Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

And then the boar was upon them both.

Cecily’s face slammed against the turf again as the beast’s second charge hit home. Despite the jolt, she was aware of the stranger’s frame surrounding her body, absorbing the worst of the blow. When the boar eased off, presumably to charge again, the stranger released Cecily’s mouth, grabbed the tree branch she had dropped, and rolled over swinging. Even with her face still pressed into the dirt, she heard a dull crack and a porcine squeal of pain that told her the club had hit its mark.

The man’s weight was gone from her now, and she rolled onto her back, propping herself up on one elbow. A few paces away, the stranger—her protector—staggered to his feet and squared off against the angry boar. With the crosshatch of branches overhead and the clouds obscuring the moon, Cecily could barely make out the forms of man and beast as they circled one another, much less make out the stranger’s face.

“Denny?” she asked tentatively. His build appeared different from Denny’s, but then it was dark and difficult to see. “Denny, is that you?”

The man gave no response. Really, how could he, with the boar charging him again?

Survival first, she chided herself. Introductions later.

The stranger dodged right and swung, clouting the beast on the ear with his club. Amidst the boar’s angry squeals, Cecily registered the sound of ripping fabric and a masculine grunt of pain.

“Oh! Are you hurt?” She stepped forward, keeping her eyes focused on the writhing heap of hoary animal between them.

“Get back.” The command was delivered in a savage, almost inhuman voice.

The great boar struggled to regain its feet, and the man rushed forward to kick it in the head. The beast rooted and snapped with its snout and jaws, trying to bite the man’s foot. One tusk fishhooked on boot leather, pulling the man off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. The two were locked together now, boar’s jaw to man’s boot, and the stranger used the position to his advantage. Bracing himself on hands and elbows, he stomped and kicked with his free leg, landing vicious blows to the boar’s throat, crown, jaw. The boar backed away, dragging the man with him, but the animal couldn’t free its tusk. Again and again, the man kicked, until the boar’s squeals became choked gurgles. The scent of fresh blood, metallic and sharp, mingled with the beast’s own stench.

Cecily backed away, nauseated by the sounds and smells of violence. She tripped over a tree root and stumbled back, coming to rest on her elbows. She stayed like that, staring up at a slice of cloudy sky visible through the branches, until the pummeling blows stopped and the boar wheezed its last rattling breath. Then she slumped back further, laying supine in the leaves. Her heart throbbed against her breastbone.

“Thank you,” she whispered to her unknown rescuer. If he hadn’t intervened, she would have certainly perished. He must be one of Denny’s footmen, she reasoned. Or perhaps a gamekeeper from Swinford or Corbinsdale.

But then, he had no hounds, no gun. Strange.

Feeling sufficiently recovered to risk a look at him, she rolled onto her side.

She saw no one.

A hand clamped around her ankle, and Cecily shrieked. She attempted to rise, but could do no more than scrabble sideways with her leg pinned thus. Her rescuer, now turned attacker, crouched at her feet and began shoving her skirts to her waist. Horrified, she kicked at him the way he’d kicked at the boar, but before her boot could connect with his face, he’d captured it in his other hand. His head disappeared from view, and she felt him burrowing under her petticoats.

Oh, God. What cruel work of Fate was this? This man had preserved her life, only to ravage her body? Temporarily pinning her left leg with his knee, he unlaced and removed her boot. Vise-like fingers gripped the bared arch of her foot.

She shoved at his shoulders through the folds of her skirts, beat on his back with her fists. “No,” she sobbed. “No, please.”

“Shhh.” A rush of hot breath warmed her inner thigh. “Be still,” came the rough voice muffled by fabric. “I won’t hurt you.”

Cecily felt a swift tug at her ribbon garter—and since his hands were occupied restraining her ankles, she knew he had to be using his mouth. She shuddered as the ribbon fell slack and a neat row of teeth closed around the edge of her sensible woolen stocking. Slowly, tenderly, with a lover’s finesse, he drew the stocking down her leg. A desperate sensation built within her as the wool scraped over her thigh, her knee, the sensitive slope of her calf. Her senses buzzed with an exquisite blend of heightened awareness and fear. She trembled.