Seduced At Sunset (3 page)

“I am fine, thank you, sir,” she said as she struggled to
rise, “but that man has stolen my reticule. I want it back.”

He helped her to her feet. “You’re certain you are all
right?”

“Yes.”

“Wait here, then.” He took off after the thief who had
paused foolishly at the corner to rummage through the contents of the purse.

Drake sprinted toward him. The man looked up in surprise,
then turned to make a run for it.

Reaching into his pocket, Drake grabbed his watch—a
conveniently heavy piece of gold weaponry—and pitched it at the back of
the man’s head.

The strike was spot on. The bandit tripped and tumbled
forward to the ground. Disoriented, he rose up on his hands and knees and shook
his head like a wet dog just as Drake came upon him, grabbed him by the lapels,
and pulled him to his feet.

Drake shook him. “Hand it over, scoundrel, or I’ll knock
your brains out.”

The thief refused to part with it. He threw a flimsy
punch, which by some dumb stroke of luck connected with Drake’s jaw. The pain
reverberated through his skull and sparked his blood into red-hot flames of
savage aggression.

It had been years since Drake had enjoyed a good fight,
and he wondered what happened to his old instincts, for there was once a time
he would have anticipated and easily skirted such a watered-down blow. His
pride bucked violently in response, and a heartbeat or two later, the thief was
sprawled out, unconscious, on the pavement while Drake stood over him, feet
braced apart, flexing his bloodied fist.

The noises of the street had somehow faded away. All he
could hear was the heavy beating of his own heart, like a continuous rumble of
thunder in his ears.

As his body rhythms returned to a more natural pace,
reality came crashing back. He dropped to his knees to check the man’s pulse at
his neck. He was still alive, thank God. Drake removed the reticule from the
man’s possession, rose to his feet, and turned around to discover the lady with
the disarming blue eyes stood only a few feet away, staring at him in shock.

Charlotte felt slightly dizzy and considerably alarmed as
she locked gazes with the man who had retrieved her reticule. Naturally, she
was grateful that he had come to her rescue, but after witnessing such a
shocking display of violence, she felt no safer now than she had when the thief
came upon her.

She had watched every heated second of the altercation,
and had recognized the force behind the gentleman’s blow. Her breath had
hitched in her throat when the thief was propelled backward through the air, as
if he had been rammed by a raging bull at full gallop.

Glancing down at her rescuer’s big brawny fist and bloody
knuckles, then down at the lifeless form on the ground behind him, she
carefully asked, “Is he alive?” It would be a miracle if he were.

“Yes.” The gentleman’s voice was husky and low, barely
more than a growl, and she was riveted to the spot. “I believe this is yours,”
he added as he stepped forward and held out her reticule.

Charlotte stood utterly still as he drew near, for she
felt rather breathless. From a distance she had known he was a tall man, but
now she could sense—and
feel—
the
looming power of his massive male brawn. His chest was
thick, his shoulders wide, though his torso narrowed down to slender hips and
undoubtedly strong legs.

“And this must be yours,” she replied, holding out his
pocket watch, which she had picked up on the street a moment before. “It still
appears to be working.”

As they made the exchange, Charlotte felt a shiver move
through her. She wasn’t sure what caused it. She told herself there was nothing
to fear from this man who had subdued her attacker. Judging by the way he was
dressed in a fine black frock coat, silk top hat, and shiny black shoes, he was
a gentleman.

Nevertheless, her head was spinning like a top, for there
was very little about him beyond his clothing that seemed the least bit
refined. He was coarse looking, like a laborer. Crude, even. And perhaps it was
the way he moved—with a dangerous swagger—that seemed particularly
threatening after what she had just witnessed.

Or perhaps it was his rugged facial features. His eyes
were a pale shade of blue-gray, his nose was misshapen, as if it might have
been broken a few times in the past, and there were scars on his cheekbones,
and evidence of an old gash through one of his eyebrows. His upper lip was
scarred as well.

He reminded her of a barbarian from another time. She
could easily imagine it—this man, with his huge, scarred, muscled body,
standing shirtless in battle, swinging a sword in one hand, wielding a dagger
in the other, his eyes burning with bloodlust. He was perfect...

Stop it, Charlotte
.

“That was quite a punch,” she said. “How is your hand?”

He flexed it a few times and looked down at his bloodied
knuckles. His fingers were thick. So were his wrists. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine to me,” she replied. “I daresay you
did some damage, on both sides.” She looked up and down the quiet street.
“Should we send for someone? A constable perhaps? Or a doctor?” The side of her
head was throbbing. A bump was probably forming already.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said in that husky,
mesmerizing voice. “I live just there.” He pointed at his townhouse, a few
doors down. “If you will accompany me, madam, I will send one of my servants to
fetch assistance, and I promise this man will be arrested.”

“Is it wise to leave him here?” Charlotte asked. “What if
he wakes up and runs off?”

“I will have him brought inside.”

Then his eyes narrowed with displeasure and he took a step
closer.

For some reason, Charlotte quickly backed away, as if he
had swung another punch, this time in her direction.

“You’re hurt,” he said, not appearing the least bit
surprised that she had recoiled from him.

“No, I’m not,” she insisted.

He pointed to a drop of blood on her collar, and only then
did she notice a wet sensation on her scalp. The dizziness she experienced
earlier suddenly made sense, and when she slid her gloved fingers into her
upswept hair and felt a gash just over her ear, her stomach turned over. “I’m
bleeding.”

For the second time that day, the world turned white
before her eyes, her knees buckled beneath her, and she began to sink toward
the ground.

Though teetering on the muddled edges of consciousness,
Charlotte was keenly aware of the man scooping her up into his arms—as if
she weighed no more than a bolt of fabric—and carrying her toward his
home.

Clinging tightly to the frame of his shoulders, she fought
to stay awake and not faint in his arms. He was rock-solid beneath her hands,
and his exotic spicy cologne smelled delectable. She warmed with appreciation
and something else...

He mounted his front steps lightly, with no effort at all,
as if they were both floating on air, and his incredible virility had a
strange, appealing effect on her. Every fiber of her being hummed with
awareness, energy, and excitement. A bolt of fear whizzed through her veins
too... though perhaps it wasn’t fear, but something else entirely. Something
exhilarating... something more heady, more dangerous. Indeed, even in her
fantasies she had never projected anything quite like it.

“That’s it,” he whispered softly in her ear as he shifted
her in his arms to rap the lion’s head doorknocker. “Just hold on to me,
darling. You’ll be fine. My housekeeper will tend to you. One shouldn’t ignore
a head wound, you know. They can be serious.”

She suspected he was making conversation to keep her
conscious, but there was little danger of nodding off, for she didn’t want to
miss a single moment of this strangely thrilling ordeal.

Soon the door opened and Charlotte was carried into the
house. She looked around at the walls, the floors, the staircase, and the
pictures on the walls as she was conveyed into a cozy front parlor, decorated
with deep colors and chintz fabrics.

Clearly this house did not lack a woman’s touch. She
wondered if the gentleman had a wife, and if so, was she at home? What would
she say when she saw her husband carry a strange woman to the sofa and lay her
down upon it?

The butler appeared—perhaps he was the one who
opened the door—and followed them into the room. “Was there an accident?”
he asked.

“Yes,” her rescuer replied as he ensured Charlotte was
settled comfortably on the soft cushions. “This woman was robbed, and she
requires our assistance. Please send for Mrs. March and tell her to bring warm
water, bandages, and a washcloth. Send Richard to fetch a constable, but not
before he and Alfred bring the thief inside.” He leaned closer to the butler
and lowered his voice. “Tie him up in the kitchen.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler said, and left to fulfill his
duties.

While the gentleman looked out the window to keep an eye
on the thief, Charlotte attempted to rise up on her elbows, but felt a sudden
wave of nausea.

“Don’t try to get up,” he said. “Wait for the housekeeper.
She’ll be here shortly.” His gaze returned to the street.

Charlotte watched his cool gray eyes sparkle like silver
in the sunlight. “If I am going to thank you properly,” she said, “I should at
least know your name.”

He faced her, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed
slightly. “My apologies, madam. I am Drake Torrington.”

“Torrington...” Her eyebrows drew together as she tried to
place the name.

“My uncle is Earl Lidstone,” he explained.

Ah. So he was a member of the aristocracy. She wanted to
rise to her feet and introduce herself properly, but dared not move from her
position.

“Your uncle’s estate is near Brighton, is it not?” she
asked.

“That is correct.”

“I know of it. I visited there once, when I was a girl.”

“Did you,” he flatly said.

Curious to know more about him, she politely inquired, “Do
you have a family, sir? A wife and children?”

“No, there is only my mother, who is mistress here. I am
not married, and I have only just returned from America.”

“How long were you away?”

He glanced down at her briefly, then returned his gaze to
the window for a long moment while his chest rose and fell with a sigh. “Twelve
years.”

“I see,” Charlotte replied hesitantly. “Are you here only
to visit, Mr. Torrington, or do you intend to stay?”

“I’ll be leaving at the end of the summer,” he told her,
seeming distracted. “There. A few of my servants are bringing your thief inside
now.”

“Is he conscious?” Charlotte asked, trying again to sit
up. This time she felt somewhat recovered.

“See for yourself.” Mr. Torrington held the curtain aside
for her. She was able to look out the window behind the sofa.

The man was on his feet and walking, though he leaned
heavily on the men on either side, who escorted him inside. “I will have Mrs.
March examine him when she is through with you,” Mr. Torrington said.

Charlotte regarded her rescuer curiously in the window’s
light as it reflected off his shiny black hair. Then she realized she had not
yet told him her name. “Mr. Torrington, how do you do. I am Charlotte Sinclair
of Pembroke.” She held out her gloved hand. He bent forward to shake it.

“Pembroke Palace?”

“Yes. My eldest brother is the duke.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say. In that case, I am
deeply honored to have been of assistance to you, Lady Charlotte.”

Their eyes locked and held, and she felt a shock of
awareness at the thrill of his touch. He had not yet let go of her hand, and
she was astonished by the fact that he did not crush it—for she knew the
size and strength of those brawny fists.

But there was something else, too, that she
noticed—a curious and devilishly charming flicker of light in his eyes
that sent a hot and rather explosive spark of attraction to her core.

Just then, the housekeeper entered the room, and Charlotte
was forced to let go of his hand. He moved away rather quickly and said, “My
lady, allow me to present Mrs. March. This is Lady Charlotte Sinclair of
Pembroke Palace, and she has hit her head. Will you take a look at her?”

“I would be pleased to do so, sir,” the housekeeper replied,
and pulled a chair up to sit alongside the sofa. She set her bowl of water and
cloths on the floor. “Now tell me, where does it hurt?” she asked.

Charlotte indicated the spot over and behind her ear.

“Ah yes... You did some damage, I see. Did you lose
consciousness?”

“I don’t believe so, though I did feel very faint.”

“Can you wiggle your feet for me?” Mrs. March asked while
she examined the wound.

Charlotte wiggled her feet.

“What about double vision? Or numbness or tingling in your
hands or feet?”