Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

Dimitri bent down as a servant hurried toward the carriage, opening the door and reaching inside. His eyes narrowed as he heard the low sound of male voices, then the unmistakable shriek of a furious female.

Had they been keeping the women at another location and were only now bringing them to the brothel?

That complicated matters since he couldn’t know if Anya had yet arrived.

Leaning forward, he watched as the servant stepped back from the carriage, his arms wrapped around a furiously struggling woman. For a moment he was distracted by the sight of the large Russian who stepped from the carriage, instantly recognizing him as the man from the London warehouse. Then, as he heard Josef suck in a shocked breath, he returned his attention to the female who continued her futile fight for freedom, the moonlight shimmering over her honey curls and delicate features. “Emma.”

All logical thought ceased as he vaulted off the terrace, overwhelmed by his savage need to gut the man who dared to put his hands on her.

God, he had to reach her. He had to…

Without warning, he was tackled from behind, landing awkwardly on the hard ground. He cursed as Josef grasped his arm and wrenched it to a painful angle behind his back, effectively holding him captive.

“Damn you, Tipova, do not force me to hurt you,” the servant hissed.

Dimitri struggled, but the smaller man had the leverage to keep him trapped, not to mention enough force on his arm to threaten to snap it in two. Something Dimitri was quite certain his friend was prepared to do if necessary.

Turning his head, he spit out the dirt and watched in the distance as Emma was hauled into a side door of the brothel, followed by the hulking form of Valik.

Any hope of a hasty rescue was slipping away.

“Let me up,” he commanded.

“You promise you will not do anything stupid?”

He trembled with fury. “Josef.”

“You may release him,” a soft voice ordered. “I promise to shoot him if he takes a step toward the brothel.”

Josef leaped off his back, his gun pointed at Caliph Rajih as he appeared from the shadows of the pavilion. With less grace, Dimitri surged upright, his hands clenched at his side as he glared at the slender man in a dark uniform, a curved sword in his hand.

“I should have suspected you were involved in this vile business,” he rasped, his body rigid with a combination of anger and anguish. Emma was in the hands of slave traders, and while his blind thirst to reach her was being tempered by the realization he might very well endanger her by barging into the situation without considering the consequences, he was still tormented by his frantic urgency. “Your presence in London, not to mention your interest in Emma, was far too convenient.”

Ignoring Josef’s pistol pointed directly at his heart, Rajih step

ped forward, his expression hard.

“You ever again accuse me of being involved with the slave trade and I will have your head on a pike,” he warned, the sharp edge of his sword glinting in the moonlight. “Believe me, that is not an empty threat.”

Dimitri stepped forward, his hands clenched with the fierce need to strike out.

“You think we are stupid enough to believe your presence here is a mere accident?”

“I could ask the same of your presence, Tipova. What are you doing at this brothel?”

The two men glared at each other, both seeking to prove their dominance. Like dogs snarling and snapping at one another. At last it was the realization he was wasting precious time that Dimitri swallowed his pride.

He would sacrifice whatever necessary to save Emma.

“My servant heard rumors that a large Russian man was seen in the neighborhood,” he confessed, his tone pitched so it would not carry on the night air. “He investigated and found that this particular brothel had supposedly suffered a fire.”

Rajih glanced toward the building that was shabby, but unmarred by flames.

“A fire?”

Josef shrugged. “So I was told.”

“Not a particularly convincing lie,” Rajih said.