Page 48 of The Duchess Games

“You don’t have to check up on me, Cat.”

“I’m checking up on the dogs,” she nudged him. “I like them better.” She made the rounds, offering scratches and praise.

Percival crammed himself in the doorway, blocking her. She kissed his enormous head. “I’m sorry, my fine knight. I have to go.”

He whined once. She swallowed, visibly steeled herself. “Percival.”

He whined again. Just once more but it was deeply pathetic. Cat winced.

That did it.

“Bring him.”

“Truly? Are you sure?”

The way Cat looked at him made him want to have every dog in Cornwall brought to his house. Immediately.

“I’m sure.”

Chapter Eighteen

Cat opened her mouth to thank him but before she could say a single word every dog on the premises erupted into loud, furious barking. The dogs running outside, the dogs at her feet. Selkie, the tiny mongrel down the way. Even her goat by the back shed made some very unpleasant threatening noises.

“What in the—”

Cat went to open the door, but it rattled off its hinges before she could reach it.

Three revenue men, armed with muskets and cudgels, marched into the cottage, bristling with bravado and righteousness. New men to the post.

Bollocks.

King Arthur lunged. Matthew tried to stop him, missed. Cat shoved him with her leg, knocking him off his trajectory, terrified one of the men might shoot him. They deserved his teeth in their arse but he did not deserve the retribution that would surely follow. He jostled the table and three cups fell to the ground, shattering. Guinevere advanced, her puppies threatened.

“God’s teeth!” One of the guns swung towards her.

“Guinevere, stay!” Cat shouted.

She moved to stand in front of her and the tallest of the agents barked: “No one moves! We are here on order of His Majesty the King!”

Matthew grabbed the fire poker.

It was absolute chaos.

Until the moment one of the agents pointed his musket at Cat.

“Enough.” Callum’s command rent the air like a cannon ball.

She’d never seen anything like it. He barely raised his voice, but it may as well have shaken the rafters. There was no question of disobedience. The dogs froze. Matthew gaped. The agents turned as one. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the Duke of Tremaine,” Callum snapped. “And you’ll get that gun away from the lady or you’ll eat it.”

The gun lowered. The agents, fired up for a righteous fight, blinked at each other, confused.

“State your purpose,” Callum continued. He was every bit the duke, carved from marble. His face was hard, chiseled. His eyes had all the softness of slate. And somehow, he’d stepped between her and the agents without her realizing it. His arm went across her, his hand on her hip, keeping her tucked safely behind him.

“We’re here on order of His Majesty the King?” the tallest repeated, but this time it came out as a question.

“To terrorize a woman and a boy?”