She had a great deal of lost time to make up for.
“Over here!”
The Scot swung around with her still clutched in his arms. Lucy caught sight of another gentleman—this one also tall, with fair hair—standing next to a carriage that had been freed from the tangle of conveyances and stood waiting, horses at the ready. The man waved his hat in the air with one hand and beckoned to them with the other.
“Just in time.”Her captor, or rescuer—Lucy hadn’t yet decided which—hitched her higher in his arms and strode toward the carriage. “Be still, and we’ll be out of here soon enough.”
Before they could take more than two steps toward the carriage, however, a man in a mud-stained shirt came out of nowhere and grabbed Lucy’s ankle. “That’s a pretty little bit ye got there.” He leered down at her, then smirked at her Scot. “Care to share ’er? Plenty to go around, ain’t there?”
The broad shoulder under Lucy’s palm went rigid. “Take your hand off the lady.Now.”
Lucy’s eyes widened and a shiver darted up her spine at the icy warning in that voice. She wasn’t easily cowed, but she wouldn’t think to defy a command spoken with such menace.
But the scoundrel, who was more than a little befuddled with drink, chose to ignore the warning. He gave her foot a sharp tug and nearly sent her toppling. “Don’t s’pose she’s a lady.” He spat on the ground. “Not a proper one, leastways. Not ’ere.”
Lucy felt a low, furious growl vibrate in the Scot’s broad chest, and knew at once he wouldn’t issue a second warning. Oh, dear. Now they’d get into a brawl, and the Scot would have to put her down to trade blows, and if he should be beaten to a pulp she’d be left alone with a villain who was intent on grabbing far more than her ankle.
It would have to be another assault, then. “Proper enough, I promise you.” Lucy jerked at her ankle with such sudden and unexpected force the scoundrel was caught off guard. He lost his grip, and once she was free of him, she didn’t hesitate.
She kicked him as hard as she could in the chin with her heel.
Hoyden, indeed. She’d been in Brighton less than four days, and she’d already kicked two gentlemen in the face.
The man staggered backward, but he managed to keep his feet under him. He ran a hand over his bruised chin, his furious gaze on Lucy. “Bloody wench.”
He moved forward to grab her again, but the Scot—who was much more agile than one might assume, given his size—lunged for the man with Lucy still in his arms. He caught him just behind the knees with a vicious kick, sending him flat to his back on the ground. Then he delivered a second kick to the man’s ribs to ensure he’d stay there.
Lucy peered down at the man writhing on the ground, then turned to the Scot with wide eyes. “Well done.”
He only grunted in reply, but his gaze met hers for a brief instant before he looked away. He really did have the loveliest pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. Why, what a waste it was for a mere man to have such luxurious eyelashes! She was burning to find out whether they were really as dark and lush as she thought, but he didn’t spare her another glance.
By the time they reached the carriage, the fair-haired gentleman was red-faced and muttering curses. “Christ, you’ve cut it a bit close, haven’t you?” He nodded toward the tangled, heaving mass of men surging closer every minute. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he added, with a polite bow for Lucy that looked rather ludicrous, given the circumstances. “I’m Lord Vale, and your disheveled champion here is—”
“Never mind, Vale.” The Scot dropped Lucy unceremoniously to her feet in front of the carriage door. “This isn’t a ballroom. There’s no need for introductions.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Vale.” Lucy felt a bit foolish curtsying while a riot raged next to her, but gentlemen such as these—fashionable, handsome, and titled gentlemen—were used to impeccable manners, bloodied mouth and brawls notwithstanding. Besides, if Aunt Jarvis ever discovered she’d met a pair of lords and hadn’t curtsied, a riot would pale in comparison to her wrath.
Lord Vale slid a solicitous hand under her elbow. “Are you quite all right, miss? No danger of a swoon?”
“Certainly not.”
Her dark-haired rescuer snorted. “She nearly laid a man flat with a kick to the chin, Vale. I don’t think she’s the sort who swoons.”
“Did she indeed?” Lord Vale’s gaze roamed over her with new appreciation, then he turned back to his friend with a smothered laugh. “Thensherescuedyou, didn’t she?”
“Oh, no, my lord,” Lucy hastened to clarify. “Not at all. You see, I did kick that man, but it was this gentleman who—”
“Beg pardon, lass, but can we chat another time? We’re steps away from being dragged into a riot.” Her dark-haired rescuer yanked the carriage door open, wrapped his hand around Lucy’s arm, and urged her inside. “Any way you choose, Harrison,” he called to the coachman, “Just get us out of here. Come on, Vale.”
“No. I rode Horatio from the Abbey, remember? He’s tethered just there, at the crest of the hill. I’ll fetch him and ride directly home. Might even make it back home by three if I hurry, and escape a scold from my sister Felicia.”
The Scot nodded. “Right. Good man, Vale.”
Lord Vale slapped him on the back with a grin. “Deuced awkward time to decide to be a hero.” He leaned through the window and smiled at Lucy. “It’s been a singular pleasure, Miss. Good day.”
Lucy waved as the blue-eyed Scot leapt into the carriage and slammed the door behind him. They watched until Lord Vale reached his horse and swung safely up into the saddle, then the Scot pounded a fist against the roof. The carriage jerked into motion and began to pick through the tangle of frenzied men and frightened horses.
Lucy turned to her new friend and tried a cautious smile. “Only think of the odds against us meeting twice, and under such unusual circumstances. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”
