To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(15)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Who ordered you to keep me in my room?” Reynaud demanded.

“Miss Corning. She was worried you might injure yourself.” The footman glanced at him sideways. “Don’t suppose I can get you to go back, m’lord?”

“No,” Reynaud replied shortly. He was panting, dammit. Only a month ago, he’d walked all day without wearying, and now he panted descending a damned staircase!

“Didn’t think so,” the man said matter-of-factly. He didn’t say anything else until they made the entrance hall. “Would you like some water, m’lord, while you wait?”

“Please.” Reynaud leaned against the wall until the man disappeared in the direction of the kitchens. Then he went to the front doors and pulled them open.

The wind caught his breath as he went out on the step. The day was gray and cold, winter spreading her wings on London. There’d be snow on the ground north of Lake Michigan now, and the bears would be fat and slow, preparing for their winter sleep. He remembered how Gaho had loved to eat bear meat fried in its own fat. She would smile when he brought her a freshly killed sow or boar, the wrinkles in her brown cheeks deepening, her eyes nearly disappearing in her happiness. For a moment, his former life and his present merged and wavered in front of his eyes, and he forgot where he was. Who he was.

Then the Blanchard carriage pulled up in front of the town house.

The footman jumped down and set the step. Reynaud straightened and started for the carriage. The door opened and Miss Corning descended the steps.

Her brows snapped together when she saw him. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I’ve come to meet you,” Reynaud said, his voice hard. “Where have you been?”

She ignored his question. “I can’t believe you’re so silly as to stand outside in the cold. You must go in at once. Arthur”—she beckoned to the carriage footman—“please take Lord Hope in—”

“I’m not going to be taken anywhere,” Reynaud said with deadly calm. The carriage footman took one look at him and found a consuming interest in putting away the step. “I’m not a child or half-wit to be taken care of. I repeat, where have you been?”

“Then you must allow me to help you inside.” Miss Corning dismissed his growing anger with a wave of her hand.

He gripped her arms, making her end her sentence on a squeak. “Answer me.”

Something green flared within her eyes, a surprising spark of iron will. “Why should I answer to you?”

“Because.” His entire vision was filled with her eyes, sparkling gray and meadow green intermixed. The combination was absolutely fascinating.

She stared back at him and said, low, “And, anyway, why do you care where I’ve been?”

He’d faced capture and torture and the imminent prospect of his own death for years on end, but for the life of him, he hadn’t a clue how to reply to this small slip of a girl.

So it was perhaps just as well that the shot rang out at that moment.

Chapter Four

Longsword could find no reason this stranger might want a lock of his hair, even for a penny, but he could see no risk to himself, either. So thinking to humor the other man, he took his great sword, cut off a lock of hair, and gave it to the Goblin King.

The Goblin King smiled and held out the penny. But the moment Longsword grasped the coin, the ground opened in an enormous crack beneath him. The earth swallowed both Longsword and his sword, and he fell far, far below until he landed in the Goblin Kingdom.

There he looked up and saw the Goblin King throw off his velvet cloak. Now were revealed his orange glowing eyes, lank green hair, and yellow fangs.

“Who are you?” Longsword cried.

“I am the Goblin King,” replied the other. “When you accepted my coin for your lock of hair, you sold yourself into my power. For if I cannot have the sword alone, then I will have both you and the sword. . . .”

—from Longsword

Surrounded. The enemy on both sides, shooting from hidden positions, his men screaming as they were picked off. He couldn’t form a line of defense, couldn’t rally his troops. They were all going to die if he—

The second shot rang out. Reynaud found himself on the ground against a carriage, Miss Corning’s sweet, warm body under him. Her gray eyes stared up into his, no longer green with anger but only terrified.

And the screams—the screams were all around him.

“Descendez!” Reynaud roared to a soldier sitting in the carriage box looking stupidly around. “Form a line of defense!”

“What—” Miss Corning began.

But he ignored her. A man had been hit and was writhing on the top steps of the town house, his blood staining the white stone. It was the young soldier, the one who’d been walking with him. Dammit. It was his man.

And he was still exposed.

“Stay with Miss Corning,” he ordered a nearby soldier.

The soldier in the box had finally dropped down and lay beside them as well. Where was the sergeant? Where were the other officers? They’d all be killed here in the open, caught between the cross fire. Reynaud’s temples throbbed with pain; his heart thundered. He had to save his men.

“Do you understand?” he yelled at the soldier near him.

The soldier blinked at him, dazed.

Reynaud took the man by the shoulder and shook him. “Stay with Miss Corning. I’m counting on you.”

Something in the soldier’s face cleared. His gaze locked on Reynaud’s, just as they always did, and he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good man.” Reynaud eyed the soldier on the steps, judging the distance. It had been at least a minute since the last shot. Were the Indians still lurking in the woods? Or had they crept away again, silent as ghosts?

“What are you going to do?” Miss Corning asked.

Reynaud looked into her clear gray eyes. “Get my man. Stay here. Take this.” He pressed the hilt of his knife into her palm. “Don’t move until I tell you.”

And he kissed her hard, feeling life—his and hers—coursing through his veins. Dear God, he had to get her away from here.

He got up before she could voice her protest and ran to the steps, keeping his upper body low. He paused by the moaning soldier only long enough to grab the man under the arms. The boy screamed as Reynaud pulled him to the front door, the sound high and animal, a cry of primeval agony. So many were in agony. So many were dead. And all so young.

The third bullet hit the door frame as Reynaud yanked his man through, splinters of wood exploding against his cheek.