Page 71 of Against the Wind

Down to his shirt and breeches, Rutledge approached. “Come, m’dear. I had a long night and I am tired, so this first time will be rather quick. But there will be many more…opportunities for us to take our pleasure.”

He reached for her hand and she pulled away. “No!”

“Oh, yes, m’dear,” he said, grinning, and Kit wondered not for the first time if he was out of his mind.

“You’re mad!” She shouted the words as if throwing them at him might hold back his lechery.

“Consumed with the thought of finally having what is mine? Yes, I freely admit it. But mad? Certainly not.”

He cornered her and this time successfully gripped her wrist to swing her up and onto the bed where she landed with a thump. Determined to escape, Kit quickly sat up on her knees and backed to the far side of the bed, all the while watching him to anticipate his next move.

He was fast, and he leapt upon her. After a brief struggle he pinned her, but writhing under him she fought with all her strength, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and trying to force him back. When his mouth slammed down on hers, she bit his lip. He reared back, glaring at her, and then he grabbed her hands, holding them away from her body.

“It will do you no good to fight me, Katherine.” Shifting his body over hers, his heavy weight stopped her futile struggling. “It seems we were here once before,” he reminded her, huffing with exertion. His face was only inches from hers, and she felt his arousal press hard against her.

He tried to kiss her again, but she jerked her head to one side, avoiding what would have been a punishing kiss. “No! Let me go!”

“Take your hands off my wife!” Martin bellowed from the doorway, and he stomped into the room.

“Martin!” Relief flooded Kit at seeing her husband stride toward the bed like some fierce dark angel of wrath. He had come for her!

Rutledge let go of her hands and started to move.

Martin’s eyes were frozen blue flames and his intent, visible on his face, terrifying. Grabbing Rutledge by his shirt, he dragged the earl from the bed and in one lightning strike slammed his fist into the earl’s face.

Kit scurried from the bed and watched as the two men grappled. She’d never seen Martin use fisticuffs but, given all she knew, she was unsurprised that he had the speed of a wildcat and the force of a lion. Yet the earl fought back, determined and mean.

Breaking free of Martin’s blows, Rutledge staggered backward, hand to his jaw. Blood trickled from his mouth. “Your wife? And just who are you?”

Ignoring his question, Martin drew his pistol from his coat and trained it on the earl.

Kit rushed to her husband’s side and welcomed his arm around her shoulder as he drew her close. His eyes still on Rutledge, his voice full of concern, he said, “Did he harm you, my love?”

Her heart still pounding in her chest, she said, “No, but thank God you appeared when you did. I was so afraid you didn’t know where I was. How did you find me?”

“It will soon be apparent. Now I must remove this vile creature.”

Rutledge scowled, wiping the blood from his face, and arrogantly said, “You have not answered my question. Just who in the hell are you?”

“I am Sir Martin Powell. And the woman you have twice tried to violate is my wife. Now, down the stairs with you!” He gestured to the open door with his firearm. “Your landlord, the duke, would have a word.”

Rutledge seemed to accept defeat and proceeded haltingly through the doorway. As he stepped into the corridor, over his shoulder he said, “Powell? The Crown’s agent? I understood she was married to a Frenchman named Donet, one of the revolutionaries.”

“It is not important what you know,” Martin sneered. “Twice you have tried to force yourself upon my lady. If you want to remain among the living, you will never come near her again.”

Martin prodded Rutledge with his pistol, forcing the earl into the corridor and down the stairs. Kit followed. From the top of the steps, she glanced down to see a tall man with chestnut-colored hair standing in the entry next to a footman in livery bearing a pistol. Kit realized the elegantly dressed man must be the Duke of Devonshire, Ormond’s friend. She’d not met him before and was surprised at his youth, for he was barely older than she.

The two guards who worked for Rutledge were tied up on the floor. Standing nearby, the old housekeeper wrung her hands and trembled in obvious fright.

With Martin’s continued prodding, Rutledge arrived at the base of the stairs, still wiping blood from his face.

“Wasn’t my doing, Yer Grace,” the old housekeeper assured the duke, her gaze darting between all the men in the room.

Devonshire nodded his acceptance and then said to Martin, “All in hand, I see. Well done!” To Rutledge: “You have much to account for, sir.”

Martin shoved his pistol into the earl’s back, and the duke stepped aside to allow them to pass through the entry hall. Kit felt the tension in Martin’s body as he reached out with his free arm to pull her to him.

As he passed the footman, Rutledge grabbed the pistol from the servant’s hand. The footman reached to retrieve it but was too late. Kit gasped. Rutledge backed out of the house, pointing his weapon at Martin. Slowly, Martin retreated with Kit back toward the stairs.