While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(3)

“That man accosted the duke,” Poppy said even if that wasn’t precisely true. She knew the duke had been the first one to strike, but she knew he must have been provoked.

“This is dreadful!” Mrs. Barclay cried as the duke dealt a hard uppercut to the stranger’s jaw, sending him crashing into the white brick wall of the haberdasher’s shop, narrowly missing the proprietor. The rotund man leapt out of the way with surprising swiftness.

Shaking his head, the stranger touched his bloodied lip. Pulling back his hand, he looked down at the crimson smear. His eyes flashed in a way that made her stomach dip. The sight of his blood apparently enraged him. He pushed off the building and charged the duke, catching him in the midriff.

The two men collapsed into the street in a tangle of bodies and blur of limbs.

“Stop it!” she cried—the only one to shout a protest. The onlookers only seemed to grow, other people emerging from shops to watch the spectacle.

Autenberry and the stranger rolled, beating each other, fists landing wherever they could make contact. It was impossible to tell who had the upper hand. They appeared equally matched, thoroughly trouncing the other with such violence that her jaw ached from clenching her teeth so hard.

Poppy turned to look at the haberdasher and his customer. “Do something!” she cried.

He shrugged helplessly without tearing his gaze from the riveting display of the two men killing each other.

Not Autenberry. Not my duke.

She shrugged out of Mrs. Barclay’s grasp and rushed over to where a trio of gentlemen watched, shouting advice and placing bets among each other on the outcome.

“Please,” she beseeched. “Do something!”

One fellow sent her an incredulous look. “I’m not stopping it! I’ve wagered on the big one.”

Shaking her head, she stepped closer to the street, one hand worrying the collar of her dress, helplessly wrinkling the fabric.

The big blond man in question managed to rise to his feet. He set his boot against the duke, shoving him back down on the ground.

She saw red.

With a cry, she lunged into the street and jumped on his back, wrapping her limbs around him.

“What in the bloody hell—” He whirled in a circle, but she clung like she did every time she had captured Papa’s pig that regularly escaped its pen and fled to Mrs. Wolfston’s garden.

Poppy hugged the man’s hard body and squeezed, determined not to let go.

“Stop, you great brute!” She clung fast. “Leave him alone!”

“Are you daft, woman?” he growled, seizing her hands where she had locked them around his shoulders. She gasped at his rigid grip on her wrist. He was a lot stronger than Papa’s pig—and determined to be rid of her.

He staggered with her sudden weight and she feared they might crash to the ground together, his greater weight crushing her. Her stomach rolled, braced for the impact. He caught himself instead, weaving an unsteady line off the road toward the building. Dimly, she thought she heard Mrs. Barclay screaming her name, but she didn’t dare turn to locate her. She focused on clinging to her quarry instead.

He spun, trying to throw her off. She yelped and grabbed a fistful of his hair. The move yanked back his head and threw off his balance, launching him sideways and slamming them into the brick wall between Barclay’s and the haberdashery. A stinging epithet exploded from his lips. Pain fired along her side. She would bear bruises for that.

Leaning against the wall, he gasped as though needing a moment to recover. He’d taken the brunt of the impact and was hurt. Good.

She slid down the long lines of his body and stepped back. Panting and trembling like a leaf, she shoved the hair back that had fallen in her face and looked him up and down. She had to drop her head back to stare up at him. He was much too tall. He was much too . . . much.

He clutched his arm, holding it close to his side. A grimace passed over his face.

She propped her shaking hands on her hips. “I hope it’s broken! You deserve no less.”

“Bloody menace,” he growled in a deep Scottish brogue that she hadn’t noticed before. His eyes shot hot venom as they raked her up and down. His broad chest heaved. “This is no concern of yours, lass. Step away.”

Of course he would not speak like a normal person. Instead he sounded like a man that cracked a walnut in his teeth and bathed in an icy river every morning. Primitive and fierce. A veritable caveman.

“Look out!” Mrs. Barclay’s scream tore Poppy’s attention away from the heathen Scot.

She followed her employer’s gaze to the street where the duke struggled to regain his footing, shaking his head as though he couldn’t focus. That wasn’t all she saw.

A carriage was bearing down toward him. Fast.

Her heart dropped to the soles of her shoes. It was one of those moments she’d heard described in books or by people in times of great trauma.

Everything dragged to a crawl.

She saw the carriage. The horses with their steaming breaths and wild eyes. And the duke, helpless to move out of the way, directly in their path.

No no no no no.

She didn’t think. Just reacted, rushing straight into the street. The duke had just managed to rise unsteadily to his feet as Poppy barreled her body against him, propelling him safely out of the way.

She turned wide eyes to the carriage now bearing down on her. Cold washed through her, freezing her in place. Blast!