Basford held a three-hour lead on Sebastian and while the rain finally slowed the roads were a sloppy muck. With Raven’s ground-eating gallop, it was possible to catch the viscount’s coach before it made the Lancashire border.

This was his blame, this danger Ivy was in. Had he not been so eager to believe the worst, he could have defended her, provided a shield against those wishing to exploit her. Even if he was unaware of Timothy’s conduct, actions could have been taken to safeguard her from the hateful and destructive gossip following his cousin’s death. He should have offered protection upon his return to England. Had he utilized his spies to uncover the truth, his part in causing Ivy pain would have been avoided.

The suffering at Timothy’s hands paled in comparison to what Ivy endured at his own. Sebastian now understood when she said a friendship would benefit them both. She not only wanted to keep her wolves at bay; she was using the alliance to absolve guilt in Timothy’s death.

Shame gnawed him. He forced Raven to greater speeds. He must find her before it was too late. He would find her.

Cantering up the lane of the Red Bell Inn, Sebastian recognized the Basford coach. Pulled into a far corner of the courtyard, the horses already changed out, the coachman stood at the head of a new team. Checking the harnesses, the man’s attention was not on approaching travelers on such a dreary night. Now and again, he glanced from his task to the brick and timber building a few steps away.

Even close to midnight, the inn was lively, fiddle music pouring from half-shuttered windows. A stream of raucous laughter and raised voices tumbled into the muddied yard. The coachman probably hoped to grab a tankard of ale and a bit of warmth before continuing on the journey but he would find no such comfort this evening.

Sebastian dismounted at the edge of the cobblestones. It was unlikely Basford was with Ivy inside the inn. He would not risk the chance of an attempted escape, nor her appealing for a stranger’s assistance. Possibly, he allowed her to use the facilities, but more likely, she remained inside the coach, and he with her. Or, he had restrained her while he ventured into the inn. The coachman would need dispatching, but that was of little concern. If the man proved a loyal employee, his elimination would be instant.

A harsh voice barked from inside the coach, followed by a choked sob. That one desolate cry sealed Basford’s fate.

A bloodlust to protect his own swelled inside Sebastian. The urge was so strong, so overwhelming, he swayed with the force of it, lightheaded. He never experienced anything like it. Nothing on earth, in the heavens above, nor hell below, would stop him from reaching Ivy. Nothing.

Hearing the feminine sound, the coachman shook his head in disgust. It was then, by the faint light cast by a rain-shaded moon, he caught sight of the dark figure standing at the edge of the mist filled courtyard. Dressed in stark black, materializing like smoke from swirling, drifting shadows of light and the murky fog, with an ash-grey, steam-breathing stallion clip-clopping delicately at his heels, Sebastian must have appeared as an avenging devil of death.

“Attempt to stop me and you won’t draw another breath.”

The coachman swallowed hard at the softly spoken threat, nodding his wholehearted cooperation. Securing the horses to the hitching post with unseemly haste, he disappeared into the stables just as the coach rocked on its springs with lopsided violence.

“Don’t. Please…oh, please, stop…”

Sebastian froze…his eyes closing in brief agony.

That was his Ivy’s quivering voice. His Ivy. Begging. Her pleas echoed, crystal clear above the racket spewing from the inn. He heard the sharp crack of a heavy hand striking flesh and then…a tormented moan.

Bile, sharp and bitter, choked Sebastian. His vision clouded red, pinpointing the coach until it was the single object within his line of sight. Vaulting up the steps, he jerked the door open with hands trembling from rage.

At first, he saw only Basford’s broad back. Not until a handful of the man’s coat was in his grasp and the viscount physically wrenched to the side was Ivy finally visible.

She was a tiny heap of blue satin pinned against the far interior wall, legs sprawled open. Her skirts were shoved up past her knees, the gown’s shoulder hanging to her elbow in a flounce of torn lace. Broken glass from a rosebud sconce glittered like moondust, sprinkled across her skirts, on the seats and the floor. Dazed, she stared at Sebastian from over Basford’s shoulder.

If not for his concern for her welfare, Sebastian might have murdered the viscount right on that very spot, using the coach seats as a butcher’s board. Snatching the man up by one arm, Sebastian’s roar of fury was one commanded from the depths of Hell itself.

“What the hell-?” A horrible cracking sound interrupted Basford’s indignant shout. Gaping in speechless shock at his arm, now dangling at an unnatural angle, the viscount did not struggle when yanked from the coach. He flew through the air, hurled nearly ten feet to land in a heap against a pile of crates. His high-pitched shriek of pain abruptly died away on a groan as he crumpled.

Sebastian intended, at that precise moment, to march over and break the other arm as well. And his legs. And ribs. The bones in his face. Every goddamn bone in the man’s body.

“You goddamn, bloody bastard. How I’m going to enjoy ripping you limb from limb.” Landing soundlessly on the cobblestones, Sebastian advanced on his prey. Single-minded in his purpose, he anticipated the crack of bones beneath his fists, the viscount’s gasps of pain. His pleas for mercy...

Ivy’s low moan swung his full attention back to the coach.

Not one soul ventured forth to investigate Basford's strange scream, a credit to the drunken energy of the inn. Only the burly coachman was curious enough, or perhaps foolish, to do so. Poking his head from the stable entrance, he squinted in alarm at the sight of his employer sprawled in a comatose slump. With a nod of respect to the earl, he stood apprehensively, unsure what action to take in this potentially dangerous situation.

“I require a moment to calm my lady,” Sebastian growled. Without waiting for the servant’s approval, he vaulted back into the coach, slamming the door in his wake.

Ivy huddled against the coach’s wall panel, trembling uncontrollably. She whimpered when he reached for her and the sound shattered Sebastian’s heart.

“Shhhh, my love. Shhhh….” His hand smoothed over her hair with exquisite tenderness. “It’s me, little butterfly. It’s Sebastian. I’m here now. I’m here and you’re safe. Hush now.”

He had reached her in time. She was alive, relatively unharmed, still whole. And while he doubted he held the Good Lord’s ear after all the wickedness in his life, Sebastian sent a prayer heavenward anyway.

Thank you, God. Thank you.

Ivy shook violently. Brushing away the broken glass, he located her cloak, drawing it over her shoulders. Her skin was like ice, teeth chattering with the discordant rattle of tin cups. Having long ago worked free of its pins, her hair hung in a messy tangle. Sebastian removed his gloves to smooth the curly waves back from her face.

He passed a gentle thumb over her swollen lip. Faint red marks discolored one pale cheek; in the dim light, he saw bruises on her wrists, dark smudges in the shapes of fingers marring her upper arms. The muscles of his stomach tightened. He would beat the viscount until nothing remained but a pool of blood and broken bones. Hopefully the bastard would survive that, because Sebastian then planned on killing him. Very slowly.

“Sebastian?” Her face pale as ivory, Ivy’s eyes held a misty, haunted air. She stared right through him.

“Yes, love. I’m here. Will you do something for me? Will you lay down? Close your eyes for a moment? I must have a word with the coachman, and then I’m taking you someplace safe. Yes, that’s it, lie down, sweetness.” Recognizing the effects of shock, Sebastian helped her curl up on the seat. He settled his own coat and a hastily discovered coach blanket over her, tucking everything in tight. God, he ached to soothe her, to hold her close, to ensure no one ever harmed her again…including himself.

He swept a soft kiss across her frozen lips when she suddenly gripped his hand tight. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Ivy. I shall be just outside the coach. Close your eyes. That’s a good girl.”

The coachman stood over Basford’s crumpled, unconscious body. He glanced up as Sebastian approached.

“I’m sure there is no need to impress upon you the necessity for discretion. Word of this misadventure goes no further than the courtyard of this godforsaken inn. What is your name?” Withdrawing one of the small bags of gold from the inner pocket of his coat, Sebastian tossed it so the servant caught it mid-air. “For your troubles then, George Quick, and for the duties you will undertake on the lady’s behalf. We will continue on to Bentley Park. Do you know of it? I shall ride behind you. My stallion would highly object if I tied him to the back of this vehicle. Should the viscount regain his senses and possess any notion of following, which I doubt, I will handle matters. Now, in the near future, I imagine you shall find yourself without a post. A problem easily remedied as you will seek out the stablemaster at Ravenswood Court, or should you find country life more to your liking, present yourself at Beaumont in Kent. In either case, your services shall be engaged immediately.”

“Right, sir. Thank you, sir.” George grinned, his decision already made to become a coachman at Ravenswood Court. The Earl of Ravenswood possessed an excellent reputation as a fair and just employer; his servants among the most envied of London. “Who will I say sent me, sir? I have no letters, sir, that is…”

“I am Ravenswood.” Sebastian allowed himself a slight smile at the man’s surprise while tugging his riding gloves back on. “There might be a question of thievery when it comes to the viscount’s coach. I’ll assure the innkeeper of its return tomorrow, and we shall be on our way.”

“Right, sir. And sir, I do wish your lady good health. It didn’t sit well with me, what milord Basford done.”

“I’m glad to hear it, George. As you are now in my employ, I’ll trust you to inform the viscount to expect a visit from my seconds. When you return the bastard’s coach, of course.”

Bentley Park was not far from the inn. Although they quarreled at their last meeting, Sebastian knew Alan would never deny him aid, especially if it were for Ivy’s sake. During that last encounter, Alan openly berated him, cursing his stupidity. Quite foxed at the time, Sebastian stubbornly refused to answer for his actions. Before long, Alan threw up his hands in utter disgust, leaving his friend to find the bottom of a bottle of bourbon. That was more than a month ago and they had not spoken since.

The clock chimed three in the morning as Sebastian appeared on Bentley Park’s doorstep with Ivy in his arms. A majority of the staff was immediately roused to tend to the countess. She slept through the journey, remaining in a deep slumber even when carried upstairs and placed on the soft down coverlet of a guest bed.

Alan murmured instructions to his housekeeper then laid a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “I’ve sent for the physician. You probably remember Dr. Moseby. An ancient cuss but damned efficient.”

“I believe she is only in shock, but it’s best she is checked over.” Giving an abbreviated version of the transpired events, Sebastian said, with a slight raising of an eyebrow, “That Sara of yours is terrifying. Marry her, Alan, as soon as possible, so the only earl she may order about is you.”

Alan laughed softly. “She loves the countess as if they are indeed sisters. You cannot hope to escape her wrath if you continue to harm Ivy.”

“She’ll demand my head on a platter if I don’t send word of Ivy’s safety. Will you attend to it? And send word to Lord Kinley as well. I’m sure his concern is tempered with delight he’ll soon have an earl for a son-in-law.” Sebastian’s lips quirked at Alan’s surprise. “I can’t imagine why you are shocked. You know I am insanely in love with her. There’s no other explanation for my stupidity or my abhorrent behavior.”

“I am damn glad to hear it, Seb. But please, allow Martha to watch over the lady until the doctor arrives. She’ll take excellent care of her- Lord knows she nursed our cuts and scrapes often enough when we were lads.”

“I must refuse your offer, Alan.” Sebastian smiled as the elderly housekeeper bustled into the room, setting down a basin full of hot water. Another maid followed her, carrying a stack of clean towels. “Martha, if you’ve some type of gown I can put Her Ladyship in, it would be much appreciated.”

Alan frowned. “It isn’t proper for you to be here, Seb. Think of her reputation.”

“We will be married once she regains her health, so reputations be damned. I will be the only one caring for her.”

When the necessary items were at his disposal, and the room cleared, Sebastian stripped Ivy from the torn clothes. He kissed the bruises on the inside of her wrists, washed her face and brushed out her hair, smoothing the tangles until they lay in some semblance of order. Martha had procured a fresh cotton gown and he maneuvered Ivy into it. She sagged, limp in his arms as he situated her in the bed, the pillows propped at a comfortable angle. Once she was as clean and warm as he could make her without benefit of a full bath, Sebastian held her hand, watching over her until the doctor’s arrival near dawn.

He breathed easier in light of the sleepy physician’s assessment. There were no visible injuries other than scrapes and bruises, Ivy's nearly comatose state attributed to the body’s natural mechanism of handling trauma. The countess would be fine upon waking, the elderly man assured him, although he administered a dose of laudanum to ease any pain.

Settling in beside her, Sebastian renewed his vow to be the first person her eyes touched on when she woke. He would somehow make amends for every terrible thing he had done.