A sudden burst of activity followed. Hunt barely registered the woman pivoting. Something glimmered in her hand. Before Hunt, or Scarface for that matter, knew what she was about, the woman had Scarface’s arm twisted high up behind his back and the gleaming edge of a curved dagger lodged under his chin.
She stared at Bony Hips, who gaped back with wide, shocked eyes. “Would you still care to be next?” The words were mild, but Hunt noted that her breaths came faster and deeper. “I am more than happy to oblige.”
“’Twas just a jest.” Raising hands, palms facing front in surrender, Bony Hips edged backward. “Be careful, little lady. Yer might injure someone with that.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “I very well might.”
Scarface paled. “Let me go. Yer hurting me.”
“Have you managed to learn some manners?”
He spat his disdain, although his spittle had no hopes of reaching her, given her position. “I’ll teach yer some manners, yer barbarian bitch.” He attempted to wriggle free, but then winced and groaned when her grip on him didn’t ease. “Look around. Yer alone. Do yer think one stupid wench can take us all?”
Murmurs of assent sounded from the assembled crowd. “Let’s make ’er pay,” somebody called out.
Hunt stepped forward, every muscle in his body rigid. “The lady is not alone.” He withdrew his pistol, holding it down by his side, but keeping the weapon in clear view. “She is with me. My flintlock and I shall take it quite personally if anyone tries to take what is mine.”
The woman released Scarface with a shove. Fury flashing in her eyes, she pivoted toward Hunt, giving him his first good look at her.
He almost dropped the pistol. She was extraordinary. Enormous almond eyes the color of black tea regarded him with unfettered scorn. Golden honey skin drew tight across a proud forehead and razor-cut cheekbones. She was so striking that he almost forgot to notice that her curved blade was now pointed directly at him.
“Why didn’t yer say so ta start with, guv?” Scarface backed away. “That’s some prime female flesh you got there, but I ain’t one ta poach a gent’s doxy.”
“As if you could,” the woman said. She was not a young girl. Hunt judged her to be in her late twenties. A sense of certainty, a womanly maturity, emanated from her.
Around them, the other miscreants threw jibes.
“Be careful she don’t use that blade on yer Thomas, guv!”
“Looks like a ’andful that one, but ’is lordship looks man enough ter tame ’er.”
Hoots of amusement followed. Tension seeped out of the taproom as quickly as it had ratcheted up just minutes before. The men in the tavern shuffled back to their tables, leaving Hunt facing the woman and the sharp point of her knife.
Despite his mild alarm, Hunt didn’t believe she intended to run him through. Unless, of course, he did something to deserve it. “Is this how you thank me for coming to your rescue?”
“I certainly do not mean to show appreciation by accompanying you to your bedchamber.” Her smoky voice slid along his nerves like silk. Hunt had never before encountered anyone like her. He admired her fierceness, the way she wielded that strange dagger like a conquering Amazonian warrior.
“Besides,” she added. “I did not require assistance. I had the matter well in hand.”
“Oh?” She really was magnificent. “Was your plan to stab every man here?”
“You may be certain that if I had intended to kill you, or anyone, with my janbiya, you wouldn’t have known it until well after my dagger was buried deep inside your chest.”
“A bloodthirsty woman. I quite admire that.”
“Do you? Is that an invitation for me to draw your blood?”
“I would be much obliged if you did not poke any holes in me. I am quite partial to keeping my blood contained within my body.”
He watched her suppress her amusement as she sheathed her dagger. It dawned on him that he very much would like to see what she looked like when she smiled. Although he remained on edge, unconvinced the agitated tavern-goers had lost all interest in the lady, his vigilance did not keep his body from being supremely aware of her proximity.
“Who are you?” She regarded him with open curiosity. “Few people on the business point of a dagger manage to keep their wits about them. Unless, of course, they are very stupid.”
“Or very brave. My name is Elliot Townsend. Just a man passing through.” If the reprobates surrounding them realized they had a duke in their midst, particularly one traveling alone, Hunt would find himself rolled and left for dead before dawn.
That’s why he wore serviceable clothing more suited to his secretary than a duke. His drenched old greatcoat was more than a decade old, and threadbare enough not to attract undue attention. He’d sent his staff and carriage ahead to the house party hosted by Lady Victoria’s brother. He needed time alone to sort through the changes in his life that would come with marriage. “I have told you who I am,” he said to the woman. “And who are you?”
“The same as you. Just a woman passing through.”
“Your private parlor is ready for you, sir.” The innkeeper paused on his way to deliver ale to a nearby table. “It is just as well that your wench will be sharing your private parlor since I have no chambers or parlors left.”
The woman cut a resentful look at the innkeeper’s departing back. She smothered a sigh. Hunt sympathized. She looked cold, wet and so weary that she might just fall asleep on her feet, yet her steel-blade gaze reflected an unwavering awareness of her surroundings.
“You are most welcome to share my parlor,” he offered. “I give you my word that I will behave as a gentleman.” Which would be a disappointment. He wouldn’t mind seeing what that tall, supple body looked like stripped of clothing. Hunt imagined bedding her would be anything but boring. She’d be a welcome diversion on this dismal evening.
The woman looked around the taproom. “Perhaps I will just be on my way.”
“In this weather? It is unsafe.”
“And sharing a chamber with a perfect stranger is not?”
She could hardly remain in the taproom alone. “Surely your chances of enjoying solitude and a quiet meal are much enhanced if you are away from this rabble.”
“I shall have a bit of sustenance and then be on my way.”
He sighed. “I cannot allow you to go back into that storm. You should take the parlor. It is the only room they have left.”
“I could not ask you to give up your parlor.”
“You have not asked—I have offered.” He did not relish the thought of passing the evening in this noisy smoke pit, but he was a gentleman.
Two delicate lines appeared between her bold dark brows. “But where will you pass the night?”
“I shall find someone to bunk with. A little coin can be most persuasive. Besides,” he lied, “I am accustomed to less-than-desirable accommodations while traveling.”
She hesitated. “Very well.”
“Then it is settled.”
“I suppose,” she said with obvious reluctance, “that I should invite you to take a meal in the parlor so that you shall not be forced to dine in discomfort.”