In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

mask covered his face. Two slits in the heavy fabric revealed glittering blue eyes, but nothing more.
    Regan’s throat tightened as if his fist were squeezing it.
    John, as he called himself, stepped closer and lifted his thick, gloved hand, placing a single, black-gloved finger on her lips.
    Regan jerked back, but her shoulders jabbed into the solid chest of the man behind her.
    A soft chuckle came from behind the black mask. “You ain’t going nowhere, luv, until you promise me you won’t come back here.”
    Her father’s wrinkled face and blue eyes sparkling with warmth came to her mind. He was the reason why she was doing this. And she would not give in. “I cannot promise that, sir.”
    The man turned his head to the side, looking into the fog. “Imagine that. The lady ain’t got enough sense to piss in the pot I’m holding out for her.”
    The deep laughs of three or four men rippled through the night air.
    Regan swallowed. Hard. “Perhaps. . . Perhaps we could come to some sort of agreement. I—“
    “No!” he pointed a rigid finger at her. “Bill, me lad. Let the ‘igh kick go.”
    The hands holding her arms pushed her forward. Regan stumbled into the fog masking the bodies of the other men. “Please! I—“
    Hands shot forward out of the gray fog and shoved her. Regan’s heart jumped to her throat and she stifled a scream. Another pair of hands came out of the darkness and pushed her. Regan stumbled forward and she nearly lost her umbrella.
    How many were there? Five?
    Laughter filtered about her.
    They were only trying to scare her. She was sure of it. But Regan turned about. “Don’t. There must be a solution!”
    “ Don’t, ” the men taunted. They stepped closer, narrowing the circle they had formed. Regan could barely make them out, but she could feel them. A hand slithered over her shoulder. Regan jerked away.
    Another hand, broad and rough, pinched her backside. The sharp pain stuck like a needle. She gritted her teeth, tightening her fingers on her umbrella as if it were her lifeline.
    Enough was enough. She lifted it high, pointed the feral, and jabbed it as hard as she could at the nearest body. The heavy, steel feral punctured flesh with a sickening pop.
    “Son of a bitch!” a deep voice cried out. One of the men staggered and gasped.
    Regan stood frozen, her arm still extended. Her chest lifted and fell in rapid breaths. She yanked her umbrella back then held it at the ready, waiting for another to advance.
    The man she’d struck reeled forward, clutching at his masked face. Blood gushed from between his thick fingers. It trickled onto his patched, brown shirt and thin, gray coat.
    “Bitch!” John yelled. His friend sputtered and blood sprayed the air. Slowly, the other masked men began to take solid form, closing in.
    Drawing in a gulping breath, a strange satisfaction washed over her. “I wished reason, yet you insisted on violence.“
    “Shut up!” He grabbed hold of her umbrella and whipped it aside, then violently grabbed her cloaked shoulder. He lifted his fisted hand and let fly. Her world erupted in stars and pain as his knuckles slammed against her cheek. Her head erupted in red and purple color as her body went limp and then everything went dark.
    ***
    R egan slowly stretched out her fingers and water splashed over her hand. She swallowed. Water?
    She forced herself to pry open her eyes. The dark shadows of night danced over a muddy, green-covered puddle just before her face. Regan jerked her head up off the ground as pain pierced her face.
    Propping herself up on her hands, she stared at the wet ground, trying to remember what had happened.
    Whitechapel. And John . Whoever John really was. Shivering, she rubbed her hands along her shoulders and glanced about. Miraculously, her carriage was standing just a few feet away, the horses pawing at the earth, the door wide open. It couldn’t have been too long or the horses would have been stolen.
    Dear Lord, Mr. Brent.