Even if she was a lying trull, Matthew couldn’t help but pity her terror and helplessness. Terror and helplessness he’d felt often enough himself over the last eleven years. He resented but couldn’t stifle his swift empathy. It no longer mattered whether she conspired against him. All that mattered was that she was small and defenseless and the only champion she could call on was Matthew Lansdowne.
“What is the meaning of this?” he snarled, stepping forward. He signaled to Wolfram and the dog loped up, his hackles rising.
Monks turned toward him and sketched a bow. These days, his jailers preserved superficial respect for his rank. When they’d had him bound before them, they hadn’t been so careful. Perhaps they thought in his raving, he’d neither register nor remember their cruelty.
“My lord. This slut hasn’t met with your approval. We’ll take her away and get you a new one.”
“I’m not a toy,” the woman snapped, still trying to wriggle free of Filey’s bruising hold.
“Shut your gob, bitch,” Monks said. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”
“You have no right to speak to me like that,” she objected in her cut-glass accent, a perfect match for Matthew’s.
“I warned you.” Monks raised a clenched fist.
Matthew got there first, his arm upheld to fend off the blow. Staring fixedly into Monks’s small dirt-colored eyes, he stood like a barrier in front of the frightened girl.
“Damn you, let her be.” He summoned every ounce of Lansdowne arrogance. And still knew it mightn’t be enough.
It was enough for Filey. He released the chit and shifted away. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” he muttered, keeping a nervous eye on Wolfram.
Matthew wasn’t so sure of Monks. For a long space, the brute stared with obstinate hatred into his face. Eventually something—fear of future consequences, unwillingness to break the fragile but long-held truce between them—made Monks’s eyes flicker away.
The girl was still at Matthew’s back. He reached behind to snatch her arm and tug her forward to stand beside him. He didn’t look at her but he felt the convulsive tremors that ran through her. Thankfully, for once she’d decided silence was her best tactic.
“This lady is under my protection. If harm comes to her, my uncle will hear. I promise you, he won’t be pleased.”
Monks might be in retreat but he was far from defeated. His lips stretched in a leering smile. “So I take it the bitch is mistaken and you do want her, your lordship?”
Matthew hesitated. Admitting he wanted the woman meant he enlisted in his uncle’s foul scheme.
If he didn’t claim her, she would die.
Triumph glowed in Monks’s eyes. He was far from stupid and he was party to many of Lord John’s plots. He knew the significance of this moment.
Matthew couldn’t say it. To save his soul, he couldn’t.
At his side, the girl choked back a terrified sob. She stood close enough for the scent of jasmine to lure his senses. She was warm against his body. Warm and alive.
He looked steadily into his enemy’s eyes and spoke with calm certainty. “Yes, I want her. She is mine.”
The words wouldn’t have been nearly so difficult to say if they hadn’t been the absolute truth.
Chapter 5
Grace heard the marquess speak from a great distance. The actual words hardly registered. Shaking with sick relief, she pressed against his side. He was all that shielded her from unimaginable horror. His ruthless grip on her arm anchored her to reality, stopped her screaming out her fear.
Her disbelieving heart thundered two words over and over. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.
Monks grinned at Lord Sheene in a horribly knowing way that made cold sweat break out all over her body. “I wish your lordship good sport. Eh, I’ll be right glad to give you tips on pleasing a lass.”
The marquess’s smooth baritone dripped ice. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Monks. Treat this lady with respect or by God, you’ll answer for it.”
Lord Sheene’s arm slid around Grace’s shoulders and drew her into his body. Like an elixir against panic, the clean smell of his skin wafted out to tease her. It was familiar although she’d have thought herself too disoriented yesterday to notice his scent.
“That goes for you too, Filey.” He sounded like a man who commanded armies, not a poor captive lunatic. “Now leave us.”
The aura of authority must have convinced. Filey and Monks scuttled off in bowing confusion. Only when they were out of sight did Lord Sheene untangle himself and step away. Grace immediately missed his heat and strength.