“I still don’t like the idea of you selling yourself to him,” he growled. “Even marrying me would be better.”
His shock at his own words was easily identifiable, and Iona laughed as they stepped into the brisk autumn day, on a side street and not the busy thoroughfare they’d earlier traversed. “Marrying you after we claim the reward and enrich our coffers, correct? Then you’d have to sponsor another come-out for Isobel to choose a husband so Mortimer can’t marry her off. And we’d spend the rest of our newly-acquired funds hiring lawyers or killers to remove him from our home so Isobel might return there. It’s a very generous thought, my lord, but probably not practical.”
Although marriage to the Earl of Ives and Wystan seemed like a lovely dream to her. He was a good man. He owned Wystan, where she could be very happy. He wanted to visit Italy, which she’d love to do—in the winter, when her bees slept.
But he needed wealth, and she didn’t have it. He lived in London and would rightfully expect her to do so as well. She couldn’t take her bees to London. It took love to overcome such obstacles, and she didn’t think the earl had that sentiment in him.
He gloomily pondered her eminently practical response. She could sense his war of emotions. That he wanted her enough to even make such a suggestion warmed her all the way through. It was good not to be suffering unrequited lust.
Before he could respond, a towering, heavyset brute in malodorous rags stepped from an alley to block their path. “Unhand her, ye scalawag! Her da wants her back.”
The brute grabbed her arm, and more ragged urchins popped out of doorways and alleys, rushing to surround them.
Iona screamed at her highest pitch to attract attention. Yanking the filthy knife from her waistband, she struck the hand holding her. Unsurprisingly, the blade was dull. The heavy fist tightened around her cuff, and he knocked the knife flying.
The normally imperturbable earl roared in a voice so loud it may have shaken a few tiles from the roof.
Dropping his insouciant pose, Ives smashed a gloved fist into her attacker’s jaw. He followed the punch with an ungentlemanly blow of his walking stick knob considerably lower, in a place that caused her captor to howl in agony and release her wrist to cover his privates.
While the thug was bent over, the earl slammed the length of the stick on his thick neck, and toppled him.
With her arm free, Iona used both hands to swing her stick at the clamoring urchins surrounding them. A few had cudgels, but with their major opponent laid flat, the earl used his ebony stick as a staff to beat them back. Between them, they held off their attackers, although their foes’ strength was in numbers, not size, and they weren’t retreating.
While Iona tried to mentally connect with the drowsy bees, one rascal yanked her weapon away. She lost her concentration when another grabbed at her old wool skirt, tugging and pushing and attempting to separate her from the earl. Removing a hatpin, Iona kicked and screamed and stabbed every hand gripping her.
A few bees lazily descended but not enough for Iona to use as weapon. She needed her own queen to communicate her fear.
Lord Ives grabbed an urchin by the collar and flung him on top of the fallen miscreant, who groaned even more. He smacked a few more with his stick, far harder than she’d managed to do, dislodging stronger grips.
Finally, her screams brought men running, and behind them, she could hear the screech of a police whistle.
That shrill signal sent the pack scurrying back into their holes.
Collapsing from emotional exhaustion as much as physical, Iona hugged Lord Ives’ waist, clinging to him as he caught his breath. He squeezed her briefly, then set her aside to stomp his boot on the large brute struggling to flee.
When the policeman ran up, the earl pointed at his captive. “He attacked us and attempted to abduct the lady. We have reason to believe he was sent by a man posing as the Earl of Craigmore. As soon as I take the lady home, I’ll be down to the station to file a complaint.”
Given how she looked, Iona was grateful he did not use her name. Even so, the policeman glanced in doubt at her drab wool.
But he nodded respectfully as Lord Ives casually brushed off his suit coat as if he engaged in fisticuffs on a regular basis. “Yes, my lord. The miscreants do nae usually attack in day.”
“The lady does not go out at night for fear of such attacks. Craigmore has apparently become desperate. We’ll follow in your path in case they return.” Lord Ives briefly squeezed Iona’s shoulders, then more appropriately offered his arm.
She needed it. She was still trembling. How had Mortimer discovered she was in town—and learned where she was? They’d been so careful! She was quite certain he had not seen through her baron’s disguise and had only intruded on the Dares to see if Ives had followed her false claim.
Several of the passersby who had run to their aid also followed to be certain the large scoundrel did not escape from the much slighter policeman. Iona felt as if eyes stared at her from behind windows up and down the street.
“I don’t like this,” she murmured. “I don’t want to lead anyone back to Lord Dare’s.”
“Agreed,” the earl whispered back.
After depositing the policeman and his captive at the police station, Lord Ives caught a hansom and helped her in. Climbing up beside her, he ordered the cab to the train station.
“If you send me back to Isobel, I cannot appear for the reward to prove you’ve found me,” she objected.
“I am considering leading White and Mortimer out to Calder Castle and shoving them off a cliff,” he said grimly.
“It might be easier to do so from the fort.”
