To Desire a Devil

There he looked up and saw the Goblin King throw off his velvet cloak. Now were revealed his orange glowing eyes, lank green hair, and yellow fangs.



“Who are you?” Longsword cried.



“I am the Goblin King,” replied the other. “When you accepted my coin for your lock of hair, you sold yourself into my power. For if I cannot have the sword alone, then I will have both you and the sword. . . .”



—from Longsword



Surrounded. The enemy on both sides, shooting from hidden positions, his men screaming as they were picked off. He couldn’t form a line of defense, couldn’t rally his troops. They were all going to die if he—



The second shot rang out. Reynaud found himself on the ground against a carriage, Miss Corning’s sweet, warm body under him. Her gray eyes stared up into his, no longer green with anger but only terrified.



And the screams—the screams were all around him.



“Descendez!” Reynaud roared to a soldier sitting in the carriage box looking stupidly around. “Form a line of defense!”



“What—” Miss Corning began.



But he ignored her. A man had been hit and was writhing on the top steps of the town house, his blood staining the white stone. It was the young soldier, the one who’d been walking with him. Dammit. It was his man.



And he was still exposed.



“Stay with Miss Corning,” he ordered a nearby soldier.



The soldier in the box had finally dropped down and lay beside them as well. Where was the sergeant? Where were the other officers? They’d all be killed here in the open, caught between the cross fire. Reynaud’s temples throbbed with pain; his heart thundered. He had to save his men.



“Do you understand?” he yelled at the soldier near him.



The soldier blinked at him, dazed.



Reynaud took the man by the shoulder and shook him. “Stay with Miss Corning. I’m counting on you.”



Something in the soldier’s face cleared. His gaze locked on Reynaud’s, just as they always did, and he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”



“Good man.” Reynaud eyed the soldier on the steps, judging the distance. It had been at least a minute since the last shot. Were the Indians still lurking in the woods? Or had they crept away again, silent as ghosts?



“What are you going to do?” Miss Corning asked.



Reynaud looked into her clear gray eyes. “Get my man. Stay here. Take this.” He pressed the hilt of his knife into her palm. “Don’t move until I tell you.”



And he kissed her hard, feeling life—his and hers—coursing through his veins. Dear God, he had to get her away from here.



He got up before she could voice her protest and ran to the steps, keeping his upper body low. He paused by the moaning soldier only long enough to grab the man under the arms. The boy screamed as Reynaud pulled him to the front door, the sound high and animal, a cry of primeval agony. So many were in agony. So many were dead. And all so young.



The third bullet hit the door frame as Reynaud yanked his man through, splinters of wood exploding against his cheek.



Reynaud was panting, but the boy was out of the line of fire at least. The bastard couldn’t shoot him again, couldn’t scalp him as he lay dying. Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. Reynaud shook his head, wishing he could think through the blinding pain. Something… something wasn’t right.



“What is this?” Reginald St. Aubyn, the earldom thief, cried, his face red. He started for the door.



Reynaud shot out his arm, barring the way. “Snipers in the woods. Don’t go out.”



St. Aubyn jerked back his head, staring at him as if he were insane. “What are you babbling about?”



“I haven’t time for this,” Reynaud growled. “There’s a shooter, man.”



“But… but, my niece is out there!”



“She’s safe at the moment, sheltered by the carriage.”



Reynaud assessed the crowd of soldiers gathered by the commotion in the entry hall. Except… except they didn’t look like soldiers. Something was wrong. His head was splitting with pain, and he hadn’t the time to figure it out now. His back crawled with the knowledge that the Indians were still out there, waiting. The lad moaned at his feet.



“You.” He pointed at the oldest. ”Are there any guns in the house? Dueling pistols, birding pieces, hunting rifles?”



The man blinked and came to attention. “There’s a pair of dueling pistols in his lordship’s study.”



“Good. Get them.”



The man whirled and ran down the back passage.



“You two”—Reynaud indicated two practical-looking women—“fetch some clean cloth, linens, anything we can use for bandages.”



“Yes, sir.” They went without a word.



Reynaud turned to the boy but was stayed by a hand on his arm.



“Now, see here,” St. Aubyn said. “I won’t let my servants be ordered about by a raving lunatic. This is my house. You can’t just—”



Reynaud spun and in the same motion took the older man by the throat and shoved him into the wall. He looked into watery brown eyes, suddenly widened, and leaned close.



“My house, my men,” he breathed into the other man’s face. “Help me or get out of my way, I care not, but never question my authority again—and don’t ever lay a hand on me.” There was no question in his tone.



St. Aubyn swallowed and nodded his head.



“Good.” Reynaud let him go and glanced at the sergeant. “Look out the door—quickly—and check that Miss Corning and the others are still by the carriage.”



“Yes, my lord.”



Reynaud knelt by the wounded man. The boy’s face was greasy with sweat, his eyes narrowed in pain. The wound was on his left hip. Reynaud took off his coat and found the small thin knife he kept in a pocket. Then he bundled the coat and placed it beneath the boy’s head.



“Am I dying, my lord?” the lad whispered.



“No, not at all.” Reynaud sliced open the boy’s breeches from waist to knee and spread the bloody fabric. “What’s your name?”



“Henry, my lord.” The lad swallowed. “Henry Carter.”



“I don’t like my men dying, Henry,” Reynaud said. There was no exit wound. The bullet would need to be dug out of the boy’s hip—a tricky operation, as sometimes the hip bled badly. “Do you understand?”



“Yes, my lord.” The boy’s eyebrows rose questioningly.



“So you’re not to die,” Reynaud stated with finality.



The boy nodded, his face smoothing. “Yes, my lord.”



“The pistols, sir.” The older soldier was back, panting, with a flat box in his hands.



Reynaud rose. “Good man.”



The women had returned as well with the linens, and one immediately knelt and began bandaging Henry. “I had Cook send for a doctor, my lord. I hope that was right.”



Cook? That feeling that something wasn’t right made his head spin again, but Reynaud kept his face calm. An officer never showed fear in battle.



“Very smart.” Reynaud nodded at the woman, and a flush of pleasure spread over her plain face. He turned to the sergeant. “What’s happening outside?”



The sergeant straightened from the door crack. “Miss Corning is still by the carriage, my lord, along with the coachman and two footmen. A small crowd has gathered across the street, but other than that, it seems just as usual.”



“Good. And your name?”



The sergeant threw back his shoulders. “Hurley, my lord.”



Reynaud nodded. He placed the dueling-pistols box on a side table and opened it. The pistols within looked like they might be from his grandfather’s time, but they had been properly oiled and maintained. Reynaud took them out, checked to see if they were loaded, and stepped to the door.



“Keep away from the doorway,” he instructed the sergeant. “The Indians might still be out there.”



“Dear God, he’s insane,” St. Aubyn muttered.



Reynaud ignored him and ducked out the door.



The street was strangely quiet—or perhaps it just seemed so after the chaos of the shooting. Reynaud didn’t pause but ran swiftly down the steps and dropped to the ground by Miss Corning, who was nearly underneath the carriage.



“Are you all right?” he asked.



“Yes. Quite.” She frowned and touched a finger to his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”



“Doesn’t matter.” He took her hand and licked his blood from her fingertip, making her gray eyes widen. “You still have my knife?”



“Yes.” She showed him his knife, hidden among her skirts.



“Good girl.” He looked at the soldiers… except now they were a coachman and two footmen. Reynaud blinked fiercely. Concentrate. “Did you see where the shots were coming from?”



The coachman shook his head, but one of the footmen, a tall fellow with a missing front tooth, said, “A black carriage pulled away very fast just after you dragged Henry into the house, my lord. I think the shots may’ve come from inside the carriage.”



Reynaud nodded. “That makes sense. But we’ll take Miss Corning in with all precaution just in case. Mr. Coachman, please go first. I’ll follow with Miss Corning while the footmen come behind.” He handed one of the pistols to the footman who had spoken. “Don’t shoot, but make sure anyone watching can see that you’re armed.”



The men nodded, and Reynaud rose with his little company. He wrapped one arm about Miss Corning, covering as much of her body with his as he could. “Go.”



The coachman ran to the steps, and Reynaud followed with Miss Corning, damnably aware of how exposed they were. Her form was warm next to his, small and delicate. It seemed to take minutes, but they were within the house again in seconds. No more shots rang out, and Reynaud slammed the door behind him.



“Dear God.” Miss Corning was looking at Henry, the wounded soldier.



But he wasn’t a soldier, Reynaud realized all at once. Henry was the footman who’d been guarding his bedroom door. His head spun as burning bile backed up into his throat. The sergeant was the butler, the women the maids, and there were no soldiers, only footmen staring at him warily. And the Indians? In London? Reynaud shook his head, feeling as if his brain would explode from the pain.



Dear God, maybe he was mad.



BEATRICE BENT OVER a small prayer book, picking apart the binding. She found it easier to think when her hands were busy. So after Henry had been seen to, after Lord Hope had retired to his room, after she’d calmed the servants and sent them back to work, after all had been restored to order in her home, she’d retreated here to her own rooms to contemplate the events of this afternoon.



Although, she’d not come to any firm conclusions when a knock sounded at her door. She sighed and looked up at a second tap.



“Beatrice?”



It was Uncle Reggie’s voice, which was odd, because he hardly ever visited her in her rooms, but then this had been a very odd day. She set the book down on the little table she worked at and rose from her chair to let him in.



“I wanted to make sure that you were unharmed, m’dear,” he said once he’d entered. He glanced vaguely around the room.



Beatrice felt a pang of remorse. In all the excitement of the shooting, she’d not had a chance to talk to her uncle. “I’m quite all right—not even a scratch. And you? How do you feel?”



“Oh, nothing can hurt an old man like me,” he blustered. “’Course, that impostor did knock me against the wall a bit.” He peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows as if waiting for a reaction.



Beatrice frowned. “He did? But why?”



“Bloody arrogance, if you ask me,” her uncle replied heatedly. “He was raving about Indians in the woods. Started ordering the servants about and told me to get out of the way. I think the man is mad.”