Without meeting his eyes, Flick nodded, stepped about him and continued toward the inn. "He's with a woman."
Demon looked toward the bushes, then back at Flick, who was stalking down the slope. "Ah." His lips twitched, but only momentarily. The next instant, he caught up with her. "Actually," he drawled, steel rippling beneath his words, "I didn't come here to discover what Bletchley was about."
She didn't immediately reply, but just strode on. "I followed him here. You were in London. You weren't coming back until tomorrow."
"I changed my mind-a lucky circumstance. If I'd returned tomorrow, God only knows what trouble you might by then have succeeded in bringing down on your head." His clipped accents and the underlying force behind his words held a dire, not-at-all-subtle warning.
Unrepentant, Flick sniffed and gestured back at the bushes. "Obviously, as Bletchley isn't here to meet with the syndicate, I won't be getting into any difficulty."
"It's not Bletchley you need worry about." Demon's voice lowered to a dangerous purr. "He was never destined to be the source of your trouble."
A very odd shiver slid down Flick's spine. Demon's fingers closed about her elbow. She considered twisting free, only to feel his fingers tighten into steel shackles. Deciding her wisest course was to ignore him and his hold on her, she haughtily elevated her chin-and allowed him to escort her down the hill.
They covered the distance in silence, a silence that grew increasingly tense as they neared the courtyard. The tone of the gathering had degenerated to raucous, rough and ribald; many of the crowd were weaving on their feet. It was no place for a gently reared lady.
Demon halted beyond the area lit by the flares. "How did you get out?"
"The side door." Flick pointed.
He tugged her hood down to her chin. "Keep your head down." His arm slid around her waist, and he whisked her across the danger zone, into the shadows by the door.
She barely had time to look up before he bundled her through the door and up the stairs. He followed on her heels. On the first-floor landing, he hissed, "Where's your room?"
Flick gestured along the corridor. "Above the main door."
She led the way, but his arm snaked about her waist and yanked her back, anchoring her to his side.
Flick decided not to argue. Or wriggle. The glimpse she'd had of his face as they'd gone through the door had done very strange things to her nerves. His face was always hard, but it presently appeared fashioned from rock. Uncompromising was the term that leapt to mind.
Sounds of revelry gusted up the stairwell. The corridor leading to the front rooms began just before the stairhead.
Then Demon tensed. Flick looked ahead and saw four gentlemen come staggering unsteadily up the stairs. They were well away, rowdy and boisterous; instinctively, she shrank against Demon. He slowed, stopped, then started to turn toward her, shielding her-
Clapping each other on the back and guffawing, the four lurched off down the corridor in the opposite direction. Without, apparently, seeing them.
More voices drifted up the stairs.
With a barely muffled curse, Demon tightened his arm about her and hurried her on, forcing her to half run.
Flick pressed her lips tightly shut and held back her protest. She knew that if she even murmured, he'd throw her over his shoulder and stride on.
Then her door loomed before them. With a silent sigh of relief, she fumbled in her pocket and drew out the key.
Demon filched it from her fingers; he had it in the lock, turned, and the door swinging wide before she could blink.
Brusquely, he shepherded her over the threshold.
Shutting her mouth, Flick narrowed her eyes, elevated her chin, and swept on into the room. She walked straight to the fireplace, then regally swung about. Clasping her hands before her, spine stiff, head erect, she fixed her self-styled protector with a challenging glare.
He'd followed her in and closed the door, but he'd paused with his hand on the latch. His blue gaze raked her-from her head to her toes-then returned, sharp and penetrating, to her face.
She showed no hint of maidenly distress-Demon verified that fact with some relief. Whatever she'd seen of Bletchley's endeavors behind the bushes, she wasn't seriously upset. Indeed, her attention appeared to be fixed on him-which was undoubtedly wise. He was presently a far greater threat to her serenity than Bletchley would ever be. He captured her gaze. "Stay here-I'll go and check that Bletchley doesn't go from the arms of his companion to some other meeting." Even to his own ears, his tone sounded lethally flat. "And," he added, "I'll need to speak with Gillies."
A hint of color rose to her cheeks, and her chin rose another notch. Her eyes flashed with what could only be defiance. "The notion to come here was mine-Gillies was good enough to come with me."
"I know it was your idea." Demon heard his words and wondered at their evenness; inside him, ungoverned fury raged. "Gillies would never be such a sapskull as to even suggest bringing you here-into the middle of a prizefight crowd." His anger broke through; ruthlessly, he reined it in. "Gillies has only obeyed my orders to stay with you at all times. I'm not about to upbraid him." He held her gaze and quietly stated, "It's not Gillies I'm furious with."
He held her wide eyes for an instant longer, then turned to the door. "I'll be back shortly."