My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) by Christi Caldwell (best short books to read txt) 📗

Both men chuckled.

“Graham’s got some questions for ye. About that lady.” They were already reaching for her.

She evaded their grip. “I don’t know who she is,” she protested, her heart hammering. “She was just a stranger.”

“Yea. Sure. Either way, ye can tell that to Graham.”

Gasping, she turned and tried to run.

Too late.

One of the men caught her plait, yanking her back hard, pulling a scream from her.

Her assailant immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the remainder of that cry, burying it with the stench of sweat and grease.

He cursed, tightening his hold.

Julia bit down hard on his palm, gagging on the taste of his blood. His grip slackened, and she fought her way out of his arms.

She made it a pace before one of the men slammed into her, knocking her forward onto the pavement, sucking the breath from her lungs and sending stars dancing in her eyes.

Julia blinked back those slight flecks of light.

“Ye’re makin’ this ’ard when ye don’t need to,” he panted against her ear, his breath as uneven as her own from the fight she’d given him.

Good. The bastard.

Finding another burst of energy, the kind that could come only from the desperate need to survive, Julia bucked, and then she felt something hard prod her lower back and instantly stopped, recoiling as she realized he was aroused by her struggles.

“If ye choose to not cooperate, we can enjoy ourselves first.” He pressed a sloppy kiss against her cheek.

Terror and horror all rolled together inside as he shoved her face down onto the pavement. The cobblestones scraped her cheek.

She whimpered, choking with desperation.

And then, suddenly, the weight was gone.

Julia lay motionless, registering the absence of that pressure on her chest, and then, scrambling up onto her knees and then her feet, she faced the tableau behind her.

Like some Arthurian warrior Adairia had told her tales of, he stood there, braced over the two men he’d felled. One of the brutes was unconscious, the other dazed.

His slightly long golden hair was loosely tousled, his body as broad and powerful as the pair at his feet.

“That isn’t the way to treat a lady,” he said coolly, his voice as even as if he’d casually commented on the weather and not as though he’d impressively beaten two large grown men.

“That one ain’t a lady,” her assailant stammered. “Got something that belongs to me, she does.”

“I didn’t take anything that belongs to him,” she spat.

“No, I rather trust your word. It seems a good deal more reliable than that of a man who’d put his hands upon a woman.”

With that, he brought his arm back in a quick right hook and hit her assailant.

The man’s eyes rolled in his head, and then his form went limp.

The gentleman glanced briefly back, and her breath caught as his gaze locked with hers. Blue. As blue as the skies Adairia whispered of that she recalled from the English countryside, a color so vibrant she’d doubted her sister’s telling. The hue of his irises managed to suck the thoughts clear of Julia’s head.

“Well done, my lord.” A servant came rushing forward, shattering the connection, but the gentleman held a hand up, dismissing him, and started for Julia.

She immediately tensed, the cloud of wonder now gone.

He reached into his jacket, and she took a hasty step back.

“It is fine,” he murmured in tones better suited for the fractious mouser she and Adairia kept. He withdrew a crisp handkerchief embroidered with three initials and snapped it open. Once. Twice. And then ever so slowly, he reached out. “May I?” he murmured, and it took a moment for her to gather that he was asking permission for… something, and it didn’t make sense, because people didn’t speak to her in those gentle tones, or worry after her.

She told herself to nod, even as she wasn’t certain what she was agreeing to, and then he tenderly brushed away the small stones that clung to her cheek.

“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t feel a thing. She felt as light as air, with her feet five feet above the earth.

Julia lowered her lashes and peered up at him. “I—?”

“Darling, do hurry along.”

And just like that, the moment was again shattered, and she was reminded all over again that she was a poor peddler girl. And he? Why, he might as well have been the prince she secretly—and never dared admit aloud to Adairia—dreamed of. She followed his focus over to a grand black conveyance. A flaxen-haired beauty hung partially out of the carriage, impatience stamped upon her features. Never had the sorry state of her appearance, and very existence, been starker than it was in this very moment with that fair princess waiting for him.

“I’ll be along shortly,” he called, and the woman frowned, but then she ducked back inside the carriage.

The driver pushed the door shut, bringing Julia’s gaze to the familiar crest, and she froze.

He returned his attention to Julia. “Patience has never been one of her virtues,” he said with a wink.

With the threat of danger having receded, she registered his identity. The affable, and detached, flower distributor.

“Thank you, sir,” Julia said gruffly.

“I recognized you.”

Oh, God. Her stomach churned. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean—” Julia’s speech dissolved, wavering between the coarse cockney she’d been born with and the proper English she’d learned at Adairia’s hand.

“No. No,” he said, brushing off her apology, and then he started for the carriage.

Julia stared after him as he said something to the driver, who handed down a crate.

She stared on in wide-eyed disbelief as the gentleman made his way back. “Here,” he said, placing the case of flowers at her feet.

Struck silent, she moved