Free The Rake's Inherited Courtesan by Ann Lethbridge Page B

woman’s scream.
    He groaned. It must have been a bad dream, either that or some lusty knave was hard at it with a red-faced maid. The sour thought only made his own fantasies of Sylvia more frustrating.
    The mist of sleep and the fog of brandy slowly cleared. Good God. He’d lain down fully clothed. He’d clearly spent far too long with Dorkin and his finest French brandy before coming to bed.
    A thud overhead sent him bolt upright.
    Devil a bit. Miss Boisette must be pacing the floor.
    More bumps. The hair on the back of his neck stirred, his skin prickled. It didn’t sound like pacing. It sounded more likea battle. What the deuce was going on up there? He leaped off the bed, flung open the door and peered into the hallway.
    A whispered curse from above directed his attention up the stairs. Caught in the dim glow from the lantern on the landing, a man stood rigid, ready to step down. In his arms, he carried something large and white like a bundle of sheets. A servant?
    ‘Identify yourself,’ Christopher ordered.
    The man let his burden slide to the floor. A pair of slender legs and trailing blonde hair gleamed before they disappeared into the shadows.
    Sylvia?
    Christopher dashed up the stairs. The man swung a bag at his head. Sylvia’s valise. Christopher ducked. He charged the man’s gut with his shoulder.
    His opponent grunted, stumbling backward. Christopher bunched his fists. Disadvantaged by the man’s position above him, Christopher couldn’t get a clear swing. The man flung himself forward. A sharp elbow jabbed Christopher in the ribs. Air rushed from his lungs. He doubled in pain. The man shoved him hard against the balustrade and hurtled down two flights of stairs. He crashed out through the front door, still clutching the bag.
    Gasping, Christopher started after him.
    Damn. He couldn’t leave Sylvia. He turned and took the stairs two at a time to her side.
    As still as death, she lay sprawled on the planked landing, her face pale and her lips bloodless in the lantern’s flickering light.
    Bile rose in his throat. Dead? He knelt and lifted her wrist. Her pulse beat strong and steady. He ran his hands over her limbs and her torso. Thank God, no blood.
    He chafed her cold hands. ‘Sylvia.’
    She didn’t move.
    He pulled her nightgown down to cover her shapely calves and picked her up. Her head fell back, revealing her slenderthroat and a bruise behind her ear. Rage like molten metal surged through him. Damn the blackguard for striking a woman. If he ever got his hands on him, he’d kill the bastard.
    He hesitated. He couldn’t leave her here or take her to her own room in case the damned rogue came back. Instead, he carried her down to his chamber and laid her on the bed.
    ‘Mr Evernden.’ Dorkin’s voice sounded shocked. ‘What are you doing with that there young lady?’
    ‘Damn it, Dorkin. Don’t just stand there gawking. Miss Boisette is hurt. Fetch a doctor.’
    ‘I’ll get the missus,’ Dorkin said. ‘She’ll know what’s best. Mr Christopher, I never would have thought it of you.’ Dorkin hurried off.
    Christopher stared at his departing back. What the devil did he mean? He glanced down at the practically naked girl on his bed. Dorkin must think that he…Hell. Now he’d have some explaining to do.
    He eased the counterpane from beneath her and pulled it up. He smoothed her hair back from her face. Unbound it had the texture of silk. He investigated the lump on her tender skin behind her ear.
    The cur had struck her a vicious blow. A sick feeling washed over him. What kind of man would do that to a woman? Why had this man attacked her? Not just attacked, he’d tried to abduct her. He shook his head. Beautiful she might be, but people didn’t go around stealing females because they were beyond-reason lovely. Not in this day and age, for God’s sake. Unless some rogue thought Christopher would pay to get her back?
    He enclosed her cold fingers in his hands, trying to warm them,