Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)
Though still a little dazed, Devlin
managed to roll free.
Verdemont still had a grip on the pistol and was levering to his knees. Spotting the ancient suit of armor just ahead, Devlin slithered on his belly and grabbed hold of the gauntlet. A shove toppled the hulking mass of steel and sent it careening across the floor.
He heard a thud but was already scrambling through the doorway of the Weapon Room. Grabbing a claymore—the traditional two-handed Scottish longsword—from the wall display, he ducked behind one of the stone columns and waited.
Verdemont limped in, pistol at the ready. “You miserable whoreson. I should have put a bullet in your brain to begin with.” Eyes narrowing to a slitted stare, he surveyed the room. “That will soon be rectified.”
“Give it up,” called Devlin. “Surrender now, and release Miss Sloane. In return, you have my word that I’ll let you and your comrade-in-crime have an hour’s headstart before I alert the authorities.”
Several French epithets, each one more filthy than the last, expressed the vicomte’s reaction to the offer.
“You’ve had fair warning.” As he spoke, Devlin was assessing the situation. It was, he decided, less than ideal. The sword’s prodigious length was of no advantage against a bullet, and it was heavier than Hades, making it difficult to wield with any speed. Just hefting the point several inches off the stone tiles sent a spasm of protest through his shoulder muscles.
Wincing, he glanced across the room. A crossbow would have been a far smarter choice—
“Devlin—watch out!” The warning shout had an all too familiar ring. “Verdemont is angling for a shot!”
Damnation. His momentary lapse in attention had allowed the vicomte to seize the advantage. Moving with surprising agility, Verdemont had darted past the display of stag-handled sgian-dubh and now had a clean sightline. Already his arm was raised…
Out of the corner of his eye, Devlin saw a blur of motion, accompanied by the whoosh of flapping skirts.
“DON’T!” he cried.
Too late. Anna slammed into the Frenchman with enough force to send them both sprawling.
Devlin sprinted for his fallen foe, somehow summoning the strength to brandish the claymore. As Verdemont tried to raise his groggy-eyed head, Devlin thrust a boot atop the vicomte’s throat and forced him down. “I suggest you lie very still,” he growled, placing the massive point on the Frenchman’s quivering windpipe. “My arms are getting tired and the slightest jiggle…” A bead of blood welled up. “Oops.”
Verdemont swallowed a gurgled groan and closed his eyes.
It was only then that Devlin dared look around.
Anna sat up slowly. Her hair was hanging in disarray around her shoulders, her nose was streaked with dust and her face had a slightly lopsided look due to a nasty scrape on the left side of her chin.
She had never looked so utterly adorable.
“Are you utterly mad?” he said softly. “What in the unholy name of Lucifer possessed you to attack an armed assassin with naught but your bare hands.”
“I was,” answered Anna, “possessed by the notion that I didn’t care to see your brains spattered all over the display of quoits.” She grimaced as she flexed her fingers. “Ye gods, why are you men always so anxious to engage in fisticuffs? It hurts like the devil to land a punch on someone’s skull.”
“You’re supposed to aim for the chin,” he murmured.
“Ah.” She rubbed her knuckles. “I shall keep that in mind for next time.”
Next time, he decided, was a battle to fight at some future moment. For now, he simply stared at her smile and felt his insides turn upside down.
“How did you get away?”
“A little bird helped me.” Before she could say more, a gasp sounded from the doorway.
“Mademoiselle?”
Devlin recognized the petite figure of Anna’s maid silhouetted in the soft light.
“W-what is happening here?” Another gasp. “Sacre Coeur! There is blood on your sleeve!”
A low oath slipped from his lips. For an instant, he was tempted to slit Verdemont’s throat.