Chapter 23 #2
This man would be after him next. He would kill him. I could not let him.
He moved his knife, angling to one side of my throat. I had one chance.
I dropped.
I gave up all my weight, my legs collapsing under me.
The hot edge of the knife sliced against my neck, but I slipped through his grasp.
My knees hit the walkway with a painful crash, and I scrambled away, my fingers scraping the stones, desperate to find purchase.
I rolled as he came after me, and I kicked out.
He grunted as my foot connected with his knee. “You little devil.”
I tried to rise, but I stumbled, tripped, fell again. I turned. He was there, looming over me, knife held high.
I threw up my hand in a pitiful defense.
A blast cracked through the night—a flash of light and smoke.
The man staggered back. Dropped his knife. Clutched his chest. Blood between his fingers.
His eyes met mine. The hatred there drained away, replaced by cold realization. Then his face slackened, and he fell, splashing back into the stone pool of the canal. He did not move.
I stared, still splayed on the ground, half sitting. What had—How had—
Alexander.
He appeared out of the dark like an avenging angel, features fierce and bold. He held a pistol in both hands as he ran to me from the direction of the house, eyes focused, chest heaving.
He fell to his knees beside me, dropping his pistol with a clatter. “Beatrice!” His hands flew over me—my arms, my face, my shoulders—searching for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”
“Alexander.” I grasped his arm, trying to convince myself he was real. His greatcoat was soaked through, his hair dripping. But how? He was miles away, on his way to London.
“Did he hurt you?” he repeated desperately.
I shook my head wildly. “No. No, I’m well.”
“Stay here,” he ordered, and then he darted toward the pool, where the man had fallen.
I watched Alexander, tears pricking even as I tried to catch my breath. I could not convince my body that the danger was gone, panic still surging through my veins. Only minutes had passed since I’d been with Mrs. Rawlings in her room.
He bent over the pool for a few seconds, then returned, a grim set to his jaw.
“Is he . . . ?” I whispered.
He nodded tersely as he knelt beside me again.
Dead. My hands shook. The man had tried to kill me, and now he was dead. My shock, brittle and dizzying, swept through my body.
Alexander took my shoulders, inspecting me again. His fingers tightened. “Your neck.”
I felt it then, the sting at my throat. I reached up to touch my neck, and my fingers came away slick with blood.
Alexander’s expression turned murderous, and if he hadn’t already spent his bullet, I imagined he would have shot the man again. Alexander jerked a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it against the cut, a low curse escaping his lips.
I barely heard his words or felt the rain that fell on us. I stared up at him, still trapped in absolute disbelief. His eyes rose to meet mine. They held there, raindrops sliding down the planes of his cheekbones.
He’d come. He’d protected me. Just as he’d promised he would.
I threw my arms around him, and I wept.
He pulled me against him, holding me so tightly I could scarcely breathe. “It’s over,” he said again and again, the words a balm. “It’s over.”
After a few moments, I heard shouts and footsteps coming from the house.
“Here!” Alexander shouted. “We’re here!”
I did not pull away from him as the household approached. I kept my face buried in his chest, clutching him tightly around the waist. He did not release me either, one hand keeping the handkerchief pressed to my neck, the other wrapped firmly around my shoulders.
“What’s happened?” Mrs. Rawlings asked, voice sharp and brisk.
“I shot him,” Alexander said grimly. “He’s dead.”
A stunned silence followed.
“You are sure?” That was Stroud, shocked.
“I am sure.” Alexander’s deep voice reverberated in his chest.
“Is Miss Lacey . . . ?”
Was Mrs. Rawlings expressing concern? I peeked up through Alexander’s arms and could just see her face reflecting the light from the lantern she held. She stood there in the rain, her brow set in a deep furrow, her mouth parted as she gazed at me in her son’s arms.
“She’s hurt.” Alexander took my hand and helped me press it against the makeshift bandage at my neck. Then he shifted me more solidly against his chest and rose to his feet. “I’m taking her up to the house.”
“I can walk,” I whispered, and I knew Alexander heard me, but his arms only tightened around me. He wasn’t going to put me down, and I found I did not mind.
“Williams,” Mrs. Rawlings barked at a footman. “Send for the doctor, now.”
Alexander said something else to Stroud about fetching the constable, but my mind was growing hazy. I did not want to listen. I just wanted to feel Alexander’s warmth and strength around me, hear the beating of his heart through his damp shirt.
Then he was carrying me away, through the rain and dark and cold.
Mrs. Rawlings trailed behind, and then there was Agatha at the door of the house, her eyes wide with fear.
Alexander brought me into the parlor, Mrs. Rawlings calling orders for the servants to build up the fire and fetch a blanket, hot tea, and food.
I watched it all from a strange distance. Everything had happened so quickly. It felt surreal. Impossible. I’d almost died again. I’d come so close. My body shook, the events of the last few minutes taking their toll.
Alexander set me on the sofa and knelt beside me. My eyes flicked to him. And there they stayed.
His chest rose and fell, no doubt from the exertion of carrying me to the house.
His expression, always so indifferent, was carved with emotion, the shadows of worry and regret.
Gently, so gently, he leaned forward and moved the handkerchief away from the cut on my throat, which stung in the open air.
There was blood on my clothing, I noted distantly.
“The bleeding has slowed,” he said quietly, and his soft brogue wrapped around his words, comforting and gentle. “I think we might avoid sutures, but the doctor will wish to see it.”
He took my head in his hands and tilted my face toward the fire, searching for other injuries. Though his skin was rough, he held me so tenderly that it made me wish to weep again.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” His thumbs brushed over my cheekbones, featherlight.
I attempted to shake my head with his hands still cradling me. “No,” I managed. “No, I don’t think so.”
With a healthy dose of skepticism in his eyes, he looked me over, carefully, thoroughly, taking my arms in turn and inspecting them for injury.
After seeing the state of my muddy feet, I thought he might order me upstairs to take a bath and change, but he only had Agatha bring a cloth and basin to quickly wash my feet.
Perhaps he knew I would have refused to leave him.
Perhaps he was as reluctant as I was to be parted, even briefly.
Another servant brought a blanket, which Alexander wrapped around my shoulders. After a few minutes, the servants left, and the room quieted.
Only Mrs. Rawlings remained, standing at the door. “I’ll see to the tea,” she said quietly, then closed the door behind her.
Alexander moved to sit beside me on the sofa, adjusting the blanket around my shoulders as if needing something to occupy his hands.
“How are you here?” I asked, my voice finally beginning to steady. The warmth of the fire and the blanket and Alexander’s attentions were doing a world of good. “You should be halfway to London.”
“I was,” he said. “I stopped at an inn for the night, and who should I come across but a messenger from Bow Street, on his way to Briarstone with an urgent letter.”
I straightened. “What?”
He nodded grimly. “Apparently, the man Bow Street arrested for the viscount’s murder had an alibi for the time of the attack at Vauxhall, which meant he could not have been our assailant.
They only discovered it after Drake sent us that letter, so they dispatched a messenger to urge us to remain in the country. ”
He faced me. “And I realized,” he said, “that this might have been the opportunity our attacker was waiting for. If he had somehow tracked us to Briarstone, then I’d abandoned you at the worst possible moment.”
I took his hand, laced his fingers between mine.
He seemed strangely distracted by that, staring down at our intertwined fingers before continuing on. “I turned back. I rode hard and fast. I—” His voice broke off.
I searched his face. His expression was haunted, tortured.
“I was almost too late,” he whispered. “When I saw him standing over you, I thought I was.”
“You weren’t,” I said fiercely. “You saved me.”
“I shouldn’t have left you here unprotected.” He tore his hand from mine and stood, going to stand before the fire, one hand bracing the mantel. He took deep breaths, his shoulders bowed. “You nearly died.” His words were rough. “And it was my fault.”
My heart ached. I rose and went to his side, my bare feet still cold, even on the fire-warmed floor. I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, leaning my forehead against his upper arm. He tensed at my touch.
“I am alive because of you.” My voice held no frailty now. It was certain, true. “I know that without any doubt. You acted with the information we had. You made the choice you believed was right.”
“But if I’d listened to you”—he protested quietly, still facing the fire, his left hand gripping the mantel—“if I’d brought you with me, then—”
“We cannot say what might have happened,” I said. “If I had gone with you, he might have followed and murdered us both on the road. If you had stayed, he might have broken in and killed me anyway.”
He did not move, did not seem to hear my words. I stepped closer, reaching up with one hand to gently sweep his face toward me. His eyes met mine, darkly reflecting the light of the fire below us. The heat reached to me, lit the space between us.