Bodice Ripper

Oliver Geis stood in the door, a couple of men flanking behind him. Davis was one, and the other had been the other man who threw him out. James backed up into the bed and watched them with his tired eyes.

"Mr. Poole, I'm so glad to see that you've returned."

"Colonel Geis."

"So sorry that you won't be staying long." He smiled briefly, a cruel expression that held no happiness. "Davis, Richard, you know what nee

ds to be done."

Oliver stepped back, and then the two men exploded into action. James fired a shot that went wide, and a second that struck the second man, Richard, in the gut. He went down to the ground and didn't move to get back up. He didn't have time for a third shot before Davis's fist hit him square in the gut.

James had been focused on the gun, so he hadn't braced for the hit, and he folded near in half and dropped it. He couldn't take a breath, and couldn't see straight, but he pushed himself straight upright.

Another fist came barreling down, cracking him hard on the jaw, and he fell to the floor. Davis kicked the gun away and moved up to sit on his chest, pulling a fist back to start pounding the steward's face into mincemeat.

In a last ditch effort, James threw his body up and to the side, and Davis was thrown off. Mr Poole didn't waste a moment in scrambling to press his advantage. He didn't bother with a punch, but set his knee into the butler's throat and put his weight down hard.

James could see Oliver, across the room, bent down to pick up the gun. He jumped up without a moment's thought and dove shoulder-first into the Colonel.

Then the room exploded.

23

Mary

Mary had been in the house for more than a week, and she'd barely had a minute to herself the entire time. Nobody came calling, nobody asked why she was there. Nobody pushed her to explain how she'd come to reside in a man's apartment with the man out. She'd been alone with her thoughts, and that was so much worse.

When she'd gotten there, she was sick from worry about everything—about the bombs falling, about what people would think. About what they would do to stay away from her uncle if they were even able to implicate him in anything at all.

Then she'd started worrying about bigger issues. James hadn't come back, and where was she going to stay? By the time she'd made it to London, presses in Yorkshire were already running with the story that the Geis estate had been nearly destroyed in the bombing.

If she was kicked out of this place, she had no place to go back to. The hotel wasn't safe; she'd be caught. If she wasn't caught, what would happen when her father's money ran out? It had to happen, and if James had told her the truth, it would happen soon.

She thought that her father's fortune could afford to pay the rent, if she could access it, but there was further the question of who to pay it to. She hadn't seen anyone since she had walked through the front door, nine days ago. She had found it quite nice, to be able to be by herself. Now she was beginning to go mad from the isolation.

James... she had tried, for a while, not to think about him. It seemed easier that way. When she slept, though, she dreamed of him, and woke in a pool of sweat. When her mind wandered, visions of him danced before her eyes, and a tightness clutched her chest.

She tried to think of the times they'd spend together, even in this very room, and remember the surge of emotions she'd felt with him. But it didn't help her feel better. Instead, it just made the aching in her chest feel worse.

When she had gotten the paper on the train to London, and heard that her house had collapsed, she'd been so sure that he had made it out alive. He'd promised to her, promised to come back to her. And yet, as the days passed, she was realizing more and more that it was hopeless.

Wherever he was, he wasn't coming back to her. Probably, he was buried under the rubble, and if he'd found anything that could have protected her from her uncle, then it had been buried with him.

Mary shook her head. She couldn't afford that sort of thinking, not now. She needed to be strong, like everyone else with husbands or sons in the war. The only difference was that her war was back in Dover. She took a deep breath and let it out, and tried to count her blessings.

It had been nine days, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of Oliver. Davis had been with him when she'd seen them leaving the house, and Davis knew about the apartment. Maybe there was some soft feeling for her left in his heart. But the thought didn't make her feel any better.

She much preferred the idea that James had stopped them, that he'd succeeded even if he hadn't made it out alive. However he had stopped them, she knew, there was little chance that they were still coming after her. If they were going to then they would have done it already.

She laid back in the bed, the bed that she and James had shared their first night together in. She could still smell him on the sheets, could feel him on top of her, his weight giving her a comforting feeling of safety. Could remember the way he moved inside her.

Mary nearly jumped when she heard a rap at the door, the first visitor in days. This was it, she thought. Finally, the landlord had come, and he was going to evict her. She straightened and smoothed her dress and tried to look as presentable as possible. Nothing untoward here, she reminded herself. She needed a place to stay, and her steward had offered the use of his house while he was out.

Until he got back.

The words drifted through her mind and hit her like a punch in the gut. She wiped the wetness from her eyes, blinked until she had control of herself, and opened the door.

She saw the cast first. It was large and white and drew the attention of most people who saw it. It took up his entire lower arm on his right side.