To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(78)

And it didn’t matter.

He gulped the rest of the brandy and rose with purpose. He needed to see Emeline. Worlds apart or no, she was a woman and he was a man. Some things were basic.

Outside his town house, he saw that the lights still blazed next door. Coachmen sat huddled on their perches, a few running footmen stood together, passing a bottle between them. He leapt up Emeline’s front steps and was confronted with a burly footman. The man made a move as if to block his path.

Sam stared at him hard. “I’m Lady Emeline’s neighbor.”

This was no invitation, of course, but the footman must’ve seen the determination in his eyes and decided the point wasn’t worth arguing. “Yes, sir.” He held the door open.

Sam crossed the threshold and immediately realized his peril. The hall held only a few servants, but the grand, curving staircase was crowded. He began making his way up the stairs, past loudly talking groups. Emeline’s ballroom was on the upper floor, and as he neared, the clamor became louder, the air heavier and hotter. He felt sweat start at his neck. He hadn’t been in such a crowded space since the Westerton ball, and there he had succumbed to his demons most ignominiously. Not here, he prayed.

By the time he made the entrance to the ballroom, his breath was coming fast and short, as if he’d run miles. For a moment, he considered turning back. Emeline had lit thousands of beeswax candles in her ballroom, in mirrored chandeliers overhead. The place was bright, sparkling like a fairyland. Swags of scarlet silk hung from the walls and ceiling, orange and red flowers caught in the knots. The room was beautiful, elegant, but he didn’t care. His woman was somewhere in this room, and he meant to catch her and hold her.

Sam inhaled carefully through his mouth and dove into the mass of sweating, milling humanity. He could hear violins faintly playing, but they were all but drowned out by laughter and chattering voices. A gentleman in purple velvet turned and bumped into Sam’s chest. Blood and screaming, eyes wide in a white face below a bleeding scalp. He closed his eyes, shoving past the man. Ahead was an opening in the crowd where the dancers paced with stately grace. He made the edge of the dance floor and paused, gasping for air. A matron in yellow silk eyed him and whispered behind her fan to her companion. Damn them all, anyway, these overfed, overornamented English aristocrats. When had they ever known fear or felt the splatter of blood from a fellow soldier? The surprise in a young soldier’s face as half his head was blown away.

The dancers halted, no more out of breath than if they’d sat for the last five minutes. They looked bored and bloodless, as if they could barely take the trouble to keep themselves upright. The crowd shuffled against him, and he had to close his eyes and concentrate to keep from striking out at the nearest person. He breathed deeply and tried to think of Emeline’s eyes. In his mind, they were narrowed with exasperation and that made him almost smile.

He opened his eyes, and Lord Vale strode into the middle of the dance floor, now nearly empty. “Friends! Friends, may I have your ear?”

Vale’s shout, loud though it was, was swallowed by the mass of bodies. Nevertheless, the conversations began to die.

“Friends, I have something to say!”

A group of young gentlemen moved in front of Sam, obscuring his vision. They looked barely old enough to shave.

“Friends!” came Vale’s shout again, and Sam caught a glimpse of scarlet.

His heart galloped. He put out a hand to shove against a padded shoulder, and the young buck in front of him turned to glare. Sam inhaled and caught the stink of sweat. Male sweat, sour and burning, the smell of fear. The prisoner MacDonald crouching under a wagon as the battle raged all around. MacDonald catching Sam’s eye from his hiding place. MacDonald grinning and winking.

“I have an announcement that pleases me greatly.”

Sam started forward, ignoring the stench, ignoring his demons, ignoring the realization that he was already too late.

“Lady Emeline Gordon has consented to be my wife.”

The crowd applauded as Sam barreled through the men, those dead and alive, who stood between him and Emeline. He came out on the dance floor and saw Emeline smiling politely beside Vale. Vale had his arms raised, triumphant in this moment. Emeline turned her head and her smile died as she saw Sam.

He started for them with no thought in his head save murder.

Vale caught sight of him. His eyes narrowed and he nodded to someone behind Sam. Sam felt his arms seized and pulled behind him. And then he was being hustled from the ballroom by two burly footmen, a third clearing the way ahead. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to call out to Emeline. At the side of the ballroom, Sam finally came to himself and twisted violently, catching one of the footmen by surprise. He pulled his arm free and swung at the man, but before his fist could connect, he was shoved from behind. The first footman still holding him let go, and Sam half fell into the hall. He straightened and whirled, and Vale’s fist slammed into his jaw.

Sam stumbled back, landing on his arse. Vale stood over him, his fists still balled. “That was for Emmie, you whoreson.” He turned to the footmen behind him. “Take this rubbish and pitch it—”

But Vale didn’t finish the sentence. Sam rose, low and fast, and charged him, catching him about the knees. Vale went down with a thunderous crash, Sam on top. Several women shrieked and the crowd scattered away from them. Sam began to crawl up him, but Vale twisted, and they both went tumbling, rolling toward the stairs. A matron screamed as she fled down the stairs, pushing other ladies ahead of her. Their skirts swept across suddenly cleared steps.