Chapter 12
It took all Flynn’s men except the corpulent man himself, to pull Godric off the now motionless Paul.
“You stay right here,” Eva ordered coolly, the point of the pistol aimed at Flynn’s substantial middle when he began slipping through the mud toward his wounded minion.
“But, Paul—he needs—”
Eva cut a quick glance at the men still trying to stop Godric’s punishing fists, more than one of them getting clipped in the process. “Paul will be fine,” she said.
Flynn goggled in justified disbelief.
There was no denying that Godric had lost track of himself and given in to his rage. Eva knew the feeling. Of course, she’d never had the option of pummeling a foe to pieces. It looked cathartic.
“Christ, woman—he’s going to kill him!”
“You were happy enough to leave Godric in his clutches a few minutes ago,” she reminded him.
Flynn shifted from foot to foot. “Dammit! He’s my brother-in-law.”
Ah, so that explained the emotional attachment.
“My wife will bloody kill me if something happens to him.”
Eva snorted. “You’re a bit late for that—something has already happened.”
And something’s name is Godric.
Eva smirked at Flynn’s shocked expression. “Don’t fret—look, he’s winding down.” She jerked her chin toward the fracas. It was true; Godric’s fists were no longer connecting to Paul’s body. There were two men on Godric’s left arm—which was truly fearsome to behold, the bulging biceps ribboned with ropy blue veins and smeared with mud and blood—and a man holding onto every other limb: five men it took to hold him down.
Warmth pooled in her belly just looking at his pale, sculpted body, old wounds colored by new bruises and fresh blood. He was beautiful and fierce and deadly, like some Greek warrior of vengeance.
“What should we do with him, boss?” a man wheezed, his lip split and bleeding.
Eva glanced around at the narrow road and the trees that hung low over it, their branches sagging even lower with rain. There wasn’t a spot on the ground that wasn’t wet, but at least the base of the large chestnut wasn’t muddy.
Eva pointed to the spot. “Put him over there. Keep an eye on them, Andrew,” she called over her shoulder, her eyes on Flynn, who’d rushed toward Paul and dropped to his haunches.
“Good God!” he yelled, glaring up at Eva. “He’ll be lucky if his jaw works again. And his nose is broken—hell, maybe in two places. His right eye is already—”
“I think what you’re trying to say is: he lost,” Eva said, her tone one of heavy boredom, which she certainly wasn’t feeling. “Are you going to abide by your word and let us all three go, or do I have to shoot you—and then maybe Paul, for good measure? It might be a mercy for your family to be shed of him after this.” She cast a dismissive look at the man still bleeding in the mud.
Flynn’s face was suffused with red and Eva thought he might suffer some sort of seizure. “What kind of lady are you? I’ve met dockside whores less bloodthirsty and callous.”
Eva didn’t think that was a question.
Flynn’s lips twisted with disgust. “You’re a bloody savage—just like him.” He gestured rudely toward the spot where Godric was slumped against the tree. “Mad! You’re both mad! Come on, lads, let’s get Paul back to camp.” The men who’d moved Godric were now helping to carry Paul’s large, motionless body.
Flynn motioned for them to go first, and followed, backing into the thick underbrush, not taking his eyes off Eva, as if he were afraid she’d pursue him.
Eva waited until the last of the men disappeared and then heaved a sigh and uncocked the pistol before running to Godric. “Keep an eye on where they went into the trees,” she told Andrew. “They might return.”
Andrew nodded, his hands shaking, but his jaw firm. “I’ll keep watch. You see to his lordship.”
“His name is Mr. Fleming.”
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” she snapped, dropping to her knees beside Godric, who was blinking owlishly and listing to one side, blood running from a dozen cuts on his body, one half of his face already swelling. “Godric? Godric,” she repeated when he didn’t answer. Eva chewed her lip, her mind panicking like a trapped fox. “You must get up, Godric—we cannot carry you. Can you stand?” When he didn’t respond she took his face in both her hands and turned him toward her. “Godric, please.”
She saw a glimmer of recognition deep in his dilated pupils and his lips moved. “Go without me,” he whispered.
Eva turned to Andrew. “He’s not lucid,” she lied. “And I don’t think he can hear me.”
Andrew sidled closer, gun still pointed at the foliage, his lopsided gaze flickering over Godric’s body. “He took some terrible hits to the head before he went after the other man,” he said. “I can’t believe he is still standing.” He frowned. “Or sitting—or even conscious.”
Neither could Eva.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “We can’t carry him.”
They stared at each other.
“You go fetch help,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”
He glanced down at his sodden, heavy skirts. “I can’t move quickly—you’ve got breeches and boots. You should go. I’ll stay here and—”
The sound of horses came from the same direction where the post chaise had disappeared.
Eva ranged herself in front of Godric, shielding him, and grinned up at Andrew when he automatically took the same position. He just might be a right one, after all. They both pointed their guns toward the bend.
“Don’t shoot until we see who it is,” Andrew ordered, his arms shaking badly.
Eva scowled but didn’t bother to answer. Whoever was coming, they were taking their sweet time about it.
Her arms were shaking too, by the time a huge Shire horse with a snow-white muzzle rounded the bend. It was pulling a battered farm wagon, and the old man holding the reins resembled his horse, his beard and hair white beneath a large battered hat.
“Do you think—”
Before Andrew could finish his question, Eva saw one of the postilions—she thought his name was Joe—sitting in the back of the small wagon.
A wave of relief strong enough to knock her off her feet flooded her. “Thank God!” She dropped her arm, allowing the tears she’d been holding back for what felt like years to mingle with the rain. “Thank God.”