Liam leaned down until his warm breath caressed her ear, and sent shivers of awareness skittering along her skin, heedless of anyone who might see his actions as untoward or inappropriate. “Ye are eternally sweet, Mena mine,” he murmured tenderly. “But between Russell, Gavin, and me, not to mention the officers they’re sending to retrieve him, Hamish willna have an opportunity to cause trouble. Besides, if something dangerous were to happen, I’d not like ye or my children anywhere near.”
Mena turned her head slightly toward him, pressing her cheek against his before pulling away. “Very well.” She smiled up into the features that had become more precious than any she’d known. It amazed her how much trust and tenderness she could feel for such a big and brutish Highlander. Millicent LeCour’s words filtered back to her from the last morning she’d spent in London.
Sometimes … the safest place to be is at the side of a violent man.
She hadn’t truly understood the actress at the time. In fact, she’d wondered if the woman had fooled herself into believing that, because her own fiancé was the very cold, very lethal Christopher Argent. The man who’d snapped Mr. Burns’s neck right in front of her as though he’d done so a million times.
Mena understood now. It didn’t get more violent than the Demon Highlander, and she’d never felt more secure in her life than when she was by his side. The power and prowess that used to frighten her had, indeed, become her sanctuary.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she admonished, putting a staying hand on his arm before she could stop herself. “I have this terrible feeling. We’ve only just … there’s so much to say … and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
Liam turned his head and looked away from her, his features tightening, his jaw working and flexing, and the vein at his temple pulsed like it did when he was trying to hide displeasure. When his gaze met hers again, Mena’s heart stopped. A suspicious and shocking gloss shimmered in his dark eyes before he blinked it away.
“Are you all right?” she asked alertly.
He didn’t speak for a long time, instead staring at the her hand, still clutching his suitcoat. “It is a new experience for me to part with someone knowing that they might … wish me to return.”
Her own eyes, already misted with emotion now welled with it. “I not only wish for your return, I do not wish us to be parted in the first place.”
His smile was uncharacteristically charming, and a new softness found its way into his hard eyes. “I will hurry as fast as I am able.” He reached for her hand and kissed it over the glove. “While still taking the utmost care.”
“See that you do,” she said primly, adopting a very governesslike expression. “I’ll not be disobeyed.”
Heat simmered away any vestiges of vulnerability and Mena feared he’d melt her into a puddle of lust right in the middle of the Euston Station platform. “Tonight, lass, I’ll be yers to command.”
Flustered, she turned from him with a lightness in her step and a glow in her heart she didn’t think anything could extinguish. The children were no longer at the vending cart, nor could she see them in the milling crowd, so she headed in the direction of the portico toward the carriages, hoping they hadn’t already left for Lady Eloise’s. Though, if they had, that might give her time to stop by Farah’s home and commiserate with her about—
A hand clamped down on Mena’s wrist and nearly jerked her off her feet. Her scream was lost in the tinny whistle of a locomotive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I’ve got ’er!” a wiry, unfamiliar man crowed from beneath a grimy hat. His clawlike fingers bit into Mena’s arm as she struggled to free herself. “I’ve got the viscountess!”
A cold fear Mena had never before experienced speared her chest as five men detached from where they stood posted next to every exit to the platform, and began to hurry in their direction. They were dressed to blend with the crowd in plain clothing, but each of them had the demeanor of hired muscle. Two of them brandished clubs and one swung irons much like the ones she’d been subjected to in Belle Glen.
Somehow, they’d found her. They’d known that Philomena St. Vincent, Viscountess Benchley, was going to arrive on a train at Euston Station today.
How?
This couldn’t be happening.
“Let me go!” she cried, twisting in the thin man’s surprisingly strong grip.
By the time Mena processed that the sickening snap she heard before the thin man’s scream was his arm breaking, Liam had already planted a knee in her assailant’s face with such force, blood exploded onto the white stone floor and sullied Liam’s fine gray trousers.
He didn’t seem to notice, let alone care. He thrust her behind him, turning to face the others, who sprinted toward them now.
Mena would have thought that the first one to reach them was a big bruiser if he hadn’t been advancing on someone the size of Liam Mackenzie. Running at full speed, the man raised his club and prepared a vicious and dangerous swing at Liam’s head.
Liam never let him get close enough. He lifted his boot and drove it into the man’s chest with such force, the bruiser seemed to collapse around it, folding in on himself. Liam finished him with an uppercut that sent more blood flinging into the air, and somehow he ended up with the man’s club.
Chaos erupted after a breathless moment of pure shock. Screaming travelers scattered through the pillars of the portico and spilled onto Drummond Street, or they retreated to the stairs leading to the great hall to avoid the violence.
Mena wanted to lose herself within their ranks. With sickening, detached clarity she knew her ruse was at an end. Even if Liam managed to defeat all these men, there would be questions. Ones she’d have no choice but to answer.
But she couldn’t bring herself to run. Didn’t take the moment to escape, because the true sight of the Demon Highlander pinned her feet to the ground in pure, unmitigated awe.
Realizing the threat he posed, the three advancing men began to fan out and attempt to flank him, one with a club, one brandishing a pistol, and the other swinging the irons like a mace.