George blinked. The idea of confusing this man, who fairly crackled with danger, with a lapdog was absurd.
He drew a finger slowly across the edge of her bodice, watching her reaction. “What do you want with me, my lady?”
Her breasts seemed to swell. “I…” She couldn’t think while he touched her; she didn’t know what to say. What did he need to hear? George looked around the room for help but saw only the piles of food and dishes. “I’m not sure, really. I don’t have any experience in this.”
He dipped two fingers below her bodice and brushed her nipple. She shuddered. Oh, my. Harry pinched the nipple, sending sparks all the way to her most private places. George closed her eyes.
She felt his breath caress her cheek. “When you figure it out, my lady, let me know.”
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Nine
Bennet walked into the Cock and Worm at just after midnight that evening. The tavern was crowded and loud at that hour, the smoke from innumerable pipes hovering in a cloud near the ceiling. Harry sat in a dark corner and watched young Mr. Granville move with the overly cautious gait of a man who was already the worse for drink. Walking into a disreputable place like the Cock and Worm with one’s senses impaired wasn’t a particularly bright thing to do, but that wasn’t Harry’s worry. An aristocrat gambling with his own safety wasn’t his business—now or ever.
Harry took a pull from his mug and switched his gaze to the two local harlots drumming up trade. The younger of the wenches, a blonde, sat on a ruddy-faced man’s lap. Her titties were right under his chin—as if she was worried he was near-sighted. The man’s eyes were glazed, and the harlot made stealthy movements at the front of his trousers. It wouldn’t be long before the two came to an understanding.
The second harlot, a red-haired wench, caught his gaze and tossed her head. She’d already tried her charms with him, and he’d sent her away. Of course, if he flashed a purse now, she’d be smiling soon enough. The more ale he drank, the more he began to rethink turning the redhead down. He’d been randy for days now, and the object of his bone-on, despite her offer, wasn’t likely to help him now, was she?
Harry scowled into his ale. What had she been after, his Lady Georgina, when she invited him to her private rooms? Not what he’d wanted to think, that’s for sure. The lady was a virgin, and the first rule of aristocratic maidens was Guard well thy virginity. Don’t, whatever you do, go handing it out to the hired help. The lady had been looking for the thrill of a stolen kiss or two. He was forbidden fruit to her. Good thing he’d resisted her blandishments. Few men he knew could’ve done so. He nodded and drank to his own wisdom.
But then he remembered how she’d looked earlier that night. Her eyes had been so blue and so unwary, belying the temptation of her low neckline. Her breasts had seemed to glow in the firelight. The thought of her even now made his too-alert prick come to attention. He frowned, disgusted at his own weakness. Actually, none of the men he knew—
Crash!
Harry jerked around.
Young Mr. Granville slid across a table, headfirst, knocking ale-filled glasses to the floor. Each glass detonated with a small, wet explosion upon impact with the floor.
Harry took another swig from his mug. This wasn’t his worry.
The men at the table weren’t pleased. One fellow with hands the size of hams hauled Bennet upright by his shirtfront. Bennet flailed at the other man, catching him a blow to the side of the head.
Not his worry.
Two other men grabbed Bennet’s wrists, jerking them behind him. The man in front buried his fist in Bennet’s belly. Bennet doubled over. He tried to kick, but he was heaving bile from the blow to the stomach. His feet missed his attacker by miles. Behind them, a tall woman threw back her head and laughed drunkenly. She looked familiar, wasn’t she…? The big man drew back his fist again in preparation.
Not his worry. Not his… oh, the hell with it.
Harry stood and drew the knife from his boot in one movement. No one was paying any attention to him and he was on the man about to hit Bennet before anyone noticed him. From this angle, a quick stab to the side followed by a twist of the wrist would kill the man before he even fell. But death wasn’t what Harry was after. He sliced the man’s face open instead. Blood gushed, blinding the man. He bellowed and dropped Bennet. Harry slashed one of the men holding Bennet’s wrists, then waved his blade in front of the second man’s eyes.
That one raised his hands. “Hold on! Hold on! We was only teaching him his manners!”
“Not anymore,” Harry whispered.
The man’s eyes flickered.
Harry ducked—in time to protect his head but not his shoulder—as a chair smashed across his side. He turned and stabbed. The man behind him howled, clutching a bleeding thigh. Another crash and the thwack of flesh hitting flesh. Harry realized that Bennet was standing back-to-back with him. The aristo wasn’t as pie-eyed as he’d thought. He was able to fight, at least.
Three men charged at once.
Harry leaned to the side, helping a man pass him with a punch and a shove. A yellow-haired man with a knife came at him. This man had some experience with knife fighting. He gripped a cloak in his free hand and tried to foil Harry’s dagger with it. But the yellow-haired man hadn’t fought in the places Harry had.
Or ever fought for his life.
Harry grabbed the cloak and yanked the man hard. The man stumbled, tried to recover his balance, and found that Harry had him by the hair. Harry pulled the man back, arching his neck, and pointed his knife tip at the man’s eye. Balls and eyes. Those were the two things men feared losing most. Threaten either, and you had a man’s full attention.
“Drop it,” Harry hissed.
Sweat and piss assaulted his nostrils. The yellow-haired man had lost control of his bladder. He’d also dropped his knife, and Harry kicked it. It skittered across the floor, sliding under a table. The tavern was quiet. The only sound was Bennet’s labored breathing and the sobbing of one of the sluts.
“Let him go.” Dick Crumb came out from the back.
“Tell them to back off.” Harry pointed with his chin at the three men still standing.
“Go on. You don’t want to be messing with Harry when he’s in a mood.”
No one moved.
Dick raised his voice. “Go on! There’ll be more ale for them that wants it.”
The mention of ale was magic. The men grumbled but turned away. Harry let his hand drop. The yellow-haired man fell to his knees, whimpering.