Read Online Your Wicked Heart by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online

came a terrible crash as a stool landed where she’d just been sitting.
    Amanda scrambled to her feet. A brawl was spreading from the table behind them—men raving, cards scattering. Ripton, who had risen to shout a reprimand, became a target. One brawler smashed a chair into his knee; he staggered backward, directly into the path of another man who hoisted aloft a stool that—it became clear to Amanda in an instant—was going to bash Ripton’s skull.
    With a cry, she seized her toppled stool and smacked the miscreant in the back. Caught off guard, he stumbled, then wheeled toward her to seize her by the arm. She clawed at his grip. “Let go! Let—”
    Ripton tore the man off her and threw him across a table. Turning back, he said breathlessly, “What rubbish. Shall we go?”
    Wood splintered behind her. “Yes, please!”
    Together they hustled toward the door. Four paces from their freedom, the publican vaulted the bar and landed in front of them, his teeth bared in a ferocious grin. His come-hither gesture did not look friendly.
    “Oh, bloody hell,” said Ripton, and let go of her. One neat punch and the man went down.
    The quickness of it dazed her. She was staring at the publican’s slumped body when Ripton grabbed her arm and hauled her onward toward the door.
    When it slammed behind them, the sudden silence seemed jarring. How quickly that fight had started! She realized that her legs were shaking. The police!
    The door flew open, men stumbling out. With a curse, Ripton dragged her a step down the lane, then abruptly reversed course as a fresh gang of men came pounding from that direction. The police!
    “Quick,” she said, pushing Ripton down the narrow cobblestone lane, away from the authorities. Hand in hand they ran, around one corner and then another, until her breath became a dagger in her throat and she stumbled, gasping, to a stop.
    Running. Best done as a child, before one donned a corset.
    Ripton turned back, a curious lurch in his movement. “Are you all right?”
    She fell against a sunbaked wall. “Just—a moment—”
    “Gladly.” Wincing, he leaned down to palm his knee. “Haven’t brawled since university. Bit out of practice, I fear.”
    He had done well enough by her account. “Is your knee injured?” He had taken quite a blow.
    “Bound to be a great big bruise.” He straightened, his expression lightening. “When I turned and saw you lifting that stool—”
    She held up a hand. “Before you scold me, he was about to hit you—”
    “Oh, I know,” he said, and then astonished her by breaking into laughter.
    She stared at him, confused and then . . . fascinated. His laughter was beautiful, wild and rich. He drove his hands through his hair and lifted his face toward the sky, and in the bright sunlight he looked vibrant, vivid, alive with merriment.
    He caught her staring and grinned. “Good fun, eh?”
    Good fun? Her eyes dropped down his body. His knuckles were bleeding! “You’re a lunatic.”
    “Yes, apparently you’re contagious.” He came limping toward her, his hand rising toward her face. She realized that her hair had come down only when he pulled a curl to his mouth and . . . inhaled .
    What on earth  . .  . ?
    “Tell me,” he said, his lips pressed against her hair, “how do you still manage to smell like roses?”
    “I . . .” She smelled like roses? “I’ve no idea.”
    Lifting his face, he laughed softly. “How puzzled you look,” he said. “Tousled and rosy and wide-eyed. Miss Muffet, having bested the spider.”
    Alarm pierced her. “Did you hit your head in there?”
    “Never mind the roses; I’ve a better idea.” He took hold of her waist. Increasingly baffled, she looked from his hands to his face—and then his mouth touched hers.
    A kiss, her amazed brain informed her.
    His lips against hers felt warm. And so . . . gentle.
    A breath escaped her, a breath of wonder and disbelief.
    His hand cupped her cheek, his fingers