“Touch her at your peril,” Arden snarled at someone.
And then, they were once more in the chaos of the street. The glow of street lamps, and the sound of horses and jangling tack, mingled with dozens of voices and orders being issued by policemen.
“Arden, put me down,” she tried again.
“Not now,” he said, urgently, his expression taut. “We need to get you home.”
She had no home. She wanted to tell him so, but all she could muster was a yawn. Her body felt weak, her mind was confused, and she could not deny how good and reassuring being held by Arden felt.
He was warm and strong and steady.
She snuggled against his chest, inhaling deeply of his divine scent. Later, if he questioned her, she could blame her indecent reaction upon her confusion. She had suffered at least two blows to the head, after all. Perhaps she could even convince herself the blows she had suffered were the reason for the warmth settling over her, and the undeniable feeling ofcomfortbeing in his arms gave her.
Even when her stomach was as tender as if it had been run over by the wheels of a carriage. What in the hell had they done after bludgeoning her? Even breathing hurt. A booted kick would have produced such an effect, she was sure. Her head ached, the throb of her heartbeat pulsing in her temples. The blows she had received had been substantial enough to make her lose consciousness. She blinked up at Arden’s beautiful jawline, dizziness suddenly assailing her.
For the second time in her acquaintance with Arden, Hazel feared she would cast up her accounts all over him. The first time, it would have served him right. This time, however, she would feel guilty. After all, here he was, playing the role of knight, whisking her away to safety in his powerful arms.
She swallowed hard, forcing the lump of bile down her throat. She would not be ill. One slow inhale through her nostrils, one exhale. Her head ached more, but the wave of nausea subsided.
“What happened?” she forced herself to ask. “How did you find me?”
“There will be ample time for explanations later,” Arden clipped as he continued striding to his destination. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”
He sounded slightly winded, and she had no doubt it was the effect of carting her about the streets taking its toll upon him. She was tall for a woman, and she knew it well. Her height had both haunted and aided her for all her life. She was certain she weighed more than enough to wind even the strongest and most able-bodied of men.
“It hurts to breathe,” she admitted, though the confession pained her as much as her injuries did. “But I have survived worse scrapes.”
“Falling from a tree, for instance.”
Something about his quip touched her. His attempt at lightness, in such a time of darkness, warmed her insides. And, well, here was proof he had been listening to her silly stories earlier at dinner with Winchelsea. That warmed her too.
“That was nothing,” she told him, her tongue and mind still feeling sluggish. “I landed—”
“On your feet,” he finished for her. “Nary a broken bone for your troubles. I would suspect that is always the way of it for you, Hazel.”
Hazel.
Arden had called herHazelfor the first time since the wickedness in his study. And something inside her was melting. It was a name she had never liked, merely the one she had been given by the mother who had not wanted her. But on the Duke of Arden’s lips, Hazel sounded different. When he spoke her name, she wanted to be Hazel, rather than Miss Montgomery, or H.E., as all the other agents she had worked with called her.
But this reaction, this strange affinity for her name, this sudden thrill…? Whatever her unseen assailant had cudgeled her with, it must have addled her wits. For there was no other reason why Arden’s use of her given name—spoken in his precise accent—should wrangle a sigh from her lips. But it did. She sighed and snuggled closer to him. Her head still ached, and breathing still hurt, but his scent of musky citrus had replaced the odors of the city, and his muscular, protective heat had replaced the lingering shock dogging her.
“I do not always land on my feet,” she said at last before continuing, compelled to protest once more. “But you must put me down, Arden. I am capable of walking.”
“No.”
“Arden.” Her protest was by rote. In truth, she did feel weak and dizzied, and the pain in her head was growing to a crescendo by the moment. She did not want to reach the safe haven of his carriage by her own locomotion. But for the sake of her pride,by God, she would.
“We are almost at my carriage now, Hazel. I would carry you back to New York myself if I had to, after seeing you lying on the floor in a crumpled, bleeding heap.”
His vehemence took her by surprise. Another wave of nausea crashed over her, but she fought it back with as much determination as she had the first time. Unless she was mistaken, there was a protective note in his voice. Precisely what had Flannery and Mulroney done to her? A chill went down her spine, making her tremble.
“The last thing I remember, is something cracking against my skull, twice,” she said. “Whatever happened afterward, I have no recollection. Do not concern yourself on my account.”
His jaw clenched. “Hold tight to me now. We have reached the carriage.”
He issued orders to the driver, then climbed into the conveyance, still carrying her as if she were helpless, until he deposited her gently upon the bench. Dizzied anew, she planted her palms against the leather, holding herself still, lest she collapse in a puddle upon the floor.
He settled at her side, rather than opposite her, then stared down at her, his countenance strained, pulled tight with lines of concern. “Miss Montgomery,” was all he said.
