Her Protector's Pleasure (40 page)

"What is it?" he asked.

"They've got Coyner." She raised glimmering eyes. "They found him in France, and they're bringing him back to face justice."

Knots loosened in Ambrose's chest. He opened his arms, and Marianne walked into them, burying her face against his chest.

"Welcome news indeed," he said hoarsely. "When did they find Coyner?"

"Three days ago," Smythe said. "Accounting for the travel time, they expect to have him back in London by early next week."

A shudder traveled through Marianne, and Ambrose held her closer.

"Sir Birnie asked me to bring Lady Draven in to take an official statement. He wants everything in order so that the magistrates can try Coyner as soon as he arrives," the Runner added.

Marianne drew a breath and straightened. "I can go right now."

"I'll come with you," Ambrose said.

She shook her head. "I want you to stay here with Primrose."

When he tried to argue, she placed a finger to his lips. "Please, Ambrose. Even with Coyner in custody, I'd feel better knowing that you are here with my daughter."

Ambrose frowned. "What about you?"

"I'll take Lugo," she said. "We shan't be more than an hour or two."

Ambrose hesitated. Reluctantly, he said, "Mind you go straight to Bow Street and back."

She nodded.

The Runner offered his arm. "Shall we, my lady?"

*****

An hour later, Ambrose stood on the terrace next to his father. His siblings and Primrose were present as well, and they all watched as Harry prepared to show off his latest experiment. On the outside, the invention looked innocuous enough: white paper tubes were strung together and suspended from a hat rack.

"Behold the Chinese Firecracker," Harry said.

As the others applauded, Ambrose said beneath his breath, "Are you certain this is safe, Father?"

"Harry's been experimenting for weeks. I'm sure he has it down," Samuel whispered back. In a louder voice, he said, "Go on and give us a show, lad."

As Harry reached for the matches, the door bell rang. Relief washed over Ambrose. Marianne was back.

"Wait up," he said with a grin. "I'm sure our hostess won't want to miss this."

He strode to the foyer, where Tilda was opening the door. The maid let out a gasp at the same time that a roar filled Ambrose's ears.

Lugo stood there, disheveled, his face swollen almost beyond recognition. Blood dripped from the large gash on his cheekbone.

"It was a trap," the African said hoarsely. "The note was forged. Smythe's working for Coyner—"

"Where is she?" Ambrose snarled.

"Coyner has her." Lugo held out a note. "Says to follow these instructions … or my lady dies."

FORTY-THREE

Marianne blinked, the world coming into focus in bits. Darkening sky. Lapping waves. A cutter anchored next to the pier where she was lying on her side, her cheek pressed against the rickety planks. She tried to move, but her hands and feet were tied. Everything returned to her. The ambush in the carriage. Coyner and Smythe holding Lugo at gunpoint whilst they beat him to a pulp. Her throat clenched.
God, Lugo
. She'd tried to scream for help, but Coyner had smothered her with a handkerchief, and the noxious fumes had sent her into oblivion.

She fought the panic. Tried to think. Where was she ... where was Coyner?

"Awake, are you?"

A boot pushed her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. She stared up at the man who'd imprisoned her daughter for nearly four years—who'd meant to do unspeakable harm to her little girl. Hatred poured through her veins, dissolving her fear.

"You won't get away with this," she said. "Kent will hunt you down."

"That's the plan. I even gave him the directions." The maniacal edge of Coyner's laugh raised the hairs on her skin. "You're the bait, you see. He'd do anything for you. Because of that, he'll bring my treasure straight to me."

"She's not yours, you perverted bastard," Marianne hissed. "She's eight years old—a
girl
."

"
Primrose is mine, you worthless slut.
"

Coyner grasped her by the hair and yanked her up. Tears of pain welled behind her eyelids, but she refused to cower, kept her gaze steady on her enemy's face. Coyner's eyes had a wild, glazed look. Spittle clung to his lower lip, dripped down the spotty stubble on his jaw. He looked and smelled as if he hadn't bathed in days. A lunatic on the edge.

Could she push him over, gain the upper hand? Pendleton's revelations about Coyner rang in her head. "Why do you want my daughter,
Jericho
?" she said.

His pupils dilated. "Don't call me that. My name's Coyner. Sir Coyner."

"Do you want a girl … because you can't get it up with a woman?"

"Shut up! Shut up, you whore!"

His hands closed around her throat, yet she gasped out, "Couldn't fuck the tavern wench, could you? Everyone at Eton laughed about it. Everyone knows you're an impotent—"

His grip choked her. Dots danced before her eyes.

"They're here, sir!"

The shout caused Coyner to release her. She fell to her knees, her lungs pulling for air. Through the strands of hair that had fallen over her face, she saw an approaching rowboat. Ambrose was rowing it with only one other boatman, and between them was a small blond head ...

"No!" she shouted. "Keep her away, Ambrose—"

Coyner backhanded her. The taste of pain flooded her mouth, and black waves split her vision.

"Gag her," Coyner snarled.

Smythe appeared and, though she struggled, he held her down and wound a length of filthy linen around her mouth. He hauled her back up, and panic clutched her heart: the rowboat had docked at the other end of the pier. Her daughter was within Coyner's grasp.

She prayed that whatever Ambrose had planned would work.

Because she'd die before she let Coyner get hold of Primrose again.

*****

As the boat bumped against the dock, fear and frustration scalded Ambrose's gut.
This is my fault. I let Marianne go. If anything happens to her—
Yet his self-directed anger was of no use at the moment. Later, he could berate himself further for his failure to protect Marianne. Right now he had to ensure her and Primrose's safety and to take care of Coyner once and for all.

Coyner had planned this meeting with crazed, desperate genius. The bastard had named this abandoned pier east of London, which had nothing but derelict factories to bear witness to the exchange. His note had been succinct:
Bring no authorities, no more than a single boatman, or the bitch dies.

His throat raw, Ambrose looked at Primrose. "You're certain you wish to go through with this, little one?"

"Yes, Mr. Kent." In the light of the boat's lamp, the girl's lips trembled, but she lifted her chin. "I want my mama back."

Her mother's daughter.

"Brave girl." Ambrose cupped her cheek gently. "You remember the plan, then?"

"Yes," she said and hugged her doll to her chest.

Ambrose turned to his waiting waterman. "Johnno?"

"Aye, sir. At your signal," Johnno replied.

Ambrose rapped his knuckles against the boat. "Wait here. I'll go up first."

He stepped onto the planks. His heart pounded at the sight of Marianne standing at the end of the pier. Her hair glowed against the violet sky and the dark waters just beyond. He counted Coyner and six brutes surrounding her. A well-built cutter was anchored behind them. No doubt Coyner meant to make a swift escape through the Thames Estuary once he had his prize. It gave Ambrose a measure of comfort to know that the River Police would be waiting for the villain there—though he had no intention of allowing the blighter to make it that far. Or to lay hands on Primrose. Ambrose clenched his pistol.

"Let Lady Draven go, Coyner." His voice rose above the sound of the waves. "I've come as you asked."

"Show me Primrose," Coyner shouted back.

Ambrose jerked his chin, and Johnno helped the little girl onto the pier. She clutched her doll in one hand, the lamp in the other. The glow illuminated her face.

"Primrose,
my angel
. Have you missed me? Come to me, sweet flower."

Though the shadowy dusk obscured Coyner's expression, Ambrose heard the fevered passion in the bastard's voice, and his hold tightened instinctively on Primrose's shoulder.

Have to let her go. Just for a few moments.

"We'll release them together, Coyner," he forced himself to call out. "They walk at the same time."

Swearing, Coyner hissed an order to one of his lackeys. The man untied the rope that bound Marianne's ankles, but did not free her arms or remove her gag. She was shaking her head, her voice desperate and muffled. Coyner kept a pistol trained on her back.

"Move forward," he barked.

With a quick prayer, Ambrose let go of Primrose—the hardest thing he'd ever done.

"I'm right behind you," he whispered. "Don't forget that, poppet."

She nodded and started forward. Ambrose's gut wrenched as step by step the girl moved beyond his reach. As he'd instructed her, she matched her pace to Marianne's. His muscles coiled in readiness as the two came closer and closer, nearing the middle of the pier. Then Primrose stopped, directly next to Marianne.

Now, little one. Do it now.

As if hearing his thoughts, Primrose brought her doll closer to her chest. Though her movement was subtle, Ambrose saw that she had positioned the doll over the lamp she held in her other hand.

And set the hidden fuse beneath the doll's skirt into the flame.

The next second, Primrose flung the doll toward Coyner. Ambrose heard her cry out, "Jump, Mama!" and the sound of splashes before Harry's firecrackers exploded into the night. Coyner gave a cry of alarm, but Ambrose was already racing forward, firing his pistol through the screen of smoke and chaotic explosions. He heard footsteps pounding behind him, more shots fired. Hunt and Harteford—who'd been hiding in the smuggling boat's false bottom—had joined his offensive.

Going low, he could only spare a glance to ensure that Primrose and Marianne were safe in the shallow water next to the pier. He reached for the fresh pistols at his belt, continuing to fire into the haze of smoke. He heard cries of pain, and then the other two caught up to him.

"Bloody hell, Kent, leave some for me," Hunt said.

The smoke cleared, revealing the bodies upon the planks. Ambrose spotted Coyner and two others scrambling toward the cutter. His gaze returned to the water; Johnno had arrived and was helping Marianne and Primrose into the rowboat.

"We're fine, Ambrose," Marianne shouted up at him. "Get Coyner!"

"Stay with them," Ambrose said to Harteford, who jerked his chin in assent. "Hunt, let's get that bastard."

A feral smile crossed Hunt's face.

They raced forward, dodging bullets and returning the fire. With his last shot, Ambrose took aim, and the brute at the helm of the cutter gave a cry as he crumpled, bleeding from the chest. Two enemies left to go. Hunt jumped on board first, tackling Smythe with a roar. Coyner stood by the mainsail, struggling to reload his pistol. Ambrose dove for him, wrestling the bastard onto the deck. They grappled, then Coyner kneed him in the solar plexus. In that instant, Ambrose lost the upper hand, and a blade materialized in Coyner's grip, swinging down in a vicious arc.

Ambrose rolled to evade it, but the blade caught him, fire lancing through his arm. With a maddened howl, Coyner pinned him, and the knife swiped downward again. Ambrose caught Coyner's weapon arm with his good hand, his muscles straining to keep the glinting steel tip from sinking into his throat.

"Primrose is mine!" Coyner screamed. "I'm going to kill you then get her bitch of a mother!"

Like hell you will.

With a surge of power, Ambrose brought his injured arm into play. Just as Coyner bore down with murderous intent, Ambrose gripped his opponent's wrist with both hands. He snapped it upward, reversing the momentum of the knife. Coyner cried out in pain, and Ambrose took that instant to roll free. On his feet in the next breath, he stood ready to finish the fight.

Coyner remained lying face down on the deck.

After a few heartbeats, Ambrose nudged the man with his foot. His boot came away stained with a dark liquid. Skin prickling, he rolled his foe over. The hilt of the blade protruded from Coyner's chest, crimson blossoming from the fatal wound.

Blood gurgled from Coyner's lips. "My sweet flower ..." he gasped. Then the crazed light faded from his eyes, and his head fell to the side.

Seconds later, Hunt arrived and peered down at the still body. "Done?"

Ambrose's gaze honed in on Marianne and Primrose upon the pier. They sat huddled beneath blankets, sodden and no doubt exhausted. But they were safe.

"Yes," he said with quiet relief. "It's finished at last."

FORTY-FOUR

"Have something for you, son," Samuel said a week later.

"What is it?" Ambrose paused in the act of packing his father's books into a trunk.

On the morrow, he would take his family back to Chudleigh Crest. With the reward Ambrose had earned from Bow Street for taking down Coyner, he'd had enough to pay off his father's debts and purchase his family a comfortable new cottage. He planned to settle them in, then return to London and carry on his job with the Thames River Police.

Everything had fallen neatly into place. Everything ... but his relationship with Marianne.

Since Coyner's death, Marianne had been thoroughly occupied in her role as a mother. She spent every moment with her daughter. During the day, she entertained Primrose and Ambrose's siblings; at night, she slept in the governess' bed in Primrose's room. Her anxiety was slow to fade, and Ambrose could not blame her. When he thought of her and Primrose on that pier ... his jaw tautened. He hadn't forgiven himself for his failure. Henceforth, he swore to do a better job of protecting them both.

Yet was he deluding himself, thinking about a future with them? Did Marianne want him to have a role in her life? In her daughter's? The truth was she'd never promised more than the moment. And given the trauma of recent events, he hadn't felt right pressuring her to think of other matters.