A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

Stratton raised a brow. "Explaining? Why should I explain anything?"

"Others know I've been investigating you in connection with the race-fixing."

"Do they now?" Stratton remained very still, his eyes steady on Demon's face, his aim never faltering from Flick's chest. Then his thin lips eased. "How unfortunate-for Bletchley."

Stratton's jaw set. He lifted his arm, straightening it, aiming the pistol at Demon-

Flick screamed.

She flung herself at Demon, clinging to his chest, shoving him back against the chimney.

Stratton's eyes widened-his finger had already tightened about the trigger.

Dillon stepped across Flick-the pistol discharged. The explosion echoed deafeningly between the cottage walls.

Demon and Flick froze, locked together before the chimney. Demon had frenziedly tried to wrestle Flick to the side, knowing he'd be too late-

They both continued to breathe, each searingly conscious the other was still alive. They turned their heads and looked-

Dillon slowly crumpled to the floor.

"Damn!" Stratton dropped the pistol.

Demon released Flick. She dropped to the floor beside Dillon. His face a mask of vengeance, Demon went for Stratton and nearly fell as his boots tangled in Flick's skirts. He grabbed the table to steady himself and saw Stratton pull another, smaller pistol from his greatcoat pocket, saw him aim at him-

"Here! Wait a minute!" Ducking through the lean-to, Bletchley lumbered in. "What's this about things being unfortunate for me?"

Belligerent as a bull, he made straight for Stratton.

Without a blink, Stratton swung his arm farther and shot Bletchley.

Demon vaulted the table.

Stratton swung to face him, raising his riding quirt-

Demon's right cross snapped his head back with a satisfying scrunch. He followed up with a left, but Stratton was already on his way down. His head hit the flags with a thud. After one glance at Bletchley's slumped form, Demon leaned over Stratton.

He was unconscious, his aristocratic jaw at an odd, very painful-looking angle. Demon considered, but restrained himself from rearranging any more of his features. Wrecking Stratton's cravat without the slightest compunction, he dumped him on his face, hauled his arms back, secured them, then tied them to his ankles. Satisfied Stratton was no longer a threat, Demon glanced over the table. Flick was staunching a wound on Dillon's shoulder.

Turning to Bletchley, Demon eased him onto his back. Stratton had been rushed, his aim fractionally off. Bletchley would live, hopefully to sing of his master's infamy. Right now, all he could do was moan.

Demon left him to it-he wasn't bleeding badly enough to be in any real danger.

From what little he'd glimpsed, Dillon was.

Rounding the table, Demon joined Flick, on her knees beside Dillon. She'd eased him onto his back. Her face white as a sheet, she struggled to contain her trembling as she pressed her wadded petticoat down hard on his wound. Demon glanced at her face, then looked at Dillon. "Ease back-let me see the wound."

Relaxing her arms, she leaned back. Demon lifted the wad and quickly looked, then replaced it. His face easing, he looked at Flick as she reapplied pressure to the wound.

"It's bad, but he'll live."

Blank-faced, she looked at him. Demon put his arm around her shoulders and hugged. "Stratton was aiming for me. Dillon's shorter than I am-the ball's in his shoulder; it hasn't even touched his lung. He

'll be all right once we get the doctor to him."

She searched his eyes; some of the cold blankness left her face. She looked down at Dillon. "He's been such a fool, but I don't want to lose him-not now."

Demon hugged her tighter and pressed a kiss into her curls. He wasn't all that calm himself, but he knew what she meant. If Dillon hadn't come good at the last-hadn't become man enough to, for once, shield Flick rather than expecting the reverse, Flick would have died.