Cates, Kimberly (3 page)

Juliet could imagine just how hard those hands could be, cuffing frightened girls as she forced them into the elegant rooms she kept for her wealthy patrons.

Mother Cavendish. Of all the wicked people she'd met in her year in London, there was no one Juliet loathed more. Notorious for her nursery for courtesans, Mother traveled the London stews, paying coin to starving families to sell their most beautiful daughters—promising they'd never be hungry again. And they hadn't been. They'd traded the crude gnawing in their stomachs for a more exquisite kind of hell.

The merest glimpse of that woman poured steel down Juliet's spine.

"There she is, lads!" Mother Cavendish cried. "There's the woman who's stolen what's ours!"

"We've come for our women!" a half-pay officer of about thirty called out, brandishing his walking stick in the air. "Violet!" he bellowed at the window. "Come out here at once! You know I've got just what you need tucked beneath the flap o' my breeches!"

"Violet has made it quite clear she doesn't want anything to do with you or your breeches," Juliet said steadily. "You've no right to continue harassing her this way."

"No right? I've spent a bloody fortune on that greedy little piece—sapphire bracelets, silks, and satins. Her bill at the dressmaker's is twice as large as my wife's!"

A roar of laughter erupted from the crowd. "At that price you should own the girl, body an' soul, Percival!" a portly man with missing teeth blustered. "By damn, this bonneted thief stole three of my favorite wenches! I'm not leaving till I get 'em back."

"You'd best get used to sleeping on the cobblestones then. I'll not surrender one of them back to you."

"Then maybe we'll have to take them!" A brutish little man shouldered his way to the front. "I vow, we could tear this place down brick by brick with you inside it, and no one would lift a finger to stop us!"

It was all too true. The danger was, her neighbors would come out with their garden wheelbarrows to help.

"We don't want any trouble," Juliet said.

"Then ye shouldn't o' stole from us!" Missing Teeth blustered. "Damnation, I'll not be turned away without Millicent! No bloody interfering thief in petticoats will stop me from taking her!"

Juliet glimpsed Mother Cavendish's sly eyes, her car-mined lips twisted in a triumphant grin. "They're mine," the old woman murmured. "Body and soul. And they always will be." The bawd wheeled to the mob. "Fling 'er out of our way, Percival, and let's get what we came for!"

Dread thrummed through Juliet's veins, and it was as if she could feel Elise's terror, as she cowered behind the door. She'd promised she'd keep her safe....

The man called Percival took a threatening step toward Juliet.

She thrust the parasol toward him. "Come one step nearer, and I'll—I'll stab you!"

"Be careful, or she'll skewer your man-parts so you won't be shaggin' anyone, Percival!" Mother Cavendish jeered.

"I'm bone-deep terrified, so I am! Take a hell of a lot more t' drive me off than a parasol!" The man laughed, a nasty sound. It erupted into a howl of pain as the parasol smacked dead-on into his nose. Blood spurted out, a roar of fury echoing from the rest of the crowd.

Juliet stumbled back a step, her back colliding with the door to Angel's Fall. She didn't dare ask Elise to open it. If she did, these animals would pour into the corridors and chambers.

In a heartbeat, Juliet heard a swish of steel as a sword-stick was unsheathed, Percival's features twisting into a brutish snarl. "You'll pay for that, woman! I swear—"

"You're absolutely right, Percival," a rich baritone rang out. The crowd split in the wake of a man's massive shoulders. "Someone should definitely take the woman in hand."

Juliet gaped at the daunting figure that jostled toward her. A giant who seemed carved of stone cliffs and midnight. He towered above the other men. His ebony hair was drawn back from a face that was hard as granite, all stark planes and angles. Eyes black as the devil's soul seemed to pierce past the rigid shoulders and determined set of her chin to where her knees were wobbly with terror.

Which one of the poor ladies of Angel's Fall had been at this monster's mercy? Juliet wondered faintly. His mere presence was so overwhelming she could scarce draw breath.

Percival shot him a fulminating glare. "Who the devil are you? And what's your business here?"

"I've come to fetch a lady, just like you. She's led me the devil of a chase." White teeth flashed in a dangerous smile. "As for my name—they call me Sabrehawk. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Sabrehawk? The Prince of Sin!" a carrot-topped sailor crowed. "Stand back, boys! He'll pluck this pigeon right enough!"

Juliet stumbled backward, feeling as if this crowd had summoned up the very devil to pit against her. She brandished the parasol, doubting she could move this mountain of a man if she fired a cannon square into that impossibly broad chest. "Don't make me hurt you!" The words were absurd, and she knew it.

Twin devil's danced in the man's eyes, the sensual fullness of his mouth curving in an arrogant grin. One that told her exactly what he thought of her—that she was about as threatening as a half-drowned kitten, and someone should grab her by the scruff of the neck and deliver her back to her mama.

The insufferable cur glanced about, feigning knee-knocking terror. "Oh, Avenging Angel, I humbly beg your mercy."

A rare flash of temper surged in a crimson haze. Juliet swung the parasol at him with all her might. She didn't even see his hand flash out, but in a heartbeat, the parasol splintered, a cascade of broken sticks and crumpled lace, caught midswing in one bearlike hand.

"Ah, you see, a perfect example of the problem," the barbarian said, tugging the carved ivory handle from her fingers and flinging the ruined parasol to the ground. "Your parries are competent enough, but your thrusts leave a great deal to be desired." He shot a broad wink at the men behind him. "If you would allow me to demonstrate?"

"His thrusts! Aye, man! Show 'er yer thrusts, Sabrehawk!" Someone in the crowd chortled with glee.

He swung around, and Juliet gasped as a sword appeared as if by sorcery, the naked blade a slash of silver against the night. The crowd gasped, scrambling back until only Percival stood there, slack-jawed, his sword-stick in his hand. "What the devil?"

"I thought we agreed that someone needed to take her in hand," the barbarian said with silky menace. "I'm afraid yours are so filthy they'd soil that lovely white skin." Those black eyes angled a wry glance at Juliet. "Now, my sweet, nobody should be allowed to swing a weapon so poorly. Even when that weapon is a parasol. When an enemy attacks, you want to defend yourself, yes. But it's far better to put him on the defensive. Like so." Quicksilver, the sword lashed out, catching the tip of Percival's blade, knocking it aside.

A yelp of anger came from the officer's throat, and he leapt back, sword at the ready, teeth bared. "What are you doing, you bloody idiot?"

"Giving the lady a lesson in swordsmanship," he said. "And making a fool out of you, Percival. Though I must admit, it's hardly a challenge."

"I'll ram your words down your throat for that!" Percival charged, sword slashing, a cruel gleam in his eye. The man fought with far more fury than finesse, blinded by rage at his humiliation. But he might as well have attempted to hack down a mighty oak with a wisp of straw.

The barbarian met his attack with a bored elegance designed to make him furious. "Observe," he said. "Drive your opponent back.
Quinte pointe, pointe tierce.
Or perhaps
quatre,
thus."

The blade darted, taunted, tormented Percival, the man's jowly face turning red, sweat beading his brow. The knot of his neckcloth was ripped away by a quick thrust, leaving a tiny gash in its wake, the top button of his breeches tore beneath the blade's sting, a lock of hair was snipped by the gleaming metal edge, leaving Percival looking like a strangely shorn dog.

Juliet's mouth gaped open as this Sabrehawk engaged in this most deadly dance, his movements holding the wild fascination of watching storm waves crash against cliffs.

She could see the instant the realization struck the officer's drink-numbed brain—he had trifled with a master swordsman. One who could kill him at will. The face that had been so hungry for revenge upon Juliet now contorted in very real fear.

"Of course, you may prolong the battle as long as you enjoy it," the barbarian continued. "Nothing quite so entertaining as a good sword match. But one of the most revered rules of swordsmanship is that you must choose an opponent worthy of you. And, alas, Percival wouldn't be worthy of challenging the most unskilled boy in my salon."

"Bastard! Why are you doing this? This witch stole your woman as well! For God's sake, you should be helping us batter down that infernal door!"

Sabrehawk's weapon flashed, quicksilver, and Percival's sword-stick flew from his hand. The barbarian smiled—the most devastatingly wicked smile of satisfaction Juliet had ever seen. "I never take part in mob actions. Men who run in packs have the most distressing tendency to look like cowards." There was a rumble in the crowd, but not one dared to challenge the flashing brilliance of that sword.

"But your woman—"

Sabrehawk's smile faded into a line of grim intent. "Oh, I damned well intend to reclaim the wench. But I don't intend to do it before an audience, so unless the rest of you have a desire to become likewise acquainted with the sharp edge of my sword, you can go back to your gin and your gambling and find yourself another lady's charms to enjoy."

Juliet quaked, uncertain as to whether she'd rather face the entire mob or this one terrifying man.

"We'll be back for you, we will," Mother Cavendish snarled. "And next time, Juliet Grafton-Moore, we won't be turned away."

"What the devil?" The dark barbarian slashed Juliet a glare of disbelief.

"When you come, I'll still be here," Juliet flung back, trying to still the horrendous trembling of her knees as the mob melted back into the shadows, leaving her alone with the ebony-eyed stranger.

He turned on her with the menacing grace of a panther, dark and deadly, something dangerous in his eyes. "And now, to deal with you," he snarled, slamming his sword back in its scabbard.

"I'm not afraid of you," Juliet lied, chin high. "And I don't care who you've come after. You'll never get your filthy hands on her again!"

"Is that so?" Black eyes speared through her, his fingers flashing out to manacle her arms. "The woman I've come for is
you."

Chapter 2

During his years as an adventurer, Adam believed he'd seen everything. Nothing from the goings-on in a sultan's harem to an officer's bedchamber could shock him. But as he glared down into Juliet Grafton-Moore's defiant face, he knew he'd been wrong.

He felt as if the woman had just leveled him with a cannonball to the chest. That nice old man's daughter a harlot? And damned proud of it from the fierce expression on those celestially lovely features.

Hell, what had she done? Danced a jig on her poor besotted papa's grave and tripped merrily off to London to fling herself into a life of sin? No wonder the old vicar had been so bloody desperate for someone to play guardian to her!

And who had been fool enough to be coerced into taking up the damnable position? Adam The Bloody Idiot Slade. The minute the old man had demanded his word of honor, Adam should have dumped him in the mud and ridden like hell in the opposite direction!

A whole blasted year he'd fought off waves of guilt emanating from a conscience he didn't even believe he had, the vicar's haunting, pleading eyes begging him to take care of his fragile little darling.

Fragile darling? Hellfire! Juliet Grafton-Moore was misery on two legs!

"You're a vicar's daughter! How the devil can you be one of the ladies in this place?"

"I'm not." She lifted her chin, those celestial-blue eyes shimmering with passion. "I'm the one who owns it."

Adam reeled. "You can't—I mean, own this place! I can't believe it. What are you saying? That you gathered up your inheritance and trundled yourself off to London to buy this establishment?"

"That's exactly what I did, not that it's any of your business. The money was mine to do with as I wished."

"And you wished to—to do
this?"
Adam waved a hand at the building.

"I'm good at it. You might say it's—it's a gift."

Adam almost strangled on his own neckcloth. What the devil—had she been "practicing" up in the choir loft while her papa was scribbling down his sermons? "You're gifted at... this?" Why the hell couldn't he just blurt it out— you're good at flipping up your skirts? Bloody hell, even the thought made his cheeks burn like fire, and the dread Sabrehawk hadn't blushed since he was ten years old.

"I am a very sensible woman, and it's up to me to teach them everything I know. I'm proud to be able to help the girls here."

Adam gaped. What the blazes could a vicar's daughter teach these women? Was this some sort of establishment catering to particular tastes? Hell, he'd heard of men who preferred women young and innocent-looking—every love-making seeming as if a man were seducing his first virgin. Life in the vicarage must be a damn sight different than he'd imagined.

"They're fast learners," Juliet insisted. "All of them. They amaze me with their energy. I delight in their progress."

"You—you oversee their... progress?" Adam choked out, flabbergasted by the vision of Miss Fragile Angel Grafton-Moore tutoring her little flock on how to bring a man pleasure.

"It's my most abiding passion. Everyone must earn their keep at Angel's Fall."

"Wh-what about you?"

She flashed him a fierce smile. "I work hardest of all. Papa always said that people learn best from example."

But Adam was damned sure when "Papa" was tutoring his daughter in that maxim, the old vicar hadn't figured his precious darling would employ it in a bedroom full of lightskirts!

"And this mob who was ready to toss you on a pike? Why the blazes were they charging down on you?"