George was still coming for him. Nick could have won a fight against George or any of the men alone. But six of them in their own house? The odds were definitely not in his favor. Nick held up a hand, hoping he could talk his way out of this one. “Now, let’s be reasonable, George. I’ve come to apologize to your sister.”
“Apology not accepted!” Devlin said. Nick was beginning to dislike the youngest Brittany.
“I really don’t think that’s your decision to make, lad,” Nick said genially. He was quickly backing himself into a corner, though. The Brittany men were blocking the exit. “I’d like to speak with Ashley.”
“Ashley?” Sir Gareth bellowed. “She’s Miss Brittany to you!”
“Actually, she’s Lady Nicholas. I told you, we’re married.” The punch came from nowhere. He’d been watching George and Devlin and hadn’t seen William creep up from the side. William, the middle brother, had a wicked right hook. Nick swayed and caught a pedestal to keep his balance. The bust on it went toppling to the floor, crashing into a thousand pieces, and Nick thrust the pedestal between himself and the mob.
“Hey!” George protested. “I had the first crack at him.”
“You were too slow,” William said, shaking his hand. Good, Nick thought, working his jaw. Perhaps he’d broken his hand. Nick knew his jaw was going to be bruised from the hit.
“Get him now!” Devlin yelled. Nick really did not like that boy. Thomas made a grab for him, but Nick spun around and shoved the pedestal at Thomas. He tore past Devlin and the injured William, but Charles caught him and shoved him against the wall. Nick landed against a picture, and he heard the canvas rip when his head collided with it. At least, he hoped it was the canvas. It might have been his head.
“Got him!” Charles yelled, and George threw a punch. Nick ducked, which was not easy with Charles still holding him, but he managed to evade George’s fist, which went into the wall, creating a fist-sized hole.
But Charles was ready for his maneuvers the second time, and when George hit him next, Nick couldn’t get away. Fireworks exploded, and Nick swore. That was it. He was tired of being the gentleman. If he was going down, they were all going with him.
He kicked out, lodging a foot in Charles’s breadbasket. Charles doubled over, and Nick shoved him out of the way. He ran for the drawing room doors, jumping a settee and leaping over a small table. Devlin caught him by the back of the coat, and Nick whirled about and slammed his fist into the upstart puppy’s eye.
Devlin went down, and Nick felt a surge of triumph. That would show him.
The triumph was short-lived as Devlin caught Nick’s ankle on the way down, and Nick went toppling over. He landed on Devlin, who rolled him over and threw a glancing punch across his nose. Nick heard the crunch and felt the spray of blood, and then he was on top. He grabbed the lad’s head, slammed it into the carpet—damn carpet!—and jumped off. But three of the brothers were blocking his exit.
He was trapped.
Nick glanced about for a weapon, spotted a vase, and reached for it. He lifted it, and every single one of the brothers gasped. Nick blinked, looked at the vase, then blinked again. The brothers were holding up their hands as if in surrender. Nick looked at the vase again. Just an ordinary vase, not even Sevres.
“Very well, Lord Nicholas, you made your point,” Sir Gareth said. “Put the vase down, and we’ll discuss the situation like gentlemen.”
Nick looked at the brothers, whose gazes were riveted on the vase, and then back at the vase. “I don’t think so.” The vase was the only leverage he had. He was going to strap it across his chest and sleep with it at night. “I’m not putting this vase down until I speak with my wife.”
“Fine!” Thomas said, waving his hands nervously. “Just don’t drop it.”
“Bloody hell,” George moaned. “If he breaks that vase, we’re all done for.”
“Go fetch my wife,” Nick said, punctuating each word with a shake of the vase. Thomas and Devlin held out restraining hands while Charles and George shrank back, cringing. William just shook his head as though he knew the executioner was on the way.
“I’ll get her,” Sir Gareth said. “Don’t move.”
Nick nodded, watching the brothers and holding the vase aloft. He rubbed his aching nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of blood on the superfine. Bloody hell, but his valet was going to have something to say about this, and Nick didn’t even have a ship to escape on anymore.
Sir Gareth started for the door, but before he reached it, it swung open all on its own. The men turned, except Nick who was facing the door, facing his wife.
She stepped inside the drawing room, her brows winging upward in bemusement. Under those brows, her sea-green eyes were the same impossibly beautiful color he remembered. Her upswept hair was simple yet elegant with blond curls falling about the shoulders of her white gown. Such a gown might have made other women with pale hair and skin look like death, but Ashley glowed. Her cheeks were pink, her hair shiny, her lips red, her body...best he not look at her body with all of her brothers in the room and thirsting for his blood.
He knew the precise moment her gaze found him because her smile faded, as did the color in her cheeks. How it pained him to be the one who took the smile from her lips. That had never been his goal. He would have done anything at that moment to bring it back. Seeing her now, he did not know how he had lived a single day without her. He hadn’t lived. He’d merely existed, and he could go on merely existing, but God help him, he did not want that fate. He wanted her.
She took a breath. “Lord Nicholas,” she said, her tone formal and icy. How he longed for the sound of her voice when she first woke, low and husky and so incredibly warm.
“Lady Nicholas. I hoped we might speak for a few minutes.” He looked at the Brittany men. “Privately.”
“No!” Charles protested.
“Absolutely not!” This from Sir Gareth.
“Over my dead body!” Devlin said.
