My Bratty Wife
Chapter 234 - Two Hundred And Thirty Four

Chapter 234: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Four

The sound of Ryan’s voice, roaring through the chaotic night air of Aldridge Port, was the sweetest music Suzy had ever heard. It cut through the fog of her pain and despair, a ray of comfort against the raging sea. A weak, joyful smile, almost a grimace given her bruised face, touched her lips. His name, a prayer, a desperate hope fulfilled, slipped from her in a soft, trembling whisper: "Ryan."

Seeing Suzy, his beloved wife, slumped between two rough-looking men, her beautiful gown torn and soiled, her face pale and bearing the unmistakable mark of violence, transformed Ryan’s fear into a white-hot rage. His eyes, usually so warm and thoughtful, blazed with fire. He dismounted from Thunder in one fluid motion, the stallion instinctively standing firm. Before his feet even fully hit the cobblestones, two long-barreled pistols were in his hands, their polished steel glinting ominously in the flickering lamplight. He aimed them steadily, not at the envoy or the boss, but directly at the men holding Suzy.

"Who is it? Who did this to you?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft, a terrifying contrast to the fury in his eyes, his question directed only at Suzy.

Her hand, trembling violently, lifted a fraction, her finger weakly indicating Jem, the brute who had struck her and dragged her from the kidnappers’ den.

Jem, startled by Ryan’s sudden, ferocious appearance, fumbled for the pistol tucked into his belt. He was a hardened criminal, used to violence, but there was something in the Duke’s eyes that made his blood run cold. He attempted to draw and fire, a desperate, clumsy movement.

Ryan was faster. Lightning fast.

A deafening crack, a flash of orange from one of his pistols, and Jem’s attempt ended before it truly began. A neat, dark hole appeared in the center of Jem’s forehead. His eyes widened in momentary, terminal surprise, and then he slumped to the ground like a discarded sack, dead before he hit the cobblestones.

"I have never," Ryan stated, his voice still low but now resonating with deadly intent, his gaze sweeping over the remaining stunned smugglers, "never in my life, dreamed of raising so much as my voice in anger to her, let alone my hand. Who, in all the hells, gave you the confidence to do so?" His question hung in the air, unanswered, as Jem lay lifeless at his feet.

The remaining smugglers, shocked out of their negligence, scrambled for their own weapons. The envoy, his face a mask of terror, dove behind a stack of crates, his boys deserting him. The air crackled with tension.

"And who," Ryan continued, his other pistol now leveled at the smugglers’ boss, "gave you the permission to sell my wife as if she were a piece of common livestock?"

Nobody answered. The only sounds were the distant cries of gulls and the lapping of water against the quay.

Just then, another gunshot rang out, this one from near the boss. A bullet whizzed past Ryan’s ear, close enough for him to feel its heat.

"Who in blazes are you to disrupt my business, you interfering cur?" the smugglers’ boss roared, his initial shock replaced by a desperate, cornered fury. He held a smoking pistol, readying for another shot.

Ryan didn’t waste breath on a reply. He fired his second pistol. The shot caught another smuggler, who was trying to flank him, in the shoulder. The man screamed and dropped his weapon. And then, the quayside erupted into a chaotic shootout.

Eleanor, the moment she had seen Ryan’s unmistakable figure emerge from the shadows, the moment she heard his voice, had felt a chilling premonition of disaster. Her carefully constructed plans were crumbling before her eyes. "How did he find out?" she hissed to herself, her mind racing in panic. "How could he possibly have found her so quickly?" All her composure, her regal disdain, vanished.

She was no longer the orchestrator, but a frightened woman caught in a game. She scrambled for cover, hiding behind a large stack of damp, pungent fishing nets, her heart pounding in her chest, praying she wouldn’t be seen.

The envoy, similarly terrified, had wedged himself between two large barrels, making himself as small as possible, whimpering softly as bullets flew.

Ryan moved really smoothly but with a dangerous intensity, yet completely in control. He was totally outnumbered, yet his gun skills were seriously impressive, thanks to years of training and endless hours of practice.

He used the scattered crates and barrels for cover, firing, reloading with speed, always moving. One smuggler lunged at him with a knife; Ryan sidestepped and brought the butt of an empty pistol down on the man’s head, sending him sprawling. Another fired wildly; Ryan returned fire, a precise shot that sent the man clutching his chest before collapsing.

He felt a searing pain in his left arm as a bullet grazed him, tearing through his coat and drawing blood, but he barely registered it, his focus entirely on eliminating the threat to Suzy. He could see her, slumped between two crates,her eyes wide with terror, not for herself now, but for him.

The smugglers’ boss, seeing his men fall one by one, made a desperate attempt to use Suzy as a shield, grabbing her roughly. Ryan’s roar of pure, unadulterated rage was terrifying. He fired, not at the boss, but at the ground near his feet, the bullet ricocheting with a scream of metal. The boss flinched, loosening his grip on Suzy just enough.

In that instant, Ryan charged. He didn’t fire again at such close quarters to Suzy so as not to hurt her. He threw one of his empty pistols at the boss’s face, momentarily distracting him, then closed the distance and delivered a brutal series of punches, driven by adrenaline and a desperate need to protect his wife. The boss, though a large man, was no match for the Duke’s fury. He crumpled to the ground, dazed and defeated. The last remaining smuggler, seeing his leader fall, threw down his weapon and tried to flee, but Ryan brought him down with a non-fatal shot to the leg.

The quayside fell silent, save for the groans of the injured smuggler and Suzy’s ragged, sobbing breaths. Ryan, panting, his injured arm throbbing, his fine coat stained with his own blood and the grime of the fight, stood amidst the carnage. He had killed them all – all the direct threats.

He strode over to where the envoy was still cowering. The man looked up, his face ashen, and began to plead. "Your Grace! Mercy! I knew not who she was, I swear! The lady deceived me. I was merely a... a broker! An intermediary! Please, spare my life!"

Ryan looked down at him with utter contempt, with disgust. "Take your blood money," he growled, kicking the pouch of coins towards the trembling man. "And get out of my sight. If I ever see your face in Carleton, or anywhere near my family again, I will not be so lenient." The envoy scrambled to grab the pouch and fled into the night as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.

Ryan then turned his attention, his movements stiff from his injury. He saw a flicker of movement near the fishing nets. Eleanor. She was trying to slink away, to escape in the confusion.

He raised his remaining loaded pistol, his aim steady despite the pain in his arm, and fired a shot that struck the wooden crate just inches from where she was about to pass. Splinters flew. Eleanor recoiled with a terrified shriek, pressing herself back into her hiding place.

"Come out of there!" Ryan shouted, his voice raw with exhaustion. "Come out with your hands in the air, you cowardly bastard!"

Slowly, hesitantly, Eleanor emerged. Her fine clothes were now smudged with dirt, her hair disheveled. She kept her head bowed, not in remorse for her actions but in the acute shame of being caught, of her meticulous plans failing so spectacularly before the very man she sought to reclaim. Her hands were held limply in the air.

Ryan lowered his pistol slightly, his gaze fixed on her. The pieces were falling into place – the expensive perfume in the kidnappers’ den, the " Lady" the envoy was talking about, Eleanor’s presence here. A wave of disbelief, so profound it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. He had expected a straightforward criminal , perhaps a rival noble who wanted revenge on him. But this... this was a betrayal that cut far deeper. His lips quivered, not with rage this time, but with a horrified, heartbroken surprise.

"Eleanor?" he finally managed, his voice barely audible. "You... you are the third party in this? You... orchestrated this?"