It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(104)

“I’m fine,” Lillian said hastily. “I haven’t been hurt.”

Bringing her hand to his mouth, Marcus kissed it roughly, and kept her fingers against his cheek while his breath struck her wrist in swift repetitions. “Lillian, did he…”

Reading the question in his haunted gaze, the words he couldn’t yet bring himself to voice, Lillian whispered scratchily, “No, nothing happened. There wasn’t time.”

“I’m still going to kill him.” There was a deadly note in his voice that made the back of her neck crawl. Seeing the open bodice of her gown, Marcus released her long enough to pull off his coat and place it over her shoulders. He suddenly went still. “That smell…what is it?”

Realizing that her skin and clothes still retained the noxious scent, Lillian hesitated before replying. “Ether,” she finally said, trying to form her trembling lips into a reassuring smile as she saw his eyes dilate into pools of black. “It wasn’t bad, actually. I’ve slept through most of the day. Other than a touch of queasiness, I’m—”

An animal growl came from his throat, and he pulled her against him once more. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Lillian, my sweet love…you’re safe now. I’ll never let anything happen to you again. I swear it on my life. You’re safe.” He took her head in his hands, and his mouth slid over hers in a kiss that was brief, soft, and yet so shockingly intense that she swayed dizzily. Closing her eyes, she let herself rest against him, still fearing that none of this was real, that she would awaken to find herself with St. Vincent once more. Marcus whispered comforting words against her parted lips and cheeks, and held her with a grip that seemed gentle but could not have been broken by the combined efforts of ten men. Glancing out from the secure depths of his embrace, she saw the tall form of Simon Hunt approaching.

“Mr. Hunt,” she said in surprise, while Marcus’s lips drifted over her temple.

Hunt slid a concerned glance over her. “Are you all right, Miss Bowman?”

She had to twist a little to avoid Marcus’s exploring mouth as she replied breathlessly. “Oh yes. Yes. As you can see, I am unharmed.”

“That is a great relief,” Hunt returned with a smile. “Your family and friends have all been quite distraught over your absence.”

“The countess—” Lillian began, and stopped short, wondering how to explain the magnitude of the betrayal to Marcus. However, as she looked into his eyes, she saw the infinite concern in their gleaming sable depths, and she wondered how she could ever have thought him unfeeling.

“I know what happened,” Marcus said softly, smoothing the wild mane of her hair. “You won’t ever have to see her again. She’ll be gone for good by the time we return to Stony Cross Park.”

Even with the questions and worries that flooded her, Lillian was overcome with sudden exhaustion. The waking nightmare had come to a precipitate end, and it seemed that for now there was nothing more she could do. She waited docilely, her cheek resting against the steady support of Marcus’s shoulder, only half hearing the conversation that ensued.

“…have to find St. Vincent…” Marcus was saying.

“No,” Simon Hunt said emphatically, “I’ll find St. Vincent. You take care of Miss Bowman.”

“We need privacy.”

“I believe there is a small room nearby—more of a vestibule, actually…”

But Hunt’s voice trailed away, and Lillian became aware of a new, ferocious tension in Marcus’s body. With a lethal shift of his muscles, he turned to glance in the direction of the staircase.

St. Vincent was descending, having entered the rented room from the other side of the inn and found it empty. Stopping midway down the stairs, St. Vincent took in the curious tableau before him …the clusters of bewildered onlookers, the affronted innkeeper …and the Earl of Westcliff, who stared at him with avid bloodlust.

The entire inn fell silent during that chilling moment, so that Westcliff’s quiet snarl was clearly audible. “By God, I’m going to butcher you.”

Dazedly Lillian murmured, “Marcus, wait—”

She was shoved unceremoniously at Simon Hunt, who caught her reflexively as Marcus ran full-bore toward the stairs. Instead of skirting around the banister, Marcus vaulted the railings and landed on the steps like a cat. There was a blur of movement as St. Vincent attempted a strategic retreat, but Marcus flung himself upward, catching his legs and dragging him down. They grappled, cursed, and exchanged punishing blows, until St. Vincent aimed a kick at Marcus’s head. Rolling to avoid the blow of his heavy boot, Marcus was forced to release him temporarily. The viscount lurched up the stairs, and Marcus sprang after him. Soon they were both out of sight. A crowd of enthusiastic men followed, shouting advice, exchanging odds, and exclaiming in excitement over the spectacle of a pair of noblemen fighting like spurred roosters.

White-faced, Lillian glanced at Simon Hunt, who wore a faint smile. “Aren’t you going to help him?” she demanded.

“Oh no. Westcliff would never forgive me for interrupting. It’s his first tavern brawl.” Hunt’s gaze flickered over Lillian in friendly assessment. She swayed a little, and he placed a large hand on the center of her back and guided her to the nearby grouping of chairs. A cacophony of noise drifted from upstairs. There were heavy thudding sounds that caused the entire building to shake, followed by the noises of furniture breaking and glass shattering.