She suddenly found herself face-to-face with a London bruiser, a heavyset man at least twice as strong as she. Her arms were braced, holding her crossed blades high, his trapped between…he’d ended standing firmly, legs apart, evenly balanced, hands locked on his sword hilt.
He smiled cruelly, and bore down.
Her arm muscles started to quiver, then shake.
Madeline stared into his eyes…then shifted her feet and kicked him, hard, between his legs.
His eyes bulged, his face contorted; uttering an inhuman shriek, he went down, dropping his sword to clutch himself—then he howled even more as Edmond darted out, stabbed him in the thigh, then darted back behind Madeline again.
She spared her brother only a glance—enough to see his eyes were alight; he was thrilled beyond description.
Dragging in a breath, praying her pounding heart would stay down in her chest, she checked that they were reasonably protected by the two fallen men on either side, then swung her attention forward—in time to hear Charles drawl, “Excuse me.”
A second later, the last man facing Gervase crumpled to the sand.
Gervase was breathing a trifle rapidly; he studied the inanimate form at his feet, then looked up at Charles. “Spoilsport.”
Charles shrugged. “You were taking too long.” He peered around Gervase. “All well here?”
Lowering his sword, Gervase turned around; he knew both Madeline and Edmond were all right—he’d glanced their way countless times. He’d been so aware of them the entire time, he’d had to battle to keep his eyes and instincts focused on the men fighting him—had had to force himself to trust in Madeline’s ability to defend Edmond….
What he hadn’t counted on was her defending him.
But she had, without hesitation. Although he’d known of each attack before she’d acted and would have done something to avert the worst, she—ably seconded by Edmond—had at the very least saved him some ugly wounds.
He met her eyes, saw concern in hers—and more. The exhilaration of battle still rode him, familiar and potent, but tonight some other emotion was threaded through the mix. He found his lips lifting; raising an arm, he slung it about her shoulders, hauled her to him and buried his face in her hair. “Thank you.” He whispered the words into her ear, hugged her close, then eased his hold.
Enough to look at Edmond; he nodded, still smiling. “Thank you, too—you did well. And you followed orders.”
Edmond glowed. He brandished his knife. “We made an excellent team.”
Gervase laughed, nodded. “That we did.” He’d never fought as a team before, but he thought he could grow used to it.
Madeline’s hands were pressed to him, splayed over his still-damp chest. They were both sodden and sand-covered to midchest, but a slow burn of elation was rising within him, obliterating any chance of a chill.
His arm still about her shoulders—with her apparently perfectly happy to remain tucked against his side—they turned to survey the beach.
Charles and Abel, assisted by the fighters from the boats, were dragging and pushing the vanquished, locals and nonlocals alike, into a group a few yards from the bottom of the cliff path. None on their side looked to have sustained any mortal wound, nothing worse than slashes and cuts; some were nasty but none life-threatening. The same couldn’t be said of the wreckers; at least two of their number lay unmoving in the sand, and two others were being supported by their fellows, unable to walk unaided.
As he, Madeline and Edmond walked toward the gathering, Gervase grew inwardly grim. There would be more deaths to come; regardless of what happened to the Londoners, the surviving wreckers would hang. Quite aside from the seriousness with which the law viewed the activity, here in Cornwall, where most families had a long association with the sea, wreckers were beyond abhorrent.
Madeline, no surprise, had been thinking along similar lines. She murmured, “We’ll have to make sure their families don’t suffer for their acts.”
He nodded. Even close family members usually had no idea their loved ones had turned to the heinous trade. “John Miller will be shattered.”
Soberly, Madeline nodded.
They circled the defeated, miserable men to come up beside Dalziel. He stood with his back to the cliff path, sword still in hand; no one had got past him. A sense of explosive, barely restrained frustration emanated from him as he studied the slumped, exhausted men.
His expression was set, beyond grim. He looked up, met Gervase’s eyes, with his head indicated the clifftop behind him. “He’s not up top. The roads are blocked. Christian’s up there—he found a horse waiting and secured it. No curricle—he must have exchanged it for the horse during the afternoon.”
Dalziel looked down at the men gathered on the sand before him, their vanquishers standing over them, awaiting orders.
Eyes bleak, he crouched before the ogre Edmond had stabbed. The man looked into Dalziel’s face, and shrank back, small eyes flaring.
“Your master—where is he?”
A dark murmur rose from the group as others, along with the ogre, glanced around, and realized they’d been deserted.