He took in every detail in a second. The small tear in the shoulder of her shirt. The way she clutched her skirt high in front as she ran. The look of panic in her eyes that melted to relief when she caught sight of him.
The fucking bastard who was three steps behind her, knife clutched in his hand.
Max took two running steps forwards, pushed Colleen behind him, and planted his fist in the attacker’s face. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch.
The man staggered back, his legs as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in a heap.
Grabbing the back of Max’s coat, Colleen tugged him towards the staircase. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No. There’s more upstairs.” Max picked up the candle and strode to the base of the short flight of steps that led to the yard. The cellar door was closed and the bolt remained in place. The arsewipe must have come down the club’s stairs. “You’re safer here. I’ll take the man upstairs, and you barricade the door until I tell you it’s all right for you to come out. Understood?”
Tiptoeing to the crumpled body, Colleen tentatively stretched out a hand and snatched the knife that lay inches from his trouser. “How do you suggest I barricade myself inside? Carry wine barrels up the stairs on my back to lodge against the door?”
That was a good point. The door from the club didn’t lock on the inside. Still, he could have done without the impudence. Not while their lives were in danger. “Fine. I’ll leave the body here and take you up with me instead. But you will stay behind me and do as I say. We don’t know how many men are up there, but I’m certain each of them is eager to kill you.” Bile rose in his throat with the words.
She raised her hands in a placating gesture, almost cutting her ear with the blade. “I’m not the spy. I’ll do as you say.”
Pulling the knife away from her face, Max sighed. “Just don’t stab me in the back, please.” Taking her free hand, he tucked it to his side and started up the steps. When they reached the top, he blew out the candle and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The door swung open, and Max pounced. He grabbed the man by the throat and throttled him against the wall.
“Max!” Summerset wheezed. He clawed at Max’s hands. “It’s me.”
The hiss of a flame meeting an oil-soaked wick sizzled in the air. Montague lit one of the wall lamps, illuminating the hallway, and replaced the glass cover. “I wanted to make sure we could all see this,” he said mildly. “It’s always amusing seeing Summerset get his daylights darkened.”
Max dropped his hand. He brushed Summerset’s shoulders. “Apologies. How many did we capture?”
Rothchild strode down the hallway. “None,” he said, his lip curling with disgust. “All either dead or escaped.”
“Blast.” Max grabbed Colleen around the waist and swung her out of the doorway, enjoying her little yelp. He bounded down the stairs. It should have been black as pitch in the cellar. But the cellar doors were flung open, letting the blue of the quarter moon illuminate the space. No body lay on the floor.
“Sodding hell!” He plodded back up the stairs. “My man got away, too.”
Dunkeld tramped into the hallway, Pinkerton a step behind with a red-soaked towel pressed to his shoulder. The Scotsman crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s like these men are smoke. Deadly, but we can’t seem to grab ahold of them.”
Colleen leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her chest heaved up and down, and her fists were buried in the folds of her skirt.
Max ground his teeth. She’d had more frights than anyone deserved. And she’d faced them all, as resilient as a soldier. He’d been looking forward to pounding information out of someone, and now there was no one to loose his aggressions upon. He eyed Summerset. No, it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying pounding on a friend.
Only one other way that he knew of to pour out his frustrations.
He took Colleen’s hand. “I’m taking her home with me. The club is no longer safe.”
“What about me?” Pinkerton’s nasal accent sounded like the whine of a child.
“I think it’s time our friend rejoined his family.” Montague tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. “Perhaps we can send him on his way somewhere safe, like back to America.”
“Good idea,” Summerset said. A gleeful smile stretched across his face. “After all he’s done for us, Pinkerton is going to need protection back to Scotland to rejoin his family. Seeing as he’s injured. Don’t you think?” he asked Dunkeld, as innocent as a babe.
The marquess crossed his arms over his chest. “No. He can find his own way there. We owe him nothing.”
Rothchild snorted but managed to smother his laughter. “Summerset is right. And you are the obvious choice.”
“You’re going to freeze your bollocks off!” Summerset didn’t bother trying to restrain his mirth. “Scotland at this time of year. You and Pinkerton will have to snuggle together in the inns on your travels. I hope—”
Dunkeld planted his elbow in the earl’s gut, cutting off his sentence to gasp for air. “‘Effing slags, all of you.” Turning to Colleen, he bowed his head. “Pardon my language, ma’am.” He cracked his neck and took a deep breath. “Come, Pinkerton. Let’s get you to a doctor and deliver you to your wife.”
The Scotsman strode away. Pinkerton took a couple steps, then turned back. “I just wanted to thank all of you. It is really most—”
