Anne's Perfect Husband

He squeezed the trigger, and the noise of the shot filled the coach, along with a smell as acrid as that from the make-shift torch. He had time to think that he couldn’t possibly have missed at that range before a body sprawled across his knees. He pushed the man to the floor with the hand that still held the empty pistol, just as another shape scrambled into the opening. It was the second man, who had a hand on either side of the frame of the door to pull himself in.

Ian reversed the pistol, holding it by the barrel and using the wooden stock to strike at the man climbing into the coach. The second highwayman put up his forearm, deflecting Ian’s blow, which had been aimed at his head.

Ian felt Anne begin to struggle beside him, but it took him too long to understand what was happening. The intruder wasn’t concerned with entering the coach. He had instead gripped Anne’s arm and was pulling her toward the open door.

Ian tried to get to his feet, hampered by the body on the floor and by his damaged leg, which had stiffened from the cold and an hours-long inactivity. Although he managed to lurch upward, the leg gave way, spilling him onto his knees on top of the body of the intruder, which had fallen between the two seats.

“Let me go,” Anne demanded, her small fists rising and falling as she flailed at the man who held her. Although she was struggling fiercely, she was being drawn inexorably to the door.

Ian reached for her and caught the sleeve of her coat between his fingers. Either they, too, were numb with the cold or his purchase had not been secure. The fabric was ripped from his hand as Anne was pulled forward and out of the coach.

He heard her outcry when she hit the ground. Whether it was an expression of pain or of fear, Ian couldn’t be certain, but the thought that the bastard might have hurt her infuriated him.

Discarding the useless pistol, Ian pushed himself upright. He lunged forward, stepping on the dead man. He stood poised a moment in the doorway of the coach, trying to decide which of the forms on the ground below, starkly highlighted against the white snow, was Anne’s. Then a foam of a pale petticoat amid the dark material of the girl’s skirt settled the question.

Knowing that his mobility was going to be limited no matter what he did, Ian simply dove out of the door on top of the man who was attempting to drag Anne to her feet and into the woods. A grunt of surprise and a whoosh of expelled breath as the man hit the ground indicated the accuracy of Ian’s landing. It also jarred every place in his body where a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself more than a year ago and especially those places where bits of metal still lodged deep in muscle and bone.

Now or never, Ian thought, ignoring the agony. He used the advantage of shock and his superior position to begin pounding the man’s head with his fists. The leather gloves he wore offered some protection, but his hands were so cold that each blow felt as if it might shatter his knuckles. He could only hope that the bones of the man writhing in the snow beneath him were experiencing that same punishment.

His opponent somehow managed to get his legs up. He fitted his knees under Ian’s stomach and threw him off. The blow to Ian’s midsection, which still harbored one of the fragments the surgeons had deemed too risky to remove, was nauseating.

Now he was no longer the one in the superior position. No longer the one raining blows on his opponent’s head. Ian put his arms and his hands up, protecting his face as well as he could, as he simply endured the onslaught of pain.

The other man fought with the brutal tenacity of a street brawler, which was undoubtedly where he had acquired his skills. Ian could smell him, a rank, fetid miasma of perspiration that surrounded him despite the bite of the cold, fresh air.

Finally Ian managed to jam his elbow into his opponent’s throat. The move was accomplished more by luck than design, but it distracted those punishing fists for a heartbeat, as the man raised both hands to grab at his injured windpipe.

Ian rolled to the side to free himself of his opponent’s hampering weight. The maneuver was at least partially successful. Then the ex-soldier attempted to take advantage of that success by putting his knee on the ground and pushing himself upright. Instead, his knee slid sideways in the snow, throwing him forward. His forehead met that of his opponent, who was at that instant attempting to sit up. The force of the hard contact between their skulls was enough to thin the air around Ian’s head, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

He fought the surging blackness, using his hands to hold himself off the ground. Moving as uncertainly as a drunkard, he pushed his body up, swaying on his hands and knees over his equally stunned assailant. Then, with every ounce of strength he possessed, he pushed off the ground and staggered to his feet. He pulled draught after draught of icy air into his aching lungs.

However, the man on the ground also seemed to be recovering from the blow to his head. He, too, began to struggle to his feet. Unlike Ian, however, he didn’t make it. There was a crack of sound, like a rotten branch makes when it breaks under an accumulation of snow, and he fell back as if he’d been pole-axed.

Not sure what had happened, Ian lifted his head and found his ward standing like an avenging angel over the fallen man. She held a piece of deadfall, and it was obvious by her posture that she had swung it like a club against the villain’s head.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” she said apologetically, “but you were too close to allow me to strike before. I was afraid I would hit you instead of him.”

She was apologizing, Ian realized. Apologizing that she hadn’t defeated his opponent more quickly. He laughed, unsure whether that laughter was born of relief, admiration or sheer giddiness. The sharp sting that it caused in his cut lip, however, cleared his head, and he began to understand the debt he owed Anne Darlington. He couldn’t imagine another woman of his acquaintance having the courage to do what she had just done.

Anne’s eyes had fallen once more to the man on the ground, who appeared to be still unconscious. Apparently reassured, she looked up again at Ian, as she lowered the broken limb.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

Despite the darkness, Ian could see how pale she was, her fair skin drained of color. Tendrils of damp red hair hung about her face or were plastered to it by the snow. Her clothing was undoubtedly as wet as his own, Ian realized, feeling for the first time the cold moisture seeping through his sodden greatcoat and soaking the garments beneath it.

Unable to find breath with which to answer the question he should have been asking her, he nodded. He was beginning to believe he really was all right, despite the exertions of the fight. And then, with an unexpectedness that was shocking, his knees gave way. He fell on them to the ground, reaching out just in time to catch himself with his hand. Ian watched his glove sink into the slush and then begin to slide forward, leaving a shallow trough to mark its passage.

He was almost disinterested in the process, although on some level he knew that he was about to end up face-down in the snow. He wondered idly if he were dying. Suddenly a pair of strong young arms slipped around his midsection. Steadying him. Virtually holding him up. Still on his hands and knees, he turned his head and looked into Anne Darlington’s eyes.

“I’m all right,” he said, lying through his teeth.

He looked back down at the ground, watching blood drip onto the snow, staining its white with pink. He closed his eyes, not because the sight bothered him, but in order to will strength back into his body. Every inch of it ached, which was probably why he had no idea where that slow drip of blood was coming from.

“Let me help you up,” Anne offered.

He opened his eyes, turning his head again to face her. Obediently, he pushed against the ground, and with her aid managed to get to his knees. And knew with stunning clarity that he wasn’t going any farther. Not for a while.

“If I could rest a moment…” he suggested, still breathing through his mouth, trying to assess the severity of his injuries, all of which were making themselves heard in a disharmonious clamor of pain.

“Of course,” she said.

He swayed slightly, and felt her arms tighten comfortingly around him. She was very close, her body pressed against his. There was no false modesty in the way she held him. And no more embarrassment than Dare or his valet might have felt in offering him their help.

Ian closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean against her strength. He was infinitely grateful for it, as improper as what they were doing might seem to anyone else. They had been through a terrifying experience, and she was, after all, his ward.

She is also a woman. A very desirable woman.

The thought was shocking, given that until he had seen her brandishing that branch, he had been thinking of Anne only as George Darlington’s daughter. As a school-girl. She might be the former, but despite the circumstances in which he had discovered her, she was definitely not the latter. Unbelievably, his battered body was forcibly reminding him of that.

It had been a long time since Ian Sinclair had held, or been held, by a woman. And a very long time, therefore, since he had felt this rush of pure physical reaction. It unnerved him, not only because it was so unexpected, but because of its intensity.

And because, of course, that of all the women to whom he might legitimately have felt such an attraction, Anne Darlington was the most forbidden. She was his ward, given into his care by her father. Even if it had been without Ian’s consent.

And other than that consideration, Ian was the last man on earth who might make any claim on Anne Darlington. The least suitable man she would ever meet to offer her his heart or his hand.

Since he could not in honor ever do either of those things, he had no right to touch her, even in a situation that had begun as innocently as this one. And so, despite the lingering weakness, Ian put his arm over Anne’s slender shoulders, and again relying her strength, struggled to his feet.

As soon as he had, he stepped away from her embrace, creating the necessary distance between them. A distance he had never anticipated crossing.

“Thank you,” he said.

Nothing of what he had felt during those brief moments they had knelt together was revealed in his eyes or in his voice. And again, he had reason to be grateful for the control he had learned on the Peninsula, as well as for the lessons of duty and honor.

What had just happened would be forgotten, the memory of it destroyed by his determination to destroy it. And by his determination to carry out the responsibility he had been given.

The responsibility of finding Anne Darlington a husband. And that man could never, of course, be Ian Sinclair.

Chapter Three

“Amazing how quickly it can strike, even in the best of families,” a deep voice ventured lazily.

Ian had opened his eyes, and became aware of his surroundings for almost the first time in six fever-ridden days. Hearing that sarcastic comment from the man sitting beside his bed, he fought the urge to shut them again and pretend delirium.

“Insanity, I mean,” the Earl of Dare added, closing the leather-bound volume he had obviously been reading from as Ian slept.

Despite the way he felt, Ian’s mouth lifted into a reluctant smile, which was quickly answered by his brother’s.

“How do you feel?” Dare asked.