A Rogues Proposal

Flick screamed.

She flung herself at Demon, clinging to his chest, shoving him back against the chimney.

Stratton's eyes widened-his finger had already tightened about the trigger.

Dillon stepped across Flick-the pistol discharged. The explosion echoed deafeningly between the cottage walls.

Demon and Flick froze, locked together before the chimney. Demon had frenziedly tried to wrestle Flick to the side, knowing he'd be too late-

They both continued to breathe, each searingly conscious the other was still alive. They turned their heads and looked-

Dillon slowly crumpled to the floor.

"Damn!" Stratton dropped the pistol.

Demon released Flick. She dropped to the floor beside Dillon. His face a mask of vengeance, Demon went for Stratton and nearly fell as his boots tangled in Flick's skirts. He grabbed the table to steady himself and saw Stratton pull another, smaller pistol from his greatcoat pocket, saw him aim at him-

"Here! Wait a minute!" Ducking through the lean-to, Bletchley lumbered in. "What's this about things being unfortunate for me?"

Belligerent as a bull, he made straight for Stratton.

Without a blink, Stratton swung his arm farther and shot Bletchley.

Demon vaulted the table.

Stratton swung to face him, raising his riding quirt-

Demon's right cross snapped his head back with a satisfying scrunch. He followed up with a left, but Stratton was already on his way down. His head hit the flags with a thud. After one glance at Bletchley's slumped form, Demon leaned over Stratton.

He was unconscious, his aristocratic jaw at an odd, very painful-looking angle. Demon considered, but restrained himself from rearranging any more of his features. Wrecking Stratton's cravat without the slightest compunction, he dumped him on his face, hauled his arms back, secured them, then tied them to his ankles. Satisfied Stratton was no longer a threat, Demon glanced over the table. Flick was staunching a wound on Dillon's shoulder.

Turning to Bletchley, Demon eased him onto his back. Stratton had been rushed, his aim fractionally off. Bletchley would live, hopefully to sing of his master's infamy. Right now, all he could do was moan.

Demon left him to it-he wasn't bleeding badly enough to be in any real danger.

From what little he'd glimpsed, Dillon was.

Rounding the table, Demon joined Flick, on her knees beside Dillon. She'd eased him onto his back. Her face white as a sheet, she struggled to contain her trembling as she pressed her wadded petticoat down hard on his wound. Demon glanced at her face, then looked at Dillon. "Ease back-let me see the wound."

Relaxing her arms, she leaned back. Demon lifted the wad and quickly looked, then replaced it. His face easing, he looked at Flick as she reapplied pressure to the wound.

"It's bad, but he'll live."

Blank-faced, she looked at him. Demon put his arm around her shoulders and hugged. "Stratton was aiming for me. Dillon's shorter than I am-the ball's in his shoulder; it hasn't even touched his lung. He'll be all right once we get the doctor to him."

She searched his eyes; some of the cold blankness left her face. She looked down at Dillon. "He's been such a fool, but I don't want to lose him-not now."

Demon hugged her tighter and pressed a kiss into her curls. He wasn't all that calm himself, but he knew what she meant. If Dillon hadn't come good at the last-hadn't become man enough to, for once, shield Flick rather than expecting the reverse, Flick would have died.

His arm still about her, his cheek against her golden curls, Demon closed his eyes tight and again told himself-the being who dwelled deep inside-that it really was all right, that Flick was still with him, that he hadn't lost his angel so soon after finding her. Flick was a lot shorter than he was-if Dillon hadn't shielded her, Stratton's bullet would have hit her in the back of her beautiful head.

He really couldn't think of it-not without coming apart-so he pushed the image away, locked it deep inside. Lifting his head, he looked down at Dillon, to whom he now owed more than his life. Flick was still staunching the flow of blood, but it seemed to be easing. Demon considered, then looked into her face. She was still pale, but composed.

Part of him wanted to shake her-to swear and rant at her for throwing herself across him; the saner part realized there really was no point. She would simply set her little chin and get that stubborn look on her face and refuse to pay the slightest attention. And she'd do it again in a blink.

The realization only made him want to hug her, hold her tight, keep her forever safe in his arms.

Drawing a deep breath, he reached out and gently tugged her hands from the bloody pad. "Come." She turned to him; he met her gaze. "Leave that to me-you're going to have to ride for help."

Sorting it out took the rest of the day. Flick rode to the farm-Gillies and the Shephards took over from there, summoning the doctor, the magistrate and constable while Flick rode to Hillgate End. She stayed with the General, soothing and reassuring, until the doctor's gig arrived from the cottage with Demon driving and Dillon in the back.

They got Dillon inside-the doctor, a veteran of the Peninsula Wars, had extracted the bullet at the cottage, so Dillon was quickly made comfortable. He was still unconscious-the doctor warned he probably wouldn't wake until the next day. Mrs. Fogarty installed herself at his bedside; the General, after seeing his son still breathing, and hearing from both Flick and Demon of Dillon's bravery, finally consented to retire to the library.

The magistrate and the constable met them there; the members of the Committee, at Newmarket for the Spring Carnival that week, joined them. Tabling Dillon's account, then an explanation of the investigations that had resulted in Montague's estimations, then laying out Stratton's accounts for all to see, Demon led the assembled company through the details of Sir Percival's race-fixing racket.

While Dillon's involvement was frowned upon, in light of the greater crimes involved and his clear repentance, his misdemeanors were set aside, to be dealt with later by the Committee, once he was fully recovered. At present, they had greater fish to fry-the extent of Stratton's manipulation of their industry fired them with fury. They left, faces stiff, vowing to make an example of him. An aim Demon openly supported.

The instant they'd gone, the General slumped. Flick fussed and fretted and worried him into bed; Jacobs assured her he would watch over him. Leaving the General propped on his pillows, Flick paused in the corridor; shutting the General's door behind him, Demon studied her face, then walked to her side and drew her into his arms.

She stood stiffly for an instant, then the iron will and sheer stubbor

Then she started to shake.

Demon carried her downstairs and coaxed a small glass of brandy past her lips. Her color improved marginally, but he didn't like the distant look in her eyes. He racked his brain for something with which to distract her.

"Come on." Abruptly standing, he drew her to her feet. "Let's go back to the farmhouse. Your luggage is there, remember? Mrs. Shephard can feed us, then you can look around and decide what changes you'd like to make."

She blinked at him. "Changes?"

He towed her to the door. "Remodelling, redecorating-how should I know?"

They rode back. He watched her every step of the way, but she was steady in her saddle. His staff were very pleased to see them; it instantly became clear Gillies had spread their news. Which was probably just as well, as Demon had every intention of dining alone with his angel.