A Duke Never Yields (44 page)

“Stand back!” she barked.

The man threw back his head and laughed. “A live one! Bleedin’ little squeaker. I’ll . . .”

Emilie shoved the chicken leg in her pocket and brought up the knife. “I said stand back!”

“Oh, it’s got a knife, has it?” He laughed again. “What’s that in your pocket, mate?”

“Nothing.”

He raised one hamlike fist and knocked the knife from her fingers. “I said, what’s that in your pocket, mate?”

Emilie’s fingers went numb. She looked over the man’s shoulder. “Watch out!”

The man spun. Emilie leaned down, retrieved the knife, and pushed him full force in his wide and sagging buttocks. He lurched forward with a hard grunt and grabbed wildly for the chair, which shattered into sticks under his hand. Like an uprooted windmill he fell, arms rotating in drunken circles, to crash atop the dirty shavings on the floor. He flopped once and lay still.

“Oh, well done!”

The boy popped out of nowhere, brushing his sleeves, grinning. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and examined the platter of limbless chicken. “I do believe that’s mine,” he said, taking the half crown and flipping it in the air.

“Wh-what?” asked Emilie helplessly.

“Freddie, you bleedin’ fool!” It was the barmaid. Her hands were fisted on her hips, and her hair flew in wet strands from her cap.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” said the boy. He turned to her with a smile.

Rose?
thought Emilie, blinking at the broad-shouldered barmaid.

“You has to watch yer mouth, Freddie,” Rose was saying, shaking her head. Another shout came from the mass of men, piled like writhing snakes atop one another on the floor nearby. Someone leaped toward them, shirt flapping. Rose picked up Emilie’s half-empty wine bottle and swung it casually into the man’s head. He groaned once and fell where he stood. “I’ve told yer and told yer.”

“I know, Rose, and I’m sorry.” Young Freddie looked contritely at his shoes.

“You’d best fly, Freddie, before yer father comes a-looking. And take this poor young sod with yer. He ain’t fit for fighting.”

Freddie turned to Emilie and smiled. “I think you’ve misjudged him, Rose. He’s got a proper spirit.”

“I have nothing of the sort,” Emilie squeaked. She took a deep breath and schooled her voice lower. “That is, I should be happy to retire. The sooner”—she ducked just in time to avoid a spinning plate, which smashed violently into the wall an instant later—“the better, really.”

“All right, then. Don’t forget your valise.” Freddie picked it up and handed it to her, still smiling. He was a handsome lad, really, beneath his spots. He had a loose-limbed lankiness to him, like a puppy still growing into his bones. And his eyes were pure blue, wide and friendly behind the clear glass of his spectacles.

“Thank you,” Emilie whispered. She took the valise in her greasy fingers.

“Have you a room?” Freddie asked, dodging a flying fist.

“Yes, upstairs. I . . . oh, look out!”

Freddie spun, but not in time to avoid a heavy shoulder slamming into his.

“Jack, you drunken bastard!” screeched Rose.

Freddie staggered backward, right into Emilie’s chest. She flailed wildly and crashed to the ground. Freddie landed atop her an instant later, forcing the breath from her lungs. The knife flew from her fingers and skidded across the floor.

“Right, you little whoreson,” said the attacker. He was the first one, Emilie thought blearily, the one who had knocked the coins from the table to begin with. He was large and drunk, his eyes red. He leaned down, grabbed Freddie by the collar, and hauled back his fist.

“No!” Emilie said. Freddie’s weight disappeared from her chest. She tried to wriggle free of the rest of him, but Freddie was flailing to loosen himself from the man’s grasp. Emilie landed her fist in the crook of one enormous elbow and levered herself up, just a little, just enough that she could bend her neck forward and sink her teeth into the broad pad of the man’s thumb.

“
Oy!
” he yelled. He snatched his hand back, letting Freddie crash to the ground and roll away, and grabbed Emilie’s collar instead.

Emilie clutched at his wrist, writhing, but he was as solid as a horse and far less sensible. His fist lifted up to his ear, and his eyes narrowed at her. Emilie tried to bring up her knee, her foot, anything. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the shattering blow, the flash of pain, the blackness and stars and whatever it was.

How the devil had this happened to her? Brawls only happened in newspapers. Only men found themselves locked in meaty fists, expecting a killing punch to the jaw. Only men . . .

But then . . . she
was
a man, wasn’t she?

With one last mighty effort, she flung out her hand and scrabbled for the knife. Something brushed her fingertips, something hard and round and slippery. She grasped it, raised it high, and . . .

“
Oogmph!
” the man grunted.

The weight lifted away. Her collar fell free.

Emilie slumped back, blinking. She stared up at the air before her. At her hand, grasping the tip of a chicken leg.

She sat up dizzily. Two men swam before her, her attacker and someone else, someone even broader and taller, who held the fellow with one impossibly large hand. Emilie expected to see his other fist fly past, crashing into the man’s jaw, but it did not. Instead, the newcomer raised his right arm and slammed his elbow on the juncture of his opponent’s neck and shoulder.

“Oy?” the man squeaked uncertainly, and sagged to the ground.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Freddie. He stood up next to Emilie and offered her his hand. “Was that necessary?”

Emilie took Freddie’s hand and staggered to her feet. She looked up at the newcomer, her rescuer, to say some word of abject thanks.

But her breath simply stopped in her chest.

The man filled her vision. If Emilie leaned forward, her brow might perhaps reach the massive ball of his shoulder. He stood quite still, staring down at the man slumped on the ground with no particular expression. His profile danced before her, lit by the still-roaring fire, a profile so inhumanly perfect that actual tears stung the corners of Emilie’s eyes. He was clean-shaven, like a Roman god, his jaw cut from stone and his cheekbone forming a deep shadowed angle on the side of his face. His lips were full, his forehead high and smooth. His close-cropped pale hair curled about his ear. “Yes,” he said, the single word rumbling from his broad chest. “Yes, my dear boy. I believe it
was
necessary.”

Dear boy?

Emilie blinked and brushed her sleeves. She noticed the chicken leg and shoved it hastily in her pocket.

“I was about to take him, you know,” said Freddie, in a petulant voice.

The man turned at last. “I would rather not have taken that chance, you see.”

But Emilie didn’t hear his words. She stood in horrified shock, staring at the face before her.

The face before her:
His
face, her hero’s face, so perfect in profile, collapsed on the right side into a mass of scars, of mottled skin, of a hollow along his jaw, of an eye closed forever shut.

From somewhere behind him came Rose’s voice, raised high in supplication. “Your Grace, I’m that sorry. I did tell him, sir . . .”

“
Your Grace?
” Emilie said. The words slipped out in a gasp. Understanding began to dawn, mingled with horror.

Freddie handed Emilie her valise and said ruefully, “His Grace. His Grace, the Duke of Ashland, I’m afraid.” A sigh, long and resigned. “My father.”

*   *   *

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Berkley Sensation titles by Juliana Gray

A LADY NEVER LIES

A GENTLEMAN NEVER TELLS

A DUKE NEVER YIELDS