Princess Charming (2 page)

Nick stared at her. “If I intend? Colliding it with doors?” Was she a lunatic?

The girl rose, her limbs tensed for flight. She was small, a pocket Venus, the very kind of woman who always brought out his damnable protective tendencies. She was looking anywhere but at him, as if he were of less consequence than Wellington.

“Fortunately, you seem to have recovered, and I’m expected home. Good day.”

“Whoa!” He grabbed the much-turned hem of her skirt as she passed. Did she think he would let her trespass so blithely? “One moment, princess.” Princess? What bit of madness had made him utter that endearment, even in mockery? He cleared his throat. “You may leave the same way you entered.” He nodded toward the garden door, expecting the movement to bring sharp pain, but thankfully there was only a dull throb.

The girl hesitated, and then she glanced toward the door through which she’d come. Nick’s eyes followed her movement. His sight was still a trifle bleary but not blind.

“Is someone following you?”

She jumped. “Following me? Certainly not.”

Nick lumbered to his feet, and to his surprise, the girl grasped his arm to steady him. The warmth of her touch penetrated the rough sleeve of his gardener’s smock. He gained his balance, and she dropped her hold as
if his arm was on fire. Their eyes locked, and Nick felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Surely not. Surely it was only his injured head, woozy from the door’s attack. This girl was anathema to him—beautiful and obviously in some sort of danger. The Almighty had seen his vow to Wellington as a challenge and had responded immediately by sending the ultimate temptation.

Nick, though, would not be so easily undone. He had sworn an oath, even if it was only to the most irritating dog in Christendom, and by Jove, he intended to keep his word.

And yet the part of him that defied his best intentions made the damning questions tumble from his lips. “Have you run away from your employer? See here, if you’re in trouble, I can—” He stopped abruptly. “No,” he heard himself mutter, as if watching the too-familiar scene from a distance. “No. Not—”

Before he could finish the thought, the garden door swung open, and a pair of burly ruffians stepped through the portal.

Wellington erupted into a frenzy of barking and made a dive for the boots of the closest intruder. The stocky man gave Wellington a kick that sent the pug flying. The girl cried out and started toward the dog, but Nick grabbed her arm and thrust her behind him. With his other hand, he reached for a scythe propped against the wall. He cursed his own stupidity, for he should have expected this from the moment he’d noticed her eyeing the door.

“Aw, look, ‘Ector.” The first man smirked, revealing a great quantity of rotten teeth. “She’s gone and found ‘erself a protector.”

Nick’s shoulders tightened in anticipation of battle. Two against one, and the one’s head still felt as if it had connected with a cricket bat. Behind him, he could feel the tension thrumming through the girl as
surely as
he could feel his own pulse. The second man, larger than the first but somehow less menacing, cast an uncomfortable glance around the garden as he shifted from one foot to the other.

“Get on with it, Tully.” Despite his size, the brute ducked his head timidly. “Somebody might ‘appen along.”

Nick tightened his fingers around the handle of the scythe. “Whoever you are, you are trespassing on Lady Belmont’s property. I suggest you leave.” His voice sounded firm even as he trembled with the effort of holding the unwieldy scythe as he would a rapier.

“All right, all right.” The stocky man turned toward the door. “C’mon, ‘Ector. ‘E’s too much for the likes of us.” Suddenly, though, the ruffian whirled about and lurched forward, making a grab for the scythe.

Nick feinted and parried with his awkward weapon, thrusting the blade beneath his attacker’s nose. Behind him, the girl gasped, for he had stopped just short of cutting the man. His attacker grunted in surprise and stepped back.

“‘Ow’d you learn to fight like a nob?” The ruffian wiped his nose on his filthy sleeve. “C’mon. Put up yer fives, and fight me fair, man to man.”

Nick looked down at the scythe’s handle and groaned. A crack ran the length of it. Well, at least his luck was consistent. He tossed the scythe to the ground and squared his shoulders. “Man to man it is, then.”

Behind him, the girl bit back a cry of exasperation. The second ruffian sank down onto a nearby bench. “I’ll just rest meself ‘ere a bit, Tully, until you’re done with poundin’ ‘im to a bloody pulp.”

The first thug shot his fellow blackguard a disparaging glance. “Demme, ‘Ector, you’d still be hanging at your mother’s teat if she’d let ye. If you’ve not the stomach for a fight, make yerself useful and fetch a rope to tie her. This bloke won’t take long to bash.”

“Aye, Tully. ‘Tis just what I’ll do.” The squeamish giant looked delighted at the opportunity to escape from the garden, and in a moment, he was gone. Nick breathed a sigh of relief. The ruffian’s arrogance had at least evened the odds.

The girl stepped forward and bent to retrieve the scythe, but Nick caught her arm. “No.” Despite his years away from the palace, the word held the imperial authority of a monarch’s command. The girl flushed with fury.

She shook off his grip. “There’s no need to play the hero.”

Her words caught him like an uppercut. She looked magnificent in her righteous indignation, despite her obviously laughable belief that she could fend for herself. “Princess,” he drawled, “where have you been all my life?”

Princess?
Princess?
If any of the matchmaking mamas that haunted London’s
beau monde
ever heard him murmur that endearment to their daughters, he’d be wed within a week. Nick’s stomach sank.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sudden flash of movement. The ruffian had retrieved the scythe and now raised it above his head like an ax.

“Watch out!” the girl cried, and then she shoved Nick backward into the thug. The contact threw his attacker off balance, and they fell into a heap on the path. Nick felt the air rush from his chest with one quick
whoosh.
The scythe flew through the air and landed at the girl’s feet, the blade mere inches from the tips of her half boots. Nick, truly afraid for the first time since the men had entered the garden, fought to regain his breath. The first thug, who lay beneath him, roared and shoved Nick aside as he came upright. The fiend spied the scythe at the girl’s feet and lunged forward.

Just in time, the girl reached down and snatched the handle. The scythe wavered precariously in her grasp, but her expression showed not the slightest tremor. Breathless, Nick could only watch—fascinated, intrigued, furious—as she attempted to brandish the weapon.

“Well, wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” Blood trickled from the corner of the ruffian’s nose, and his smile was truly evil. “‘Tis me lucky day. I like ‘em young and blond as a guinea.” He turned and spat, and Nick could have sworn he saw a tooth go sailing through the air. The girl shuddered at the vile words, but she held her ground.

Nick had dreamed such scenes before, in the haunting combination of memory and nightmare that stalked his sleep. Only this time he would not awaken to find himself in his own bed, the linens twisted and soaked with sweat.

“Back!” She waved the scythe as menacingly as she could, but Nick could see that her arms were tiring quickly.

“More like ‘on yer back,’” the man smirked. “‘Tis where you’ll soon be, you—”

Nick sucked in a deep lungful of air and rolled to his feet. Glancing about, he spied a small stone urn on the potting bench along the wall. He grabbed the vessel and raised it above the ruffian’s head. The thug, unaware of Nick’s recovery, continued to advance on the girl. With all the force he could muster, Nick brought the urn down on the man’s crown with a resounding blow. A second thud followed the first as the ruffian dropped to the ground.

The girl stood immobile, stunned by the violence and more than a little bit green beneath that creamy complexion. Nick looked down. At his feet, the thug lay in a crumpled heap, blood oozing from his crown. This skirmish was over, but how long until the other villain returned with a rope—or reinforcements?

Nick knew the best antidote for the shock of battle was practical action. “He’ll come round before long. We should toss him out.”

The girl exhaled and then squared her shoulders, and Nick knew, from that one small movement, that she was tenacity to the backbone. She looked up, capturing him again in those clear blue eyes before she turned her attention back to the man at their feet. “Can we manage? He looks heavy.”

“He’s not likely to grow any lighter.” Nick leaned down and grasped the thug under the arms. Without waiting for instructions, the girl took hold of his ankles.

“One, two, three.” In unison, they inched the man’s dead weight across the path and to the door. With a grunt of satisfaction, Nick shoved the man’s torso across the threshold and then set his hands on the girl’s shoulders to slide her aside. The brief sensation of her flesh beneath his palms sent a flash of heat through him. Nick dropped his grip on her shoulders, grasped the man’s legs, and swung them out the narrow portal. With a final shove, he rolled the thug onto the cobblestones and shut the door. The girl threw home the bolt and dropped the crossbar like a chatelaine preparing for siege.

Nick took a long look at his undoing and could only suppress a groan. Curse it, why couldn’t she have been plain and wan? “Care to tell me why those two ruffians had you so firmly in their sights?”

The girl feigned innocence. “I have no idea why those men followed me,” she protested, and Nick had to allow that she was a credible actress, just not enough to fool him. Again, she squared her shoulders—those shoulders that had felt so right beneath his hands. “Men see a female servant alone and take a great many notions. Thievery. Or rapine.” She shuddered at the thought, and Nick did as well. He was all too aware of the vulnerability of a woman alone.

“Indeed,” was all he said.

She knotted her fingers in her skirt and shifted from one foot to the other. “I do thank you, sir, for your assistance and will trouble you no further.” She bobbed a curtsy, and her eyes darted toward the other door in the garden’s eastern wall.

“Trouble?” He was irritated, intrigued, and foolishly reluctant to let the hoyden leave. “Pray tell, princess, what makes you think you’ve been any trouble?”

She flushed a becoming shade of pink, and Nick’s body responded with alacrity to her beguiling combination of brazenness and embarrassment. She spread her hands in front of her in a gesture of apology.

“See here, I’m dreadfully sorry about your head, but how was I to know you were waiting just this side of the door? And I’m sorry for the thugs, too, but it’s not as if I asked them to follow me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, and we can forget this small incident.”

“Small incident?” Nick eyed her in disbelief. “I am struck unconscious, the most repulsive villain ever dredged up from the Thames attacks us, and it’s a
small incident?
Remind me, my sweet, not to be present when you become ensnared in anything
large
.”

The girl bit her lip, her features white, and Nick cursed himself for a cad. While she obviously prided herself on her independence, she clearly wasn’t accustomed to street brawls. An apology formed on his lips, but before he could utter a word, the girl burst into tears.

Blast and damn! Instinctively, Nick grabbed her and pressed her against his chest. With an awkward, hesitant motion, he stroked her hair, for he was far more used to fighting on behalf of fair maidens than comforting them. “C’mon, now, don’t cry, princess. I abhor when women cry.”

For one long moment, she clung to him as if he were the only thing afloat in a stormy sea. Her need was a siren’s call. Every inch of her pressed against him, and Nick fought the urge to turn his head and seek out her lips with his. The fierceness of the desire scared him more than the scythe-swinging ruffian. Rescue but don’t respond, he had always pledged to himself. The words had never proved problematic before.