Page 8 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

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Simon had just concludedthat his mystery admirer had changed her mind about their rendezvous when the night exploded with an unearthly noise. A shriek. Was it a wild animal on the attack? A witch? A warrior? And then -- almost simultaneously, a gun fired in his direction.

Had he wondered what danger an anonymous message could pose?

He could start with the fact that the assignation he’d anticipated turned out to be a pistol shot. It took little guesswork from that point to deduce he would have been killed or mortally wounded had the woman’s scream not warned him of his peril.

Not just any woman, by God. Not an ordinary scream. The resonance of her ferocious bellow could have sent a tidal wave across the Thames. He recognized Ravenna’s voice instantly. He had no idea how she had become involved in his plight, or even that his life had been at risk until now.

Good God. Had she been shot? His heart stopped. Or, not entirely implausible, had she fired the pistol?

He lowered his useless opera glasses, and took action. Once in movement, he pieced together in his mind what had likely occurred.

A moment after he had noticed Ravenna in the garden he’d glimpsed a lady and gentleman inelegantly fornicating outside the temple. He heard a scream. A shot. The lovers vanished.

From the sound of it, the ball had struck the statue of Achilles around which Simon had paced a trench.

From the corner of his eye he observed the man he presumed to be his assailant drop from the tree to the ground.

A slight figure in blue satin obstructed the miscreant’s path. Simon hoped to hell Ravenna wasn’t attempting to stop him. Meekness was not one of her family traits. He did not dally to gather rosebuds before another incident unfolded. To his profound relief his next glimpse of her indicated she was very much alive if riveted to the spot.

He shouted, “Ravenna!” in alarm, and raced across the grass, unconcerned for his own safety or the opinions of the guests who spilled down the terrace steps into the garden, understandably attracted by the ungodly commotion.

She went still, waited, and willed herself not to panic. She had to move. But in which direction? Instinct urged her to run straight to Rhys. That was no simple feat.

How could she turn her back on the man who blocked her path? An impulsive move might cause him to panic. She looked up from the pistol in his hand to his face. His woolen cap obscured his features.

He gave an undecipherable oath. Startled, she brushed against a thorn-laden shrub. She ignored the sting on her cheek. Her ears rang from the horrendous racket she had made. Did she imagine someone else’s shout of warning and rushed footsteps from the depths of the garden where Simon had been standing?

The fountain splashed, uninterrupted by the drama in the parterre. The stranger in front of her lifted his pistol. She steeled herself. As far as she knew, she was the only guest who had seen him. If he shot her, would anyone witness the crime?

Then he wheeled and was gone -- to where she was too relieved to notice. Nor did she have time to dodge the gentleman who charged her in a blur, shouting a frantically incoherent order in her face.

“Rochecliffe, what on earth?” she said an instant before he flattened her to the opposite tree like a human shield, forcing every wisp of breath from her body. In fact, she was too benumbed by the undignified attack on her person to utter another sound.

She did, nonetheless, possess the wits to realize he meant to protect her. Submission was the wisest option.

Grinding her teeth, she absorbed the brunt of over six feet of solid bone, sinew, and noble bearing. Simon had not shrunk since their last contact. She was virtually bolted to the trunk by his muscular strength.

“Your grace,” she grunted when speech became possible. “My goodness, you are forceful.”

“Lady Ravenna,” he replied with a grim composure that was reassuring in its familiarity. “It’s delightful to run into you after all this time, although I apologize for the circumstances.”

She snorted lightly. “Hang the polite sentiments. Someone just attempted to murder you.”

“So I gathered. He didn’t hurt you?”

“He didn’t touch me. He might still be in the vicinity, however.”

“All the more reason why you mustn’t move. Do not even turn your head. I am covering you as best I can with my body.”

“You are plastered to me in a most unseemly fashion.”

“Well, that can’t be helped.” The pressure of his weight eased slightly. “I doubt he has lingered behind to apologize. Needless to say, I cannot leave you alone while I chase after him. From what I could tell, he escaped over the northeast wall. It is the fastest route to the street and from there to any den in London.” Which she knew from mapping her own possible flight in the event her plan failed.

And obviously it had.

She stared up into his drawn face, into his grey-brown eyes, and remembered she’d promised to stay away from him tonight. Voices clamored from all points of the compass. She could not see over his shoulders to identify anyone, but she and Simon wouldn’t be alone for long.