John’s mind ran through every scenario he could think of, searching for a way to keep Charlotte from harm, but without knowing how many men were currently circling the carriage, there was no guarantee that it was possible.
He buttoned the fall of his breeches. “Stay in the corner,” he whispered.
She nodded, her face pale. As she shifted to the backward-facing bench, she too drew back the curtain. What she saw made her gasp, her eyes going wide and her fingers flying to her mouth.
He rested a hand on her knee and squeezed it, trying to give her confidence that he didn’t feel, and then he faced the door, putting himself between Charlotte and the men outside.
The door opened, as he knew it would. Brunel’s giant right-hand man filled the doorframe as he put a hand on either side and leaned toward them. “Let’s have a wee chat about tonight’s events, shall we?” he asked.
John heard Charlotte’s breathwhooshout as she realized that her actions at the tables had not gone unnoticed as she had thought. She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to move around him, but he refused to budge.
“John had nothing to do with it,” she said.
“Hush, love.” He would not have her make herself any more a target than she already was.
“But—” She tried to push around him, but he flung out an arm so that she could not pass. He turned, locking eyes with her. “Wait inside. Do not say a word. There’s nothing you can do.”
Her face turned grey as she heard the truth in his words.
John edged toward the carriage door, knowing full well what was about to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had been beaten. He had survived it before; he would survive this one, so long as the attack was only on him. He didn’t know that he’d survive it if they went for Charlotte also.
The brute decided John wasn’t moving fast enough and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him out of the carriage. He had a wicked gleam in his eyes, as if it was nights like this that he lived for. John looked past him and locked eyes with a younger lad, who looked as though he might be sick at any moment. He clearly didn’t have the stomach for this. Maybe he could keep Charlotte from harm.
“Don’t let her leave the carriage,” he muttered to the boy. “Please. Do what you must to me, but please spare her.”
The lad didn’t acknowledge John at all, but he took a spot in front of the carriage door.
Then the beating began.
Chapter 23
At the first sickening punch to John’s ribs, Charlotte launched herself forward. Private Gray caught her with a hand to her chest and shoved her backward. Her head thwacked hard against the carriage wall, and she tumbled to the floor, banging the edge of the seat on the way down.
Her vision swam as she struggled to her knees and crawled toward John. She had to reach him. She had to help. This was all her fault.
She wrapped a hand around the doorframe to lever herself upright. The turncoat slammed the door shut. It was only by a hair’s breadth that it missed her fingers as she snatched them back. She pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She yanked open the curtains.
And sobbed.
John was on the ground, curled into a ball, his arms over his head as the men around him took turns laying in the boot.
She screamed, an unholy, bloody sound that was too primal to be language. She pounded on the door with her fists and pushed at the handle, but Private Gray wouldn’t allow it to open.
The attack felt as though it went on for hours, but it was likely no more than a few minutes before the mob stepped back. John lay there in the middle, unmoving. All breath escaped her.
John!
The door swung open, and she leapt out of it, collapsing to her knees in the mud beside him. He was a bloody mess, with a gash in his hairline, blood running from his nose, and bruises already blossoming across his hands. She stroked his hair, and he moaned. A wave of relief swept through her.He’s alive.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.” If she hadn’t cheated, this would never have happened. If she hadn’t insisted they wager their way out of debt, this would never have happened.
Brunel’s thug crouched down so that he was face-to-face with Charlotte and gave her a cruel, gap-toothed smile. He nudged John’s shoulder. “Lord Harrow, can you hear me?”
John’s eyes fluttered open.
“We’ll be taking this.” The cur held up Charlotte’s reticule, which had all their winnings. “You still owe Brunel five thousand pounds. Now he wants it in a week.”
***
