Conspiracy Of Hearts. Helen Dickson
flesh that swelled out of her bodice seemed to incite Thomas even more. Driven by some kind of demon inside her Serena lashed out, kicking his shins like a wild thing, clawing and raking her fingernails down his cheek which drew streaks of blood.
With cold sweat drenching her body, Serena managed to thrust herself away from him as, with a grunt of pain, Thomas raised a hand to his injured cheek. Unable to conceal her loathing, Serena glared at him with a challenging gaze, daring him to attack her again, her fists clenched and ready to strike if he made a move towards her.
‘Don’t you dare touch me again, you vile wretch,’ she fumed with unladylike vehemence, in the grip of an ice-cold, venomous rage, unable to still the shaking in her limbs. ‘Find someone more pliant to lust after. You disgust me, you clumsy oaf, with your clawing hands and foul breath.’
‘Disgust! Ha!’ Thomas roared with a savage snarl, his face having turned a mottled red. Tiny droplets of blood gleamed and trickled down his lacerated cheek to the small white ruff circling his neck. ‘It wasn’t disgust that brought you to the village in search of me like a bitch on heat, was it? Your behaviour is hardly in keeping with the pious little virgin you profess to be.’
‘Better to remain a virgin and die an old spinster than to acquaint myself with the likes of you,’ Serena flared in outrage.
Seeing red, Thomas advanced menacingly towards her once more. ‘Shut your mouth, you hellcat—you dirty little high-minded Papist bitch,’ he snarled in a flying rage, raising his hand to cuff her.
Surprised by what he was witnessing, Kit, the marquess of Thurlow, Lord Christopher Brodie—just two of his many titles—who was on his way to Dunedin Hall accompanied by his servant Robin, quickly dismounted. Having seen a flurry of hair, petticoats and creamy flesh, and heard much of what was taking place between these two, he had formed his own conclusion as to what was happening.
Kit had not intervened sooner because he thought the young lady seemed well able to take care of herself, but when he saw the man raise his fist to strike her he was impelled to act. If there was one thing he had been taught from an early age it was to respect the opposite gender, and this show of brutality against such a dainty wench was too much to ignore. Drawing his sword, he was diverted when his eyes settled momentarily on the face of the woman—a face of unforgettable beauty.
It was white, as white as alabaster in the gathering gloom, with eyes glittering like darting chips of ice, and her utter contempt for the man who intended to violate her was manifest in their translucent depths. Her lips were clamped together in a savage line, her small chin set in forceful determination, and the assertive and compelling steeliness in her expression told Kit that had she been in possession of a dagger, she would have had no qualms about thrusting it into the pulsating centre of her aggressor’s heart.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Kit said, his tone deadly calm. ‘It would be a pity to mar a face of such exquisite beauty—and if you do, it will cost you your life.’
Unprepared for the interruption, Thomas gave an enraged curse and spun around in his fury, but then he felt the cold and hungry tongue of a rapier pressed threateningly against the soft flesh of his neck. He stared askance at the black garbed figure at the other end of the steel blade, seeing the wicked pale blue light that danced along its length, and he felt his skin prickle and the hairs at the back of his neck stand up on recognition of the intruder, who commanded both his own and Serena’s attention with his awesome presence.
‘So, you remember me, Blackwell—even though we are a long way from the Netherlands?’ The tone was sardonic, the faint smile sneering.
Beginning to sweat profusely, his face darkening to an apoplectic crimson, Thomas continued to gape as his sluggish mind fought to grasp more clearly what was happening. Respectful of the threatening blade, he felt its point already penetrating his flesh and a slow trickle of warm blood begin to run down his neck and mingle with that from his torn cheek. He stood stock-still, eyeing warily the man who was taller than himself, whose eyes bore into his like dagger thrusts.
‘You seem surprised,’ Kit remarked, speaking lightly, but his mildly amused smile and cold dark stare did not waver from the face of the man opposite, who was eyeing him with a profound hatred. ‘What’s the matter? Have I sprouted horns? I’ve never seen you sweat so much, Blackwell. It does not surprise me to find you up to your old tricks. Violating maids appears to be your favourite pastime—but it seems to me that you annoy this particular lady…that your attentions are unwelcome.’
‘And your interference in a matter that is none of your concern I find most unwelcome. Although it’s hardly surprising you come to the maid’s defence, considering the comradeship that exists between yourself and certain members of the Catholic hierarchy,’ Thomas sneered with derision, angered at finding himself at a disadvantage, and knowing he faced an experienced soldier who did not flinch under adversity.
To begin with, Brodie set Thomas on edge. He was taller than Thomas, with shoulders as broad. The man was also extremely wealthy and a smooth sort, being close to the king and his courtiers, although the fact that he could count many Catholic noblemen as his close friends—among them Sir Everard Digby and that other Catholic magnate, Sir Thomas Tresham—suggested to Thomas that Kit had Catholic sympathies himself.
To make matters worse, Brodie’s equestrian skills had attracted the eye of many a commander in the Low Countries, and he had proved his military prowess in combat many times. His reputation with both sword and pistol was an enviable and well-known fact, and Thomas had neither the means nor the clarity of mind to test it just then. But most chilling of all was the fact that Kit Brodie was also the man responsible for having Thomas and his regiment recalled from the Netherlands in disgrace—which was a score he had yet to settle.
‘And you believe that because the lady does not share your faith that it gives you the right to violate her?’ Kit’s lips curled with contempt. ‘I think it must have slipped your mind that you are no longer fighting the Spanish in the Netherlands,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘The lady is right, Blackwell. You are even more of a lecherous swine than I took you for. It is my opinion that you should have been hanged for your violation and massacre of those unfortunate women at the convent near Ghent.’
‘You remember too much, Brodie,’ growled Thomas.
‘Some things are unable to be forgotten, Blackwell. That is one of them. However,’ Kit said with a savage taunt and a look to indicate the still bleeding scratches on his face, ‘I think enough bloodletting has been done for one day, so you have a reprieve. At least the lady has left you a momento to remember her by—which is more than can be said of the unfortunate women you so brutally murdered.’
Kit moved back and held his weapon aloft as Thomas tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain. Feeling the blade relinquish its position on his flesh, Thomas took a desperate, threatening step forward, at which Kit quickly wielded his sword once more, the dark wings of his eyebrows snapping together, the hard gleam in his eyes becoming brittle and his mouth tightening into a line of aggravation.
‘Have a care, Blackwell. Do not force my hand.’ Kit’s voice was like steel, his expression the same, and Thomas checked himself, knowing that Brodie was a man who brooked no argument from anyone.
‘You find me at a disadvantage, Brodie,’ growled Thomas, breathing heavily and holding his arms out from his sides to indicate he did not carry a sword. ‘As you see, I am without my weapon so I cannot defend myself. But the next time we meet you will not be so fortunate. You will discover I am as skilled with the sword as you purportedly are.’
Kit’s cold gaze travelled over Thomas with contempt before settling on the side of his face that was dark with blood. ‘I shall look forward to it. Now—be on your way and have your face tended before you bleed to death before my eyes.’
Thomas’s face was set in lines of violent, menacing rage, his gaze going beyond Kit to Serena, whose eyes were smouldering with unsuppressed hostility. With her colouring and snapping eyes she resembled a wild vixen, and did nothing to conceal her newfound hatred and revulsion for him. Drawing his upper lip into a snarl, his eyes