Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,69

toward the settee.

“Please unhand me.” How fiercely she hated that it was nearly a whimper. A desperate plea.

“This will be over before you know it. So quickly, in fact, we can do it twice.”

Horribly, he laid one hand over her breast, and just as his muscles tensed to push her backward, the sound of a pistol cocking echoed behind them.

More primal, more frightening, in some ways than an actual gunshot.

Because it contained within it anticipation of death for the victim.

Brinker froze.

Delilah’s eyes closed, and her heart lurched, and she thought perhaps her very consciousness winked on and then off, like the guttering flame of a candle.

“The pistol now pointed at the base of your skull is for show. Still, I shouldn’t move if I were you.”

Oh, dear God, it was Tristan. Delilah imagined the guardians of the gates of hell probably spoke just that laconically.

Mr. Brinker’s complexion was now as white as her nightdress. She could feel the dampness of his terror sweat where his palm gripped her wrist.

Mr. Brinker was mouthing what appeared to be prayers, of all things.

Then again, they could also be curses upon Captain Hardy’s soul.

“I can certainly put an end to you in a dozen other ways involving hands, feet, and strategy without firing so much as a shot,” Tristan said thoughtfully. “I’d sooner do that than subject the staff to cleaning your brains from the spotless furniture. But rest assured, if you so much as ruffle Lady Derring’s hair with an untoward breath . . .” And now Delilah heard the cold, black rage in the words, how they were emerging through ground teeth. “. . . I will do one or the other. And after that, no one will ever hear from you again, and they’ll never know what happened. So take your hands from her. Now.”

Brinker’s hands went up immediately.

Delilah stifled a whimper of relief.

“Now take one step back away from her. One small step, lest your cranium meet the barrel of my pistol.”

Brinker stepped back.

Delilah half stumbled, half ran at a crouch across the room.

Belatedly she snatched up the candlestick. Just so she could.

“Captain Hardy, his name is Brinker,” she hissed. As if cursing him for all time.

“Thank you, Lady Derring.” Tristan didn’t look at her. “Now raise your hands, Brinker. But do it very, very slowly, as I’ve been known to be a bit jumpy when I haven’t shot a man in a day or two.”

All these terrifying theatrics from a man who was a miser with words.

But Brinker, proving there was no end to the idiocy of men, twisted swiftly and swiped for Tristan’s pistol.

After that he was a blur.

Because Tristan had seized him by the shoulders, spun him around, and hurled his head down—BAM—on the edge of the table as though he were a sack of flour.

Brinker crumpled to his knees then tipped over backward and lay flat like a ninepin on the floor.

And didn’t move at all.

“Oh God oh God oh God, oh God, oh God.” Delilah’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Was he dead?

They both peered down at him.

She half hoped he was. They could throw him in the Thames.

She’d never had such a bloodthirsty thought in her life.

A second later, blood oozed from his nose.

Her first thought—God help her—was that it would be remarkably difficult to get blood out of the carpet.

Brinker moaned, and his hand twitched.

“Oh, you’re that Captain Hardy,” he murmured.

Delilah stared at Tristan. What on earth did that mean?

But Tristan was a blur again. He caught hold of the big rectangular Brinker by his arm and yanked all thousand stone of him to his feet. The man slumped like a marionette from Tristan’s grip before he somewhat found his footing.

“Wait here for me, Delilah,” he commanded her.

They disappeared from view.

She heard the door open and close.

She wouldn’t think of countermanding his order to wait. She sank down onto the settee. She wrapped her arms around her torso as if they were chains that could protect her, but she couldn’t seem to stop the sudden, violent shaking.

The blindingly swift, preternaturally confident, skillful violence: she could hardly believe this man was the same one who read every night, an island of calm.

What did Brinker mean . . . that Captain Hardy?

Chapter Eighteen

Tristan stepped outside with his sagging, moaning, bleeding cargo and whistled softly.

A moment later, Morgan and Halligan, who happened to be watching The Grand Palace on the Thames at the moment, emerged from the shadows. He gave them hurried instructions to get Brinker as