While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(4)

Then a body slammed into her. A pained cry escaped her as she flew through the air, clearing the oncoming carriage’s path.

She slammed down on the other side of the street as the carriage roared past in a clatter of wheels and hooves. Hard arms wrapped around her, her savior’s body cushioning her, saving her from the worst of the impact.

The horses screamed in protest nearby as their driver pulled hard on the reins, still trying to get them to stop.

She pulled back to look down at the person who had just saved her life.

“You!”

The burly Scot glared up at her, his face drawn tight in lines of pain. “Feel free to climb off me whenever you so wish. You’re heavier than you look.”

“Ooh!” She clambered off him, noticing that he was still clutching his arm. He was injured. She felt a stab of sympathy until she recalled he was responsible for his injury. None of this would have happened if he had not engaged in a brawl with her duke . . .

At the reminder of Autenberry, her gaze shot to where he had fallen. Several people now surrounded him. Lifting her skirts, she rushed forward and pushed through the gathering crowd, her eyes wild for a glimpse of him.

She gasped as she looked down on him still prone on the ground. His eyes were closed and there was a deathly pallor to his face—as though all the blood had been leeched from his body.

The air left her in a rush and she couldn’t even make herself move for a moment. She stood there, stunned, looming over the duke, everything else disappearing around her.

Please, please, let him not be dead.





Chapter 2




Everything roared back to focus around her. Bodies suddenly pushed all around her to peer down at him. A man crouched beside the duke and checked for the pulse at his neck. “He’s alive,” he pronounced.

She exhaled deeply, the tension in her shoulders easing. That same man who declared her duke not dead pulled the cap from his head and looked up at her, his voice full of awe. “Gor, miss. You jumped in front of that carriage for him!”

She nodded distractedly, her throat clogged tight with emotion.

“Nearly got herself killed in the process,” a deep voice declared.

She cut a swift glance at the speaker, recognizing that brogue. The crowd stepped aside for the glowering Scot. His moss green eyes hardly looked at her. His gaze rested intently on the duke. “He alive?”

“He’s not dead.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. She swallowed in an attempt to reclaim it. “No thanks to you.”

He looked back at her. “And you’re not dead . . . thanks to me,” he reminded in his gravelly tones.

The man clutching his cap gawked. “You saved her, sir! Never seen the like, I tell you!” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “You’re both heroes!”

Poppy shifted on her feet, not liking the idea of this man as heroic. He was the villain in this little drama. She ignored the voice in her head that reminded her that he had pulled her out of the carriage’s path. And that the duke had been the one to strike the first blow. In her eyes, the brawny Scot was the wrongdoer. The Duke of Autenberry must have been provoked into striking him.

“You saved his life,” Mrs. Barclay exclaimed, her hands patting Poppy’s shoulders proudly.

Poppy nodded briskly. “That remains to be seen if we don’t get him out of this cold and properly tended.”

The man waved his cap to a nearby hackney. “I can convey him anywhere you require.”

“Aye, then. Let’s get him off the street,” the Scot instructed as though he were in charge. The temerity!

Everyone scurried to action. The hackney driver and another onlooker lifted the unconscious duke between them and carried him toward the waiting carriage. Annoyance prickled through her that the stranger had achieved their instant obedience. It was as though he bore no culpability in this day’s deeds. Was it merely because he was a man? A well-dressed one at that and clearly a gentleman?

She rose to her feet, delivering him a withering look. Stepping close, she hissed for his ears alone. “You’ve assisted quite enough here, sir.” She let her meaning hang there, clear even if not spoken. Take yourself off now.

He looked at her—or through her, rather, for that was how it felt. A cold, emotionless stare that cut straight into her and left her chest tight, the air thick in her throat.

Then, as though she had said nothing of value to him, as though she was of no value, he turned and walked away toward the hack, dismissing her, still looking far too authoritative even with his bruised face, bloodied lip and arm held tightly to his side. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he regretted saving her life.

“You should accompany His Grace home, Poppy. Make certain he is delivered to his household and into the caring hands of his staff.” Mrs. Barclay leaned close to whisper with a conspiratorial air, her dark eyes shifting to the Scotsman. Apparently she was not as trusting of the stranger as everyone else. “The duke is one of our best customers. We must be all that is solicitous.”

Poppy resisted reminding her that saving his life was fairly solicitous by most standards because she wholeheartedly agreed with Mrs. Barclay. The duke should not be left alone until he reached the care of his staff.

Nodding, she looked back and forth between her employer and the coach into which they were currently loading the duke. Autenberry. Her heart ached for him. He was not out of the woods yet. Please, don’t die.