Wicked, My Love (25 page)

Bloody
hell!
She was sacrificing herself for him. Well, Randall had a few terms of his own.

He took two large steps, leaped into the air, and twisted to kick his leg out.
Bam!
The door flew back, slamming the wall. He saw her, her head tilted back, her lips underneath Harding's even as her hand pushed against his chest. An ornate silver weapon of sorts dangled from Harding's hand. Randall released a wild, high shriek, half-human, half–barn owl, and raced in, his sword in his left hand and his ax in the right, thirsty to inflict bodily harm.

Harding leaped back, his eyes widening and then sharpening within a fraction of a second. In Randall's head, he was shouting,
Get
your
goddamn
hands
off
her
, but all that streamed out was another wild, primal shriek. He lashed out with his sword as Harding raised his fancy weapon. In an easy swipe, Randall ousted the blade from the railroad baron's hands, sending it sailing, turning end over end before slicing into a faded silk painting on the wall.

Isabella screamed Randall's name at the same time Harding spat, “Dammit, that was from the Ta
ng dynasty!”

With quick, catlike grace, Harding drew what looked like folded wooden bars from the wall, each segment connected with a chain, like a medieval flail. He began weaving the weapon around his body, almost erotically, as if he were dancing with it. “You know what this is?” he asked, spinning a wooden bar.

“I don't give a damn.” Black rage burned in Randall's muscles. “You're never going to touch Isabella again. Understand?” He jabbed his sword. One segment of the wooden flail whipped up and popped the sword. Randall felt the reverberations down to his bones. He cried out in shock and pain.

“It's a
sanjiegun
from the Song dynasty,” Harding continued, his voice smooth, his eyes glittering. He lashed out again with the spinning wood and smacked Randall's sword, knocking it away.
Dammit!
The railroad man spun like a lithe ballerina and then the bottom bar of wood smashed behind Randall's knee.
Ah!
That
bloody
arse!
He sank to the ground.

“Randall!” Isabella cried out. “Say something.”

Randall raised his head. Before his face, Harding spun a length of the
sanjiegun
, the man's eyes shiny and wide, as if hypnotized by the circling flail.

“You can't have her,” Randall hissed through his pain, and raised his ax.

“Just try to take her away,” Harding baited him.

“Stop!” Isabella screamed. Four arrows shot into the high ceiling in quick succession.
Whew. Whew. Whew. Whew
. Both men froze and slowly turned to find her gripping an old and rather vicious-looking crossbow. She squinted, as if trying to see them. “Drop everything now,” she ordered. Another arrow flew, and she leaped back. Across the room, a stone statue on a pedestal tumbled over and shattered.

“Oh Hades, that wasn't supposed to happen,” she said. “What did I hit? I hope it wasn't a very va
luable dynasty.”

“Isabella, my exciting, dangerous dove,” Harding began calmly, carefully. “Let's just put down the
chu-ke nu
.” He folded the
sanjiegun
under his arm. “You have to understand that Lord Randall came at me with a sword…so full of his misplaced chivalry. I had to defend myself in the restrained manner of combat that I learned in the East, so as to easily disarm Lord Randall without wounding or
killing him.”

“Isabella, my dearest African lappet-faced vulture, let me give you your glasses so that you might take better aim next time.” Randall fished her glasses from his coat. He tried to rise to his feet, but the back of his knee was throbbing and Harding stepped in front of him, swinging that damned
sanjiegun
like a pendulum before his face.

“She's almost blind, man,” the viscount hissed. “Or maybe you want her weakened and dependent on you. That's how you play, isn't it? First the wound, then the kill.”

The man's lips twitched. “Give her the glasses. Let her see the real man among us.”

“Love, I'm approaching.” Randall raised his palms. “Just point the crossbow a little to the right?” He gently clasped her free hand, brushing his fingers against hers as he handed her the glasses.

She sniffed and her lids fluttered. She slid the spectacles on her nose and took in the room, her gaze stopping on the bed. Her gray eyes were enormous and wet, her chin trembling.

“Oh, Isabella,” he whispered.

“D-don't look at me like that,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She stared at where his hand rested on her sleeve. “He is going to save the bank…your political career. You're a good politician, no matter what I've said to you.”

“Isabella has asked that I respectfully refrain from commenting on your activities in Parliament,” Harding explained. “In fact, I might be able to help you. With a few words from me in the right ears, you could run uncontested. You'll just need to learn to keep quiet when it's good for you.”

“You mean look the other way and let you and your cronies run the country.” Randall didn't give a damn about his political career anymore. All he knew, all that played over and over in his head, was Isabella being thrown into a carriage, ripped away from him. And now she stood beside him, trembling, scared, but so brave in her sacrifice. He wanted to draw her close, feel the tickle of her hair on his chin again, and keep her locked to his protective heart for the remainder of her life. The entirety of the British Empire could sink to hell for all he cared. He just wanted her.

“This nation needs you more than me,” he replied gently. He had to be careful. “Women are clamoring for you to help them. You give something more than hope; you give them power and respect. Don't leave them now.”

“I think they would prefer that our bank remains solvent and keeps their money safe than whatever advice I can give them.” He could hear the unshed tears darkening her words. “Don't make this any harder. Just—just leave. Please.”

Randall felt as though the air had been punched from his lungs. Harding, that bumhole, clapped. “A wise woman.”

She closed her eyes. A tear streamed down h
er cheek.

She
doesn't mean it
, he told himself, trying to rein in his own emotions.
She's acting out of fear and misplaced loyalty.
Harding was playing games that she understood—numbers and risk. But Randall had a few games of his own. And they were ruthless and cut to the heart. He dropped his ax, letting it thud on the lush red carpet. In the fight of his life, he chose a much sharper, much deadlier weapon: words.

He began, in a whisper, “Very well, my love, if that's what you wish. But before I go, I want you to answer one question for me.”

“Save the dramatics for Parliament,” Harding said. “She asked you to leave. It's over.”

“I'm not talking to you,” Randall thundered.

Her head jerked up. The tears now glistening on the beautiful face of the woman who never cried sliced apart his soul. His voice cracked as he asked her, “What do you truly want in your heart?”

“To—to save t-the bank,” she choked. “Our customers… My father's…”

“Legacy,” Harding finished. “You are saving all that he gave you.”

“The question was for her,” Randall reminded the bumhole. Randall's heart pounded. He hesitated for a moment, knowing his words and the pain he was about to cause could never be taken back. “Isabella, your father is gone. He isn't here to care anymore. His legacy shouldn't be about a stupid bank.”

Her lips parted, her eyes were wide and disbelieving as if he had physically slapped her. “Don't say that,” she screamed.

“You wanted to marry Powers because you desired a warm, loving family, one that you have never known.” Randall began to circle her as he would an opponent in a debate, keeping the other guessing and off balance, wearing him down. Except she wasn't his adversary but his lover. What he was doing was destroying his heart. He struggled to continue. “You've felt so alone and alienated all your life, as if everyone understood a special joke that you didn't. You felt different, but you couldn't understand why.”

“Please stop,” she begged. “Please.”

Forgive
me
, he silently pleaded as he pushed his sword deeper into her ancient wounds. “You were lonely growing up because your father was always preoccupied with business. It was the most important thing in his life. More than his own daughter. When your mother died, you weren't allowed to grieve for her. Your father told you to be strong. And you've always been strong, haven't you? So strong.”

“But I w-wasn't strong enough.” He leaned in, trying to hear her halting words. “Look what has happened.”

“Stop playing your games,” Harding warned Randall, that damn flail swinging again. The man was feeling threatened.

“You thought when you moved to the country, things would be different between you and your father.” Randall continued down his treacherous course. “Then he became friends with my father and started a bank. You were left alone again, except for me, who insulted you and pushed you away, and Judith. And your father liked me, doted on me, while he found you odd and gawky, not graceful like your mother. My life appeared so golden while yours was so cold and empty. No wonder you hated me.” Randall raised a finger. “But what you could do was make money, better than your father. That was the one thing you could do to impress him. So that's what you did to try and make him love you.” He stopped before her. Her head was bowed, tears dripping from her chin. He wanted so badly to draw her into his arms, pull all his words from her heart. “But he is gone,” he whispered, “and your unfulfilled dreams remain—that love you wanted, never returned. So tell me what you want. Tell me the truth.”

“Careful, Isabella.” Harding was changing tactics now, attacking her fears. “If your bank fails, you will have nothing but your charms to recommend you in the poorhouse. Don't fall for this man's sentimenta
l rubbish.”

“Don't listen to him,” the viscount said gently. “You have the power here. What do you want? This is so important now. Don't become defensive and shut me out. Tell me the truth.”

“I want my bank…and someone…someone who will…” She faltered.

“Say it,” Randall encouraged. “Show me that brave, fearless heart of yours.”

“L-love me as I-I love him.” The words burst as if they had been dammed up for ages. “Dedicated and loyal and forever. Who will be there for me and not make me feel different or odd. Who will give me children who hug with smudgy, dirty fingers and a home where people laugh and leave shoes on the stairs and journals strewn about and jam stains on the tablecloths. I want a man…I want y…” She stared at him, her eyes saying what she couldn't utter.

“I want you,” Randall said. “I will give you that love, home, and children.” Peace washed over him, even as he knew his life would never be the same. His old, ambitious, empty dreams were all falling away. “I love you so much.”

Her face crumpled. “I—”

“Lord Randall, you only love yourself,” Harding cut in, taking the moment away.

Randall had had enough of the man. “I know you're behind this bank failure. I know you've been plotting my downfall because I dared to cross you. Well, go ahead,” he shouted, stepping into Harding's face. “Take my seat in the house, take my honor, take my integrity, my money, take everything from me but Isabella. She's mine.”

“Oh, Randall!” Isabella cried.

“Isabella is too wise to fall for your dramatics,” Harding said. “Your love-conquers-all philosophy is so touching, but wholly ineffective.”

She raised the
chu-ke nu
, tears streaming down her cheeks. “B-be q-quiet.”

“My darling, at this moment, you are a suspect in fraud. Not only could you lose all your money; you could go to Newgate.” Harding was sinking to threats. Men like him didn't build railroads or turn a nation into opium addicts by conceding; he would try to win against all reason. “I don't need to tell you that if you leave, Powers will be free to skip the country.
”

Randall tried so hard to keep from smiling as he set his trap. “Let me guess, you led her here in exchange for Powers. Well, go fetch him. Why not get all the men in Isabella's life in one room, place all the cards on the table, and let her choose.”

“Very well.” Harding crossed to the door and bellowed down the corridor. “Someone bring Po
wers immediately.”

Isabella remained still, her eyes focused on the floor.

“Isabella,” Randall whispered. His heart ached. “Tell me you love me too.”

Say
it
, Isabella told herself.
Tell
him
how
much
you
when
love
him. Tell him how you've never felt more perfect than when in his arms. Tell him that sharing a home with him would be more than you dared dream in this life.
How easy it would be to say it. But she couldn't. She couldn't ruin his life.

“Isabella, please,” Randall entreated again.

Harding laughed. The corridor thundered with heavy footfalls. Just outside the threshold appeared the two men who had tossed her into the carriage and another hulking, bearded man. The smell of gin wafted off him. He was dressed in the same dark pantaloons and coat as the other flash men, but he sported a sheer nightshirt of sorts on top of his garments and a long, fluffy white tail dangled between his legs.