implements to use on them. You’ll need this if you’re planning to confront Jenkyn.”
“We’ll be armed with something far more powerful than bullets,” Garrett told him.
West looked at Ethan with mock alarm. “You’re taking the spoon?”
Reluctant amusement tugged at the corner of Ethan’s lips. “No. Dr. Gibson means we’ll be armed with words.”
“Words,” West repeated doubtfully, pocketing the revolver. “I’ve always been skeptical when people say ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ It’s only true if the pen is glued to the handle of a German steel cutlass.”
“The words will be printed in a newspaper,” Garrett said. “We’re going to the Times office.”
“Oh. That’s fine, then. The Times is mightier than the pen, the sword, and Her Majesty’s entire Royal Army.” West offered his hand to help Garrett into the carriage, and she ascended to the movable step. Pausing to look back at West, who was now at eye level, she smiled with such warmth that Ethan felt a sting of jealousy. He had to remind himself that West had been a friend and ally to Garrett during one of the most difficult times of her life.
“You may not be the most highly trained surgical assistant I’ve ever had,” she told West, her eyes twinkling, “but you are my favorite.” She leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
After Garrett had gone into the carriage, West grinned at Ethan’s expression. “There’s no need to glare daggers at me,” he said. “As delightful as Dr. Gibson is, she doesn’t have the makings of a farmwife.”