Page 35 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Eighteen

Despite his intentions, Will had failed dismally to sleep well the previous night. He could so easily have kissed Isobel—he should have kissed her. If Mistress Hollingsworth came back with him, he’d never have another opportunity. At least, not for a ridiculously long time.

As he headed out of London in the early morning drizzle, the image of Isobel’s green eyes, warm and wide with yearning, flashed across his mind with startling clarity. He’d seen the darkness of desire reflected there after their first kiss. He’d seen the same thing last night as he’d held her in what—so he kept telling himself—was a purely platonic fashion.

And fool that he was, he’d not responded to it. How must that make her feel? He owed it to her to explain his reasons for holding back—Pike, Paulina, Leicester—there were too many complications in his life at present. A man should offer security, both financial and otherwise, to his future wife. He had neither of those, as yet.

A sunburned drover herding a small flock of sheep on the wide grass verge beside the road saluted him. Will tipped his hat and glanced around. Yes, he was still on the main highway—not quite so deeply buried in his thoughts that he’d lost his way. He was approaching a coppice he remembered from when he’d traveled this road before, with Isobel beside him.

As soon as Mathieson was off his back, he’d begin the process of courting her properly. Because the idea of her marrying some fumbling youth, or a pot-bellied, middle-aged widower—or even a handsome, dashing blade—was anathema. No one was worthy of his beautiful, entrancing Isobel.

Several pigeons erupted from the trees ahead of him, their wings clattering on the breeze, but he could see nothing that might have disturbed them. He urged Jennet into a canter—with so little traffic, he could give the mare her head. They might as well make good time if they could.

Would Edward be rolling in his grave if he knew the direction Will’s thoughts had taken? Will had been charged to protect Isobel, not steal her future by binding her to him in wedlock. Or perchance this was what Edward had hoped for all along, that his comrade-in-arms would fall for his sister.

Will-he or nil-he, it had happened. He’d known her but a few weeks, yet he felt as if he’d known her a lifetime. What did she feel for him? Was there anything in her face when she looked at him that signaled something more fundamental than desire?

Suddenly, he felt pity for Paulina. Was this how she felt when she thought of him? Hanging on every word, examining every gesture, to see if he shared the same devotion? It wasn’t his fault she’d fallen for him, but neither was it hers. He should be flattered—she was a very pretty woman, and would mature, given time. She might even make some gentleman an excellent wife. He must be kinder to her when he saw her again—she couldn’t help the fact her father was a blackmailing scoundrel.

The shadows of the trees merged into one as a rain cloud doused the sun. At the same time, the temperature dropped, and the drizzle turned to rain. A pox on’t! He was well past the last village he’d seen, and no other buildings were in sight. He slowed and scanned the trees beside the road, wondering if it was worth sheltering until the worst of the shower had passed.

Galloping hooves sloshed through the puddles ahead as two riders hurtled down the road, doubtless also keen to take shelter. Before he sensed the danger, the first was upon him, yanking his mount to a halt, one arm raised to strike.

Will felt the sting of a riding crop, followed by a savage blow which unseated him. His survival instincts leapt to the fore even as he fell, and he rolled the instant he struck the ground. But when he attempted to regain his footing, he staggered, winded and disorientated by the suddenness of the attack.

Cursing his lack of vigilance, he struggled to fend off the blows that immediately followed. The odds were not good—two masked rogues ranged against one, and having the element of surprise. With all the force he could muster, Will shoved his knee up into the stomach of the man who’d pinioned his arms. The man’s grip weakened, giving him a moment’s breathing space, so he used his momentary advantage to deliver a kick to the fellow’s ankle, tipping him off balance, before spinning around to meet the second attacker.

His blood ran cold. This assailant brandished a dagger.

There was no time to lose. Will launched himself forward to catch the man’s wrist before he could deploy his weapon, but the fellow sidestepped swiftly. Will grabbed the hand with the knife, but as he tried to shake the weapon free, he was caught from behind.

Summoning all his strength, he spun, bringing the knifeman crashing into his confederate. With a vicious twist, Will forced the fellow to his knees and was rewarded with the sight of the dagger scudding away across the highway, but not before it had grazed along his thigh.

With a yowl of fury, the other attacker landed several heavy kicks and punches to his body, so he was forced to divert his attention away from the man who’d had the knife, praying he could knock his current opponent out before the other regained his blade.

If only he’d had time to reach his sword! He would have spitted them both like suckling pigs by now. Weaponless, he had to fight dirty, so he threw himself at his opponent and punched, kicked and bit any part of the man’s sweaty anatomy he could reach. They rolled and writhed on the muddy highway, Will ever watchful for the man with the knife, ready to use his adversary’s body as a shield against any blows.

Somehow, Will’s foe managed to free a meaty fist and deliver a stunning blow to his cheek. Will regained his feet before the man could get in a second blow, and lurched towards Jennet, determined to arm himself. But his injured thigh refused to support him, and he staggered straight into the arms of the other ruffian.

His arms were wrenched behind his back, and he was held in a vise-like grip against the larger man’s chest.

The other stood, brushed some blood from his face, and came forward. With an evil leer, he drew back his fist, then plunged it into Will’s stomach.

Will kicked and writhed, fighting for breath. As soon as he recovered, he spat the blood from his mouth and growled, “You filthy coward. Tell this ape to let go of me, and fight me like a man.”

The only response was a loud guffaw. The fellow rubbed at his knuckles and looked Will up and down as if contemplating where his next blow would fall. Then he smiled mirthlessly. “Don’t expect death ter come too quickly. We’re goin’ ter ’ave our bit o’ fun afore we finish ye off.”

Thoughts chased one another through Will’s mind at breakneck speed. Was he really going to die here, upon this rain-soaked road? What of his mission, of the promise he’d made to Edward, of the duty he owed to the woman whose portrait nestled against his heart?

He couldn’t allow himself to be dishonored and defeated by a couple of lowlife felons. If anyone’s bloodied corpse would be feeding the crows tonight, it would be the fellow who stood in front of him, tormenting him with his evil smirk.

Will went completely limp and started sliding through the arms of his captor. Before the fellow could adjust his grip, Will jabbed both elbows hard into his enemy’s ribs, jerked his head up until it connected with the man’s chin, then wrestled himself free.

He’d left it too late. Before he could take advantage of his freedom, the knifeman threw his fist at Will’s jaw and sent him sprawling. His head bounced off the cobbles, and the world blurred, before vanishing entirely.