“Ye’re outnumbered, ye bloody cockscum,” snarled a man missing his front teeth. He gave a maniacal laugh, spittle forming on the corner of his mouth. “The lass will nae get away. That fancy Frenchman will no’ stop until she’s dead.”
“Hold yer wheesht, ye idiot,” bellowed his compatriot. “Nae one’s to ken about him.”
“It willna make a difference,” the first ruffian argued, his beady gaze glinting with wrath. “Who’s this bastard goin’ to tell when he’s dead?” He snickered as if he’d made a clever jest.
“Ye’re assumin’ ye can kill me, ye whoremonger.” Weapons at the ready, Liam inched backward.
Like a pack of rabid, snarling wolves, they advanced toward him.
One wearing an incongruent vibrant purple silk and gold waistcoat beneath his impossibly filthy brown jacket elbowed another in the side and gave a malevolent chuckle. “Numpty sot still disna get it. There are five of us and one of him.”
“I’m surprised ye can count that high,” Liam said dryly, skewing his mouth into a mocking smile.
“Actually, ye tosspots, there are five of us as well,” Brogdon drawled, a wicked grin creasing his face. He enjoyed a brawl more than any man Liam knew.
Jaw slack, the thug swung around.
Logan, Quinn, and Coburn flanked Broden, each with murder etched upon their harsh features.
“I want them alive,” Liam growled before lunging forward to take down the first man.
The hired thugs were no match for Liam and his friends. In short order, three more lay unconscious, and a fourth hunched upon the ground, supporting his broken arm. The fifth scumbag squirmed as Liam pressed his fingers hard into the man’s throat and shoved him against the building.
“Who hired ye?”
The man sneered in defiance, and Liam tightened his grasp.
Clawing at Liam’s hand, the hireling tried to kick him.
Mrs. Morris poked her bewigged head out of the haberdashery, and upon spying Liam with a man by the throat, uttered a strangled squeak and slammed the door shut. The rasping and clicking of three locks being secured in rapid succession almost made him grin. Almost.
“I’ll ask ye one more time before I start breakin’ bones,” Liam said. “Who. Hired. Ye?”
Gray-faced and making gurgling noises, the wretch stuttered, “The…wench’s…brother.”
Liam loosened his grip a fraction, uncertain he’d heard correctly. Emeline had said she hadn’t any kin but distant cousins.
“Brother?” He scowled and shook the wretch. “Are ye certain?”
“Aye. Aye.” The man gasped and choked, his bulging eyes darting back and forth. As if he realized the game was up, he babbled, “A prissy fella named Jean Claude Gagneux. He’s boardin’ at the Swan and Stag at the south end of town.”
The cur sitting on the ground and favoring his arm, snickered. His mad-eyed gaze shifted between Liam and his friends standing guard over the other miscreants. “He kens where she’s stayin’, too.”
Christ on the blessed cross.
Swearing beneath his breath, Liam gave the thug another hard shove before releasing him. Cradling his already bruising neck, the man slumped to the ground as Liam spun toward his friends.
“Coburn, Logan, see these Satan’s spawns are turned over to the authorities,” he said swiping his hair off his forehead. “Broden, ye and Quinn come with me. We’re payin’ Monsieur Gagneux a visit.”
Chapter Twelve
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Emeline pivoted and paced the other direction, deliberately counting her steps again. Doing so kept her focused and also from screaming her frustration and fear. She darted a glance at the bronze mantle clock and the air whooshed from her lungs.
Prince, lying before the hearth, raised his head from his forepaws, watching her progress with worried pecan-brown eyes. Releasing a woeful sigh, he lowered his head once more, but his dark gaze never left her.
Three hours.
Three hours since Camden Kennedy had unceremoniously scooped her up like a sack of grain and tossed her into the carriage. Three hours since she been bustled inside the house and offered tea to soothe her frayed nerves. Three interminable hours since she’d last seen her beloved’s face contorted into a battle-hardened warrior’s scowl.
She marched to the window and peered out onto the street again.
Och, when I see Liam MacKay, Baron Penderhaven, again, I’ll give him a piece of my mind for havin’ me carted off like a hog to market.
For not telling her his insane plan to which she would have strenuously objected. For staying behind to make certain she was safely away. For putting her life before his.
Her heart contracted painfully. Oh, Liam, ye darin’, wonderful numpty. Blinking away tears, she muttered beneath her breath, “I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”
Or hug and kiss him until every last morsel of worry had dissipated.
“I’d rather like to watch that,” Kendra quipped, though her flippant reply didn’t hide the apprehension etched upon her fine features. She might pretend to be unaffected, but she was as worried about Liam and the others’ continued absence as everyone else was.
“Kendra,” her mother chided with no real censure. “Ladies dinna revel in the notion of their brothers bein’ strangled. Even if they deserve it,” Lady Penderhaven muttered beneath her breath.
“But, Mama, imagine it. Emeline has such dainty hands, and Liam has a neck as thick as a bull’s.” She gave an unapologetic shrug. “The logistics fascinate me. I doubt ’tis even possible, he’s so stiff-necked.”
Skye’s droll chuckle brought a bit of lightness to the too serious atmosphere. “Ye are awful, Kendra MacKay.” She fared only slightly better as her tormented serviette and low sighs every few minutes attested.
“Miss LeClaire, ye shouldna be near the window,” Camden advised patiently for at least the tenth time. He gave the sofa a pointed look, which she deliberately disregarded with a frosty glare and an elevated chin.
She hadn’t forgiven him or his brother for their parts in hauling her away, leaving Liam to trounce those blackguards alone.
Except, as Camden had patiently explained on the wild carriage ride home, and Graeme had done again once inside the house, Liam’s four other friends were there to back him up.
She felt marginally reassured until she recalled the blackguards’ malicious, twisted faces. If any of those men had ever possessed a conscience—and she had her doubts they had even as wee bairns—they’d long since sold any sense of decency to the devil. Their very souls were as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.
Her stomach pitched again, and she swallowed against a wave of nausea and faintness. By God, she would not succumb to womanly histrionics and weakness. She would be courageous and display fortitude such as Liam had showed. At least, she would try to.
Graeme Kennedy, along with a trio of footmen, were stationed about the house’s entrances. A flea couldn’t enter the place and hope to live longer than half a second.
Where is Liam?
Every horrible scenario possible had played out like a macabre skit on a stage in Emeline’s skull, and she feared she’d go mad from worry and dread. He must be all right.