If You Dare (36 page)

A
nna's walking away from me.
Court couldn't think or reason beyond that.

He'd hurt her, then made reparations as best as he was able. He needed to get her away before he hurt her again. Next time he might not be able to fix the problem.
Death and torment . . .
The shining cover dared him to defy it.

She glanced over her shoulder, not pleadingly, but as if to memorize him. Then turned away. He tensed, hands clenching, barely preventing himself from acting on the command echoing inside him:
Get Anna.

Behind him, Hugh must have noticed, because he said in a low voice, “You have to do this for her. Let her go with her family.”

Her brother shepherded her away, already protecting her. Damn it, that was Court's responsibility. That was his
right.

She was
his.

Ethan put a hand on his shoulder. Coming from Ethan it
was a threatening gesture instead of comforting, and both of them knew it.

He turned to the two. Hugh frowned at Court's face as if confounded. Ethan took one look at him and scowled more, if possible. Court felt mad, crazed, and knew he looked it. “Only until I make sure she's safe,” he said with difficulty.

“A woman like that doesn't belong with a man like you. Even if we weren't shadowed.”

“You're killing her, Court,” Hugh said. “Just like we killed Leith.”

•  •  •

“Wait.”

She stopped in her tracks so fast her skirts surged forward.

At this she heard Hugh mutter, “Christ.” Ethan hissed a startlingly vile curse, then said in warning,
“Courtland . . .”

Aleix turned to her, his battered face showing his displeasure.

“How are you going to keep her safe?” Court asked of Aleix.

Annalía turned, tilting her head at him. She'd never seen this fierce expression, the wild look in his eyes.

“I'll protect my own.”

MacCarrick nodded in the direction of the doorway, indicating the lone carriage waiting outside in the rain. “You doona have outriders. I'll wager you doona even have a weapon.”

“You're begging me to prove that I do.”

“She's been marked by the Rechazados.”

Aleix's tone went low as though pained. “I know.”

Olivia piped in, “We've been, too.” Aleix gave her a harsh, warning glance, which seemed to delight her, then she sauntered over to inspect an expensive vase. Annalía suspected that vase would be found in their carriage momentarily.

“They've attacked three times already.”

“What?”
Aleix reached for her arm, but MacCarrick lunged forward and snatched Aleix's wrist.

“Doona touch her arm,” he warned. She had nearly healed, but it would be tender if he'd grabbed it.

“What happened to it?” Aleix demanded with a withering glare at MacCarrick's grip.

“They shot her.” MacCarrick released him. “And they'll do it again.”

“You let them shoot her?”
Aleix's tone sounded more frightening than Annalía had ever heard it. And MacCarrick? She couldn't make out his feelings at all, but sensed violence in him, sharp and ready. She had to cool this situation.

“Aleix, I ran from MacCarrick toward them. Like an imbecile, shouting for their help.”

Aleix never took his eyes from MacCarrick. “You
let
her go?”

She put herself between them, standing on her toes to attempt to reach his line of vision. “I elbowed his throat. And he still ran right after me to throw us behind a boulder. That was only the first time he saved my life.” Had Aleix relaxed the tiniest bit? “Two Rechazados attacked while we rode north. He took down one—”

“One?” Olivia surveyed Annalía with obvious newfound interest.

Annalía answered, “I got the other one. I had this rock hidden in my skirt meant for MacCarrick.” Aleix appeared astonished, as if he didn't recognize her. “It had worked on him before.”

MacCarrick gave his brothers a baleful expression as if anticipating their censure. “She told me she'd hurt her feet. When I went to look at them, she swung her dress around . . .” Hugh raised his eyebrows and MacCarrick grated, “She's
crafty.”

Aleix took her elbow. “You can tell me about this later.”

“You will no' take her from here,” MacCarrick grated.

“You think to order me? You bloody, arrogant Scot—” And they were at it again.

Annalía flushed in embarrassment at Aleix's comment, wondering how Hugh and Ethan MacCarrick would respond. Annalía was learning that Ethan had one expression—malice just under the surface. Hugh shrugged. “Been called worse.”

Court slammed into Aleix, hurtling him over a table, crashing it flat. Aleix clambered up from the wood to tackle MacCarrick, pushing them into the next room. “Will you help me?” she asked Hugh. Ethan was just too fearsome to ask.

Hugh swore, then strode between them throwing elbows. “You're behaving stupidly, Court. And much is on the line.”

When they broke apart, both out of breath, Ethan spoke in a disgusted tone, “You have a common enemy. Excise the threat, then kill each other if you like.” And then he was gone.

“They're right,” MacCarrick said finally. “You want to kill me, which might even be fair, and I'm going to enjoy beating you down when you try, but we have other tasks at hand before then. I will no' allow you to distract me from them.”

Aleix wiped his bleeding lip with his sleeve and labored to catch his breath. He gave MacCarrick one sharp nod.

Assured they'd stopped fighting, she hurried to shut the front door against the rain that had started to pour and splatter into the house. She could scarcely believe it when she spotted her horse tethered to their coach. “Iambe!” she cried, amazed that Aleix had thought to take her from Pascal.

“Anna, get away from the goddamned door,” MacCarrick barked, striding toward her.

“How dare you speak to her that way,” Aleix snapped as he followed. “Do you even know who she is?”

Olivia informed her, “Iambe is no longer my horse's name.”

Annalía turned on her, ready to do violence, when she felt a hand clutch her neck and a cold barrel at her temple.

They'd come again.

She caught Court's eyes and saw the fury and rage firing in him, but this time she knew her luck had run out.

She really wished she'd told him she loved him.

S
he believes she's going to die.
Her eyes met Court's, her expression telling him so. His hand eased back to his pistol, but the Rechazado shoved the barrel harder against her, a move that ripped the breath from Court's lungs.

He put his hands out in front of him. “Take me instead,” he bit out.

Llorente said, “Me for her.”

The man ran the barrel down her cheek. “We'll return for you both later.”

Think, God damn it, think!

Where the hell was Ethan, where was Hugh? From where he stood, the gunman couldn't see Hugh in the next room. Hugh could take him out—he'd been trained to kill so quickly. . . .
“Hugh,”
he rasped in Gaelic,
“kill him. By Christ, please do this. Please . . .”

He sensed his brother silently backing away.

The one with Anna opened the second door for another, who pointed his pistol at Olivia and indicated she should follow. She finally advanced toward him, but said over her shoulder, “It was still worth it, Llorente.”

Both Rechazados backed down the steps, Anna stumbling in one's arms down the wet stairs, blinking from the rain but never taking her eyes from Court's. As if to gain courage.

“Doona fight him, Anna.” He didn't know if she could understand the strangled words.

The fury was choking him, turning everything he saw black. If the Rechazados got away, Court would find Annalía dead, discarded at the outskirts of the city.

“God damn it, Anna,” he grated. “Just stay alive. Just hold on—”

A blast from the second floor. The man's head burst from one side. He tightened his arm in death around Anna as he collapsed.

The other whipped his pistol up at Hugh, but both Court and Hugh had already fired. He slumped to his knees, then onto what was left of his face.

Court knew he'd never forget what he saw for the rest of his life. Anna crawling from the body, eyes blank, lips parted. A bellow of rage roared from him as he ran for her, unable to get to her before her hands slipped from under her in the blood and carnage from both men and the cold rain pooling on the street. The low cries she made . . .

He slid down next to her, dropping the gun to snatch her into his arms, clutching her to him, his fingers tracing and retracing her temple, scarcely believing.
“Anna?”
He clasped her head to pull her to his chest.

She nodded faintly against him.

How long they stayed like this he didn't know, but Hugh had come from his vantage, and he and Ethan were outside, scanning for more.

Llorente was trying to take Anna from him. Court swung out blindly and connected hard with his face. Something broke beneath the blow.

Hugh took Court's shoulder. But he couldn't move.

“You doona want her to live through that, then die from chill,” Hugh said.

The words made perfect sense.

“Come in, Court,” Ethan ordered.

Only when she shuddered was he able to command his body to move. He drew her into him too hard and rose.

Once inside, in the bright light, when he saw the blood all over her, things became very clear. “Ethan?”

“They're taken care of, Court. Doona think on it.”

Court swung his gaze to Hugh.

“Retribution?” Hugh asked.

“A thousand times.”

“I'll ride with you.”

Court shook his head. “I already owe you more than my life.”

“We leave at dawn,” Hugh said, ignoring the last.

Erskine called down in a high, panicked voice that a bath was waiting.

Court vaguely heard Llorente speaking.
Not her husband. Must let her go. Can't care for her.

He faced Llorente, felt his teeth bared, heard the other woman snap, “Don't be stupid, Llorente! He won't hurt her.”

Court had started for the stairs when Anna finally spoke, “I'll be fine. I am usually stronger during these things.” Her voice was faltering, her words sounding hollow.

During these things.
If she'd died, he would have meted out death and torment as they'd never known.

“Why is everyone acting so strangely?” Anna asked.

Olivia said, “Everyone is acting strangely because your pupils are the size of tea saucers, you're covered in blood, and you have gun oil smeared on your temple. You're also deep in shock.”

“Oh,” she answered in a small voice. “Courtland, put me down, or I'll become embarrassed. You've never reacted like this before.”

Before.

Llorente yelled something from below, apparently restrained by Hugh.
Monster, brutal, killer, blamed.
The last thing Court heard was Hugh telling him, “You're lucky Court didn't snap your neck out there.” Llorente was. The impulse had been there.

In her room, he set her on the foot of the bed, helping her sit up as he undressed her. He'd done this a hundred times, yet he could scarcely get the first button undone. He ripped at her dress—surprising how easily the fabric parted—until he'd stripped her. Lifting her in his arms, he set her in the bath, then knelt beside her.

Cupping warm water over her shoulders, he asked, “Anna, are you all right?” He didn't recognize his own voice.

“Of course.” She was looking straight ahead. Her eyes wouldn't adjust. So bright in this room, and her pupils wouldn't recede. When he determined she could sit up by herself, he rushed to the lamp to turn it down, then strode back beside her.

He took a cloth and brushed at the blood on her face and neck, scrubbed her wee hands. “There's a good lass,” he bit out as he washed her hair. The oil at her temple didn't want to come clean, and he couldn't rub much harder.

She would already have a bruise from the barrel. He shuddered violently.

“Courtland? You must try to be patient with Aleix.” Her voice sounded confused. “He is not like my fierce Scot. The fighting is new to him, and he thinks he'll lose me as he lost Mariette and the little baby girl. I am his last family.”

“Mo cridhe,
you know I will do anythin' you ask of me.” He put his forehead against her shoulder.

“I do know that,” she said softly.

He felt her relaxing, then tensing as she fought sleep, so he rinsed her hair and body, then placed her on her feet to dry
her. A cursory glance around the room revealed a nightgown and some of Court's clothes laid out for them. He dressed her in the gown before bundling her in the bed under several blankets.