She was going to refuse. She was every bit as stubborn as Amelia—no doubt why the women were fast friends.
Benedict stepped between them, drawing Fiona away. “He’s right,” he said calmly. “Maybe not about the tossing you over his shoulder part, but this is not a safe place for you, and it won’t be safe for us to go into this riot worried about whether or not some drunk bastard is putting you in danger.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t protest. Wildeforde led her back to her horse, talking intensely to her. He held both her hands to his lips and kissed them before helping her mount.
Bloody prick.Hadn’t Wildeforde done enough bloody damage to her over the years?
Oliver approached. He stank of whiskey, but his stride was steady, his eyes were clear, his voice low and hushed.
“I’ve been chatting to some of the older men, convinced them to head home. Some of the boys too—the ones who are still shit-scared of their mothers anyhow.”
That was good. Oliver could always be counted on.
“What are your thoughts?” Benedict asked, his eyes still on the jostling crowd.
“If we don’t calm it down, they’ll march on the house. We’d lose maybe thirty that come to their senses on the walk over there, but that would still leave a large enough mob to cause trouble.”
Benedict cursed. “I’ve sent for the cavalry,” he said as Wildeforde joined them. “But they won’t be here for another couple of hours at least.”
Oliver frowned, shaking his head. “I’m telling you, we don’t have that kind of time.”
Goddamn it. What a fucking disaster.Anxious energy coursed through him, heightening his awareness, making his skin prickle and his heart thump.
Wildeforde straightened and shook out his legs and arms, just like he did when the two of them used to spar in the boxing ring. “Then we’re going to have to do it alone.”
Together they strode toward the gathered men. There was no denying that they were an imposing sight. All three taller and broader than most men and used to wielding power. Perhaps their size would give them an advantage.
Plenty of men stopped their conversation to watch them approach, faces wary. A handful left as the potential consequences of the night became more apparent with each step the trio took toward the mob.
“Tucker!” Benedict bellowed. “What is the meaning of this?” He stopped just short of the platform, trying to keep the confrontation from easy view of the crowd.
Tucker turned and sneered, gesturing toward Benedict and Wildeforde as he addressed the crowds. “Listen as the oppressors come to try to strip you of your rights.” His tone was oily and snide. He faced Benedict. “There is no law against the gathering of like-minded folks.”
“No law against a gathering, if a gathering is all it is.” Benedict crossed his arms in an effort not to tear the bastard limb from limb. How had it gotten to this point? Men he’d grown up with protesting against him?
He stretched his jaw. No good would come from thrashing Tucker in front of this crowd. He needed a calm approach. He took a centering breath. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is? Perhaps we can solve this here.” Anything to keep this pack away from Amelia, away from Cassandra, away from their home.
Alastair McTavish joined Tucker on the stage. His voice carried clear over the crowd. “Maybe if ye’d been working and drinking with us instead of hobnobbing with them bloody toffs, you’d already ken.”
Benedict swallowed and kept his tone cool. “I’m doing business, Alastair. That’s all. Business this village needs, as you well know.”
“Doing business…with the Karstarks? They put our families—your friends—homeless into the streets and you do business with them?”
“No,” Benedict said roughly, with more heat than intended. “Not with them. Never with them.”
“But they’re at your house, are they not?” Tucker asked. “Eating your food, drinking your wine, waited on by your servants. If not business, why are they there?”
Benedict scrubbed his hand over his face. “It’s complicated.”
Tucker turned to the crowd. “It’s complicated, he says. Too complicated for simple folks like us to understand.”
The crowd muttered and threw dirty looks Benedict’s way. It was evident why Tucker had been at the forefront of so many rebellious outbreaks. He had a gift for rhetoric. A gift for swaying an audience and whipping up the tempers of men.
“Look at him,” the revolutionary said. “All dressed in his fancy clothes. Are his buttons made of moonstone? Or the hopes and dreams of the men he’s supposed to be friends with? How can you trust a man so clearly not one of you?”
It was a solid punch to the gut. He’d grown up with these men. Worked with them. Drank with them. Celebrated. Commiserated. All with them.
He was as much a part of them as they were part of him.
