3. Lest You Want Them Crushed for Christmas

3

LEST YOU WANT THEM CRUSHED FOR CHRISTMAS

DO NOT POST!

DO NOT POST!

September 10, 1815

Dearest Sarah,

Wonder of wonders. Can one be numb? Yet in alt? Still grieving a past loss yet… exultant over a fresh one?

I can hardly hold the pen, my entire body shakes so…but I must tell someone. Quickly, ere I go shouting through the streets and find myself assigned to Bedlam for my glee.

He's gone.

Gone, I say!

James Henry Mitchell is dead . And not by my hand, though I could confess to thoughts of such since his reprehensible actions July 5 resulted in my poor baby's precipitous arrival and graveside services three days later.

I will forever hate him for that, for the thoughts I had ? —

Nay. For even thinking such hate squeezes my heart again to the point of agony. Threatens to stifle my glee and I would not have that.

Will one reserve their place in Hell for the pleasure taken in another's demise? I can only pray it isn't so, for now I am free.

Free of his vileness! Can you believe it? I scarce cannot!

He is gone. Gone, and with nothing to do with me.

Felled by his own folly! Met his end at the end of a saber last eve, when he and some of his friends, all in their altitudes of course, were "playing" around. (Though if he acted as borish with them, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that saber tip had met his gullet on purpose!)

The numbness has traveled from my chest and now reaches my fingers. How will I feign sorrow and distraughtness over losing not only my baby but husband too? How can my blissfulness be contained?

Oh, Sarah, no one, not even you, know the full trials that wretch has put me through. I did not wish to complain (feared, in truth, you might put him to waste if you knew all) and I could not burden you with that.

But no more!

My fingers are wet. From wiping my cheeks. Pen just slipped to the floor. Ink upon the rug. But for once, my hands do not tremble with fear of reprisals, for anything being a speck out of place within these walls. Tingling still, they are, but now saturated with the tears of relief that stream forth…

There was more, until the page reached the end with:

Still I chuckle! But for my father-in-law's sake, I shall find the strength to disguise mirth as devastation. Even if I have to reach through my pocket and pinch my thigh blue. For James's father has always been good to me, and I would not hurt him for the world.

Oh, Sarah. I miss you so! Now that Ellen is gone, I do not see you nearly often enough.

You were right! Life can be what you make it, you told me once. And before I find myself shackled anew, to another man who may turn on me after the vows and my choices are removed, I shall make a few adventures for myself. I think I am due, do you not?

Adventures! Just the thought lifts my heart every bit as much as the astonishing news I impart.

Now. Deep breaths. (Forty-seven of them to be honest.) Another sixteen more. All right.

I shall endeavor to compose myself. Compose another, postable letter to you, expressing a wee bit of sorrow, but one you can discern the truth through.

The, no doubt off-key, hashed holiday carols that grew randier with each verse. The yammered threats against a lady's virtue. The black-haired female's outraged protests.

Leo didn't need to hear a one of them for his conscience to prick painfully at him to hasten his steps. Not when his own desire quickened them well enough.

"… an…inn!" Leo thought she said in the fraction of a glance, when his sight of her wasn't blocked. "Not a brothel!" Which might have made him smile, if he hadn't been so intent on reaching her through the bustling throng.

Shoving his way past others too laze-about or soused to care, Leo's gaze briefly met that of one of the cobs thick around her. One of the two that had just abandoned their table and shoved their way closer. He almost hadn't recognized Benny earlier, not with that thick pelt on his face, as the two of them had made it a point to avoid any acknowledgment of each other all day. Poor Tim, between all that bristle and the recent, acquired, lack of bathing, the cove had to be miserable.

A minim incline of a chin, a single blink between them, and they were in accord, he and his gammoner, Timothy Benton, who'd been aiming to associate with these maggots for a spell now. But "Benny" could only embog the others for so long.

Leo needed to get her out of there before things turned any grimmer. But how to do it without bringing any undue notice upon himself?

He had the coins to hire a private room, if there had been one to spare. But the inn had been swarming since morning, and with irritable, fumish travelers to boot. Could he and Nelson take her to the next town? Find better lodgings? Safer for her at least.

Have your wits gone begging? Other than her broken stage, no one has arrived the last two hours or more. There will be no more traveling tonight.

As he stormed between tables, glancing at all sides, weighing the different threats, noting the limited exits and the single entrance, he sped through his scant options. But when a gangling, fangless wretch put his grubby, grasping blocks on the spirited lass? Dared to fondle her protesting form?

A scarlet haze covered Leo's vision, blood boiled (silently) in his ears and he abandoned any efforts at remaining unseen.

"She's mine!" a new voice bellowed, silencing those around her into stillness, as a behemoth shoved his way inside the menacing circle tightening around her. "Paws off! Lest you want them crushed for Christmas."

She's mine.

Susanna's eyes widened. Stomach jumped into her throat.

Shouldering his way past the others, the newcomer blasted straight to her. Her nerve-scrambled senses could only think: Big. That and Welcome .

At first glance, her rescuer looked as though he belonged with the soused tipplers, singing abused carols interspersed with lewd villainous remarks.

"She don't look claimed to me," Bearded Squirrel swooped in front of her and rasped, brandishing her bag from one finger, as though to mock how heavy she knew it to be. And to emphasize who had control of it now.

The one who'd just named her as his aimed his steely gaze toward the fellow and practically growled, knocking Squirrel Man aside and glaring at each of the reprobates who would do her harm.

As rough and wild as the weather outside, the blue tempest of his narrowed eyes burned hot, every bit as threatening as the men around her—only his ire was directed toward those who would steal what she did not choose to give.

Did she want to align herself with this sandy-haired, bristling stranger?

Do you have a choice?

As tall as Bearded, only a couple inches shorter than Toothy but wider than both. Scowling as much as—or more than—any of them, he closed in with a roar, giving her no chance to inspect him further.

Brute strength elbowed Toothy's stench aside and hauled her up against a wall of warm chest. A strong arm banded across her back as a gentle hand brushed over her head, past the fallen bonnet that no longer strangled (or if it did, she no longer noticed). His warm touch feathered over her head again and came to rest upon her shoulder. Comforting.

"Got delayed by the bridge, same as me." As he spoke, he tightened his hold around her.

Unbidden, a sigh slipped free. Tension eased from her aching limbs. Her forehead tilted forward, met the wool of his coat. Seemed her body decided to trust and relax into him before her mind could question further.

"Wot you think yer?—"

"I saw 'er first!"

"You canna just?—"

"She's mine ." Louder than their grumbling, he repeated that startling statement, his voice full of certitude, rumbling over her head. She wasn't sure whether it was the words, the way he spoke them, or mayhap the surprisingly clean scent of him, but the sound of his confident claim soothed even as it sparked awareness. Long-forgotten tingles warmed her belly as he argued against their protests, insisting she belonged to him.

A far cry different than her former spouse. What with Mr. Mitchell, when he ran low on funds and lower on luck after a day of gambling, offering to share her with his friends, despite her protests and weakness those two?—

None of that now.

Nay, no thoughts of the past. Simply the sheer wonder of the protective breadth of firm chest snug against hers, the gently fierce way this stranger continued to hold her. The way he braved the others as he began edging away from the quarrellous crew, taking her with him.

"My valise!" How could she have forgotten? For even a—warm-man distracted—moment? She spun within the protected haven he provided to retrieve it.

Only to see another knave now had hold around the handle of her bag with one nicked hand. A beefy fellow whose other hand (also covered in old scars) menaced a long, wicked knife.

"Think yer lyin'." The abrasive, burly brute's words slurred as though he'd downed a river of whiskey. "An' wot if ye aren't? There's enough of us here to take what we want."

She growled. Raised her booted foot and leaned back into the solid bulk of her rescuer for balance. "You heard him." She kicked out, slammed the sole of her muddy, booted foot into Burly's groin. "I'm his!"

The others laughed as he dropped her valise to grab his crotch, nearly cutting his own wrist—as he bent over with a howled, "Ye whorin' bitch!"

"Have it, then. A bruised cock isn't worth any petticoat's crack." Squirrel Beard thrust the fallen bag into her middle so hard her breath whooshed . In a quieter voice, he spat, "Now clear out before he straightens and riles the others." His voice rose again. "Or you'll be wishin' you ain't never came to Crossin's."

Hugging her belongings tight, she gripped his fingers hard when the man at her back grappled for and clasped her hand. His callused flesh was as warm as ever.

Safety. His big presence wrapped her in a cloak of it instantly.

You trust him that much, do you?

Seems that she did indeed.

"Come on," she said swiftly, her heart beating so fast the words came out high and airy, despite the bravado of only moments before. She yanked his arm toward the exit. "You heard him. We best heed the advice and vacate without delay."

But the stubborn (strong-as-an) ox refused to budge, seemed to be pulling her back inside . The perilous murmurings behind them grew louder the longer they dallied. "Men!" Exasperation now combined with both fear and relief. "You are more flummoxing than the weather."

Time paused as he glared down at her when she resisted. Despite the shadows surrounding them, his current position and the brightest lantern angled their direction gave Susanna her first good look at the man at her back.

Big. Solid. While that remained her overall impression, she couldn't stop the wayward attraction compelling her to catalog his every feature in the split second allowed.

His maturity attracted every bit as much as his actions. After a decade or more spent with someone her own age, someone who had betrayed her on so many levels, the allure of this seasoned man's instant protection beckoned with reckless abandon. As did he.

The color of pebbles she'd played with once as a child when her family visited a beach in Brighton, his disarrayed, wavy hair fell down over his ears, the edges just brushing his shoulders. The sandy hue was threaded in places with solitary strands of silver.

His features were blunt, saved from severity by the grooves on either side of his mouth. He might not be smiling now, but he had, frequently she suspected, once upon a time.

And his eyes—sharp, piercing, never still, taking everything in and somehow finding it all wanting—except when he turned that thunderous, grey-blue stare back to her with resolute focus.

That stormy gaze of his that made her stomach dip anew. That heated much, much more than just her cold fingers.

Positively ripping .

Bloody damn ripping.

He had to go and get involved. Do you not have enough trouble on your already heavy plate?

If he didn't get her out of here and find a way to disappear, trouble would be that hellion's knife to Leo's gut and one—or more—of these miscreants' daggers to her sheath.

At the thought, a chill colder than the temperatures outside shuddered through him.

Clasping her near-frozen fingers—had the woman no gloves? No muff?—in one hand, he snagged her bag with the other. When she balked again, he jerked his head toward his corner, indicating their destination.

She resisted. Said something he couldn't make out, not in this light and with her lips flapping frantically as she pulled him —not her hand, to free it, some masculine part of him was pleased to note—but tried to haul him the opposite direction. Back out the door she'd entered only moments before trouble bit him on the arse.

He gave his head a quick shake and lifted their joined hands to point. There. How much plainer could he make it?

She stood her ground, scowling at him as though he'd dared pull a pigtail or two.

Enough.

Feeling the pointed blades of anger directed toward his back, he swooped in and snared her waist, pressed her along his side and barreled toward his corner and his battered travel bag—assuming it still remained. Wouldn't surprise him a lick if a savvy conveyancer hadn't noted his distraction and disappeared with it.

In his haste, he'd failed to instruct Reaver on whether to remain or follow, and knew not if the dog had sided with his belongings or waited for him outside by now.

"Stop wiggling about," he growled in her ear, hoping he wasn't overly loud. "Retrieving my things. Then we leave."

Absurd pleasure stormed through him when she stilled, nodded. Fair wrapped herself around him rather than push free, one arm clutching behind his neck as she gave a little jump and coiled her legs around him as well.

Well now.

The past years might have been fraught with sea battles, blockades and hoping to outmaneuver the wily French or Spanish captain opposite, but it now appeared, significant danger aimed their direction or no, his mast hadn't forgotten how to respond to a sweetly scented bit of muslin after all.

Trouble, Leopold. Pure damn trouble.