Page 146 of Immortal Rose

The boy disappeared as the man forced me forward, throwing me off-balance. I parted my lips, just enough to get one of his meaty fingers between my teeth, and bit down as hard as I could.

“Bitch!” the man yelped, jerking me hard enough to jar my skull. His essence salted with desperation and the gunpowder stench of fury as I kicked at his knees, writhing and twisting like a feral cat. He locked his arms over my chest, his heavy beard scraping against my face as he snarled, “Be still! ’E wants to see ye!”

Panic turned my heart inside out, my mind racing. Eyes—no, even if I got my arms free, I couldn’t thrust my fingers back far enough to strike there. I tried dropping, only to be roughly dragged forward like a sack of grain.

“She’s a virago, ain’t she?” the boy said.

The door to outside opened ahead of us, and my heart plummeted as I glimpsed what awaited us there: horses, a coach. Seeing us emerge, a bald man took up the ribbons again, calling out, “’Urry up, will ye?”

We burst out into a glare of sunlight. I dug my heels into the soft earth, pulling off my gloves with my teeth so I could claw at his hairy, sweat-slick arm with my nails. My captor grunted, squeezing his arms around me until every ounce of air left my chest.

“Didn’t say I needed to bring ye to ’im conscious,” he snarled, shifting a hand to my throat. Black spread over my vision as I cast a searching glance around me. At the far right end of the palace, two policemen stood, watching. Doing nothing.

I screamed into the man’s hand.

The coach door flung open before us, revealing an interior as dark as night. I wouldn’t let them drag me in there. I would die before that.

Getting a foot between my captor’s legs, I kicked up and back. My skirt tore, but my bootheel struck true. The man gasped, doubling over. Air flooded my lungs again as I stumbled out of his grip.

“Help!” I screamed to the police. “Help me!”

Horror poured through my soul as they turned, facing the other way.

“Ye—ye troublesome bitch!”

I turned just as the captor swung a fist toward me. The blow startled more than maimed, my bonnet absorbing the worst of the hit. I crashed back against the coach, clutching my ringing ear as I fell to my knees.

The palace smeared with the shadows of the trees, the cacophony of scents that overwhelmed me. Wet fur, Linden’s stench, warm oak, and—

A dark figure rounded the coach. There was a ferocious shout, and suddenly my captor was on the ground, covering his head with a strangled scream.

My heart leapt into my throat.

Hugh stood over the man, eyes blazing with cold, murderous fury. He raised a horse whip and brought it down hard against the man’s head, his shoulders, his arms—lash after lash, the full weight of his body driving the flogging, until the man’s flayed skin oozed with blood.

“Foxcourt!” I gasped out. “Stop!”

Hugh was beyond hearing me—beyond hearing anyone. His face was terrible, like chiseled ice; his movements all lethal grace as he tossed the whip aside and prowled toward his prey. The driver and boy seized the opportunity to flee, stumbling away through the oak trees.

My captor whimpered, trying to crawl back to the safety of the coach, but Hugh seized him by the collar and launched his fist into the man’s already swollen pulp of a face.

Hands gripped my arms and I whirled, raising my elbow to strike.

“It’s me!” Reddy said, panting. The stench of blood was so profound I hadn’t even picked up on his essence. His gaze snagged on Hugh, his brown skin going ashen. “I—”

I pulled free of him. “Hugh! Stop!”

He would kill this man, I saw it in his face, saw it in the unceasing way his fist hammered the man’s features into something unrecognizable as human.

He didn’t react to my voice or my attempt to grip his arm. He fought like a man possessed—as if all that control he’d carefully cultivated had shattered and unleashed something far more wild and merciless in himself.

“Bloody hell!” Reddy yelped, finally jumping into the fray. Hooking his arms beneath Foxcourt’s, he hauled him bodily away, nearly earning himself a black eye for his trouble. “Fox! Stop this!”

There was movement at the edge of my vision—my whole body surged with relief at the sight of Willie and Tommy rushing toward us, pistols in hand. A small contingent of police ran at their heels, suddenly interested in doing their jobs.

I swung back toward Foxcourt as he strained to break from Reddy’s hold. If he killed this man in front of so many witnesses . . .

Well, that wouldn’t do at all. There was room enough for only one accused murderer in this partnership.