The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

"Don’t hit me again," Cecil sobbed. Blood poured from his nose, and Selina discerned no trace of the hulking beast who had attacked her. When she noted the long furrows her nails had made in his cheek, she felt a savage surge of triumph.

"Don’t kill him, Brock," she said in a thick voice. Her shaking hand touched her jaw, as she wondered if Cecil had broken it. Her face felt like it was on fire. "We’ve got enough trouble already."

Chapter 12

Brock sucked in a shuddering breath and struggled to banish the red, killing mist in front of his eyes. When he’d seen Canley-Smythe hit Selina, he’d gladly have run the mongrel through. Only her choked request stopped him from beating the sod to a pulp.

The thought of what might have happened if he’d turned up even ten minutes later made him feel sick to the stomach. Damn it, it had taken him far too long to reach the Blue Wagon. The horse he’d caught and mounted turned out to be unused to a rider on its back, and the makeshift bridle he’d rigged from the harness hadn’t helped. He’d wasted too many precious minutes convincing the brute who was master.

Now he hauled an unresisting Cecil up to slam him against the wall. "If I don’t kill you, it’s because Selina asked me to show mercy. Remember that when you scuttle away into the dark like the cockroach you are."

Cecil whimpered and shrank back. His nose kept bleeding, staining his face and shirt bright red. "I had every right… Oof."

Brock drew his hand back, shaking it to ease the sting in his knuckles. "Want more?"

"No, devil take you. And devil take that shameless jade. You’re welcome to the bitch."

Another blow to Cecil’s solar plexus had him blubbering and gasping. "All right. All right."

"Apologize to Mrs. Martin."

Despite his physical misery, Cecil was still angry enough for defiance. "I bloody well will not."

"Brock, don’t push it," Selina said.

He glanced back at her. She leaned against Kitty, her cheek marred by the red mark Cecil’s fist had left. Brock’s fury, barely controlled, revived, and he loomed over Cecil. "Apologize, curse you, or I’ll kill you where you stand."

Cecil wiped one fat, trembling hand through the gore on his face before he spoke in a constricted mumble. "I’m sorry, Selina. I shouldn’t have hit you."

"And?"

Brock started when a hand curled around his tense arm.

"Let him go. He doesn’t matter. I don’t need his apologies. I just want him out of my sight."

Brock turned to stare down into her face. "As you wish, my darling," he said, noting out of the corner of his eye how the endearment made Cecil bristle.

The man had the sense to stay silent. Good thing, too. Brock was angry enough to tear him limb from limb. Angry and guilty. He should never have left Selina in the man’s company. He should have driven the bloody carriage himself, if there was no room inside.

"Thank you," she murmured.

She made to pull away, but Brock caught her hand and kept her at his side as he faced Canley-Smythe. "You will leave this inn tonight. You will never again approach Mrs. Martin or her son. You will say nothing to her detriment. If I hear a whisper that you’ve sullied her name by so much as a wink, I will hunt you down and shoot you like the dog you are. Do you understand?"

He saw Cecil wanted to object, but a quick glance at Brock seemed to convince him that discretion was the wiser choice. It certainly was. Brock wasn’t in the habit of making idle threats, and he’d welcome the chance to rid the world of this monster.

"I understand," he said sullenly.

"And do you agree?"

A longer pause made Brock’s muscles tense in readiness. But in the end, Cecil gave her a brief bow. The unconcealed contempt in the action made Brock itch to hit him again. "I agree. God damn you both to hell."

Brock heard Selina’s soft gasp of relief, and her grip on his hand tightened. "Brock, it’s over."

Brock released a long hiss, and he felt his shoulders lower. He drew Selina toward the door. "Come, Kitty, your mistress needs you."

"Yes, sir, my lord," the maid said, scurrying to follow them out. Brock’s last glimpse of Cecil was of the man slumped against the wall in an attitude of defeat.

"I’m glad you didn’t kill him," Selina murmured.