To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She looked at where her hands had come to rest against his upper sleeves. They looked ridiculously tiny. “Not a fist.”

He laughed. “No. Unless you have no alternative, don’t resort to your hands. If a man’s holding you like this, face-to-face, you have a much better weapon.”

She frowned. “What?”

Lifting a hand, he tapped her forehead. “That’s the thickest bone in your body. Use it—butt him with it. If his nose is in reach, aim for that. If not, even the chin can hurt—”

She tried it.

He broke off and staggered back a step, blinking. “Yes.” He blinked again, lifting a hand to his chin. “Just like that. Very good…”

“Oh, heavens! Did I hurt you?” Hands outstretched, she closed the distance between them.

He frowned at her. “I’ll recover. But it occurs to me that the first rule you in particular need to learn is: Don’t let the villain catch you in the first place. When that ruffian grabbed you last night, he spent a good few seconds deciding which of the two of you to grab, and both of you just stood there and waited for him to make up his mind.” He put her away from him—a good yard away. Lowering his head, catching her eye, he forcefully stated, “If a man comes for you intending to catch you—run!”

He took one step toward her. She swallowed a shriek and bolted behind the armchair.

“Good.” He pushed the armchair, sending it careening away. He came for her again.

She turned and fled toward the bed, but he was on her. Wrapping one steely arm around her waist, he locked her to him, bent his head and said, “Don’t rely on being able to break his hold, or on butting him”—he moved his head aside as she tried it in reverse, but the difference in their heights meant her head hit his shoulder—“just run like the devil, because if he catches you he’s going to lift you.” He demonstrated, swinging her off her feet, half tucked under his arm. “And then you’re quite helpless.”

She gasped, struggling to right herself and discovering he was correct; she was indeed helpless.

“Actually, there’s two things you can do if he grabs you like that—before he lifts you.” Deverell swung her back up and set her on her feet again. He nudged the heel of her pump with the toe of his boot. “Don’t try this on me because it hurts like the devil, but if you’re wearing heels like these, you can smash one down on his instep. With luck, he’ll let go of you, and then you can—”

“Run.” She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “What else?”

“The other thing you can do—not a good option but a last resort—is to collapse in his arms. Just let yourself fall. It’s very hard to hold onto anyone who’s gone boneless.”

She tried it and saw what he meant.

“But,” he said, deftly readjusting his hold, “if you do that, you have to be ready to break away immediately his hold on you loosens, because as soon as he realizes, he’ll grab you more securely, as I’ve just done.”

He hauled her up. “So, you see, running and not getting caught is the first and best option, because once he has hold of you, he’s going to lift you, and throw you—”

He tossed her on the bed.

She bounced, then swallowed a shriek as he followed her, trapping her beneath him. She caught her breath and looked into his eyes, then smiled like a cat and lifted her arms, winding them about his neck. “I take it that’s the end of my lesson?”

She knew perfectly well where his attention had veered. “Yes.” He looked down at her, at her lips. “For tonight.”

Artfully she shifted beneath him. “So what now?”

“Now”—he reached for her laces—“we concentrate on getting you undressed.”

So he could soothe the other set of clamoring impulses that had beset him. He’d done everything he could to protect her, put in place every guard, every sentry he could, but he couldn’t forever be by her side. The knowledge irked; the fact that in th

is day and age he couldn’t lock her in some tower until all danger was past abraded nerves and feelings he hadn’t known he possessed.

The only relief, the only succor, the only balm that seemed to soothe his primitive self was to possess her. To remind himself he could, that she was his, willingly and completely.

As he spread her thighs and eased his aching erection into her slick, scalding heat, some part of him sighed, let go, and embraced paradise, and her.

“If you’ll excuse us, Lady Harting, my aunt is beckoning.” Phoebe smiled sweetly at her ladyship, a harridan if ever there was one, less sweetly at her niece, who was staring most unbecomingly at Deverell, and smoothly steered him away.

He leaned closer as they maneuvered through the crowd. “Is Edith waving? I thought she was at the other end of the room.”

“She is, but another of my aunts might be here somewhere—who knows?” They were at Lady Gifford’s ball, a major event. Five days had passed since Deverell had called in his friends to search for the slavers; for the past five nights they’d circulated through the ton, alert to any whispers, although as yet they’d heard none. But at every ball, every party, she’d had to exercise herself on his behalf—in his defense. She glanced at him critically. “I cannot believe how many matchmaking mamas seem to think you’re fair game. Are you carrying a sign I can’t see that declares Open Season?”