A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(31)

Had he acted rightly to tackle her?

Again he could not regret his actions. Even if he’d been aware that the missile was a melon, he likely would have done the same. Had the fruit been any less ripe, it might not have exploded on contact. She could have been seriously injured. Thorne’s head was still pounding from the impact.

No, it was everything that came afterward. That was where he’d gone wrong. The shock had rocketed him to some other place. A place filled with smoke and the stench of blood. He’d found himself crawling on his belly toward the sound of her voice. For miles, it seemed, collecting scrapes on his knees and hands. Until he found the source—a clear, calm pool of water amidst the ugliness, with her face reflecting up at him instead of his own. He’d lowered his face to drink from it, lapping up that cool, refreshing peace. But it wasn’t enough. He’d wanted to bathe in her, drown in her.

That kiss . . .

Even when he came to his senses, he hadn’t pulled back. Not immediately, as he should have done. He’d never forgive himself for that. He could have truly hurt her.

But Lord. She’d been so sweet.

He lifted—and swiftly gulped—the tumbler of whiskey. Didn’t help. Even a second dose of liquid fire couldn’t burn her taste from his lips. He let his pounding head fall back until it met with the uneven stone wall.

So sweet. So soft in his arms. Christ, she’d been under him, every bit as warm and alive as he’d known she would be. Stroking his face and his hair, murmuring gentle words. The recollection made his chest ache and his groin tighten.

Good God. Good God.

He sipped the liquor again. As he forced the swallow down, a groan of raw pain and longing rose in his chest. All the whiskey in the bottle couldn’t numb this ache.

But he knew one thing.

This lusting stopped here. With these queer, mysterious Gramercys in the picture, she needed his protection. He needed to keep his wits sharp. If he came too close, he risked compromising her and losing his own focus. So there could be no more closeness. Only the bare minimum of contact. Handing her down from carriages and the like. Perhaps he’d be pressed to offer his arm on occasion.

But on this, he was resolved—

There would be no more kisses. Ever.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Corporal Thorne! Corporal Thorne, come out.”

Thorne’s heart kicked into a gallop. He thrust his feet into his boots and punched to a standing position. As he made for the door, he snagged his coat from its hook.

“What is it?” He flung open the door to view a red-faced, out-of-breath Rufus Bright.

The young man’s eyes were serious. “Sir, you’re needed down in the village at once.”

“Where? What’s happened?”

“The Bull and Blossom. And I can’t describe it, sir. You’ll see when you get there.”

That was all Thorne needed to hear. He broke into a run. From there it was a footrace with trouble—which particular kind of trouble, he hated to imagine. Was she sick? In danger? Had the Gramercys heard about the melon incident and departed in disgust, leaving her heartbroken and alone?

Damn, damn, damn.

Walking from the castle to the village normally took about twenty minutes. Going this direction, he had the advantage of the downslope—but with the light fading, a man had to watch his step.

Nevertheless, Thorne would venture no more than five minutes had passed by the time he reached the bottom of the path and plunged into the village lanes. A few moments later he was tearing across the green and throwing open the tavern door.

Bloody hell. It seemed that every soul in Spindle Cove was packed into the place. He saw villagers, militiamen, ladies from the Queen’s Ruby. Like fish in a net they were, just a mass of wriggling bodies with gaping mouths.

To a one, they turned and hushed as he burst through the doorway. Thorne could imagine why. He was panting, sweating, growling, and furious with the need to know just what the hell was going on.

But he was so winded, he hadn’t the breath for extensive questioning. Only three words mattered, in his mind. He used the last of his air to bark them out.

“Where is she?”

The crowd rustled and sorted itself, pushing Miss Taylor forward as if she were the wheat amid the chaff.

He swept his gaze up her body, then studied her face. She was whole, and not bleeding. Her eyes were clear, not red with tears. That alone was enough to make her the most beautiful thing he’d ever beheld. As far as he was concerned, her low-cut, fitted yellow gown was merely in the way. She had better not be bruised or broken under all that shimmering silk.

“Surprise,” she said. “It’s a party.”

“A . . .” He worked for breath. “ . . . A party.”

“Yes. An engagement party. For us.”

He swept a look around the crowded tavern. This might have started as a party. It was going to end as someone’s funeral.

“Wasn’t it a nice idea?” She forced a smile. “Your militiamen planned it.”

“Oh, did they?”

Thorne turned to the bar, where his militiamen stood in a lazy, substandard line. Pursing their lips like buglers, to keep from laughing aloud.

He wanted to murder them all. One by one by one. Unluckily for them, he’d left his pistol at the castle. But there had to be knives in this place.