Page 85 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

She lifted the bar and whipped open the door. A tall, lean fellow rushed in and closed it behind him.

“Come. We must go down and out.”

“Where is my husband?”

“Busy. Fighting two men in the great room. Come!” He looked around and grabbed her cloak from the foot of the bed.

“I won’t go without him.” She grabbed his hand to stay him. But he wrapped the heavy wool around her.

“My orders. Come.”

She shook her head. “Have you a gun?”

“Aye, mum.” He patted his leather coat that fit him so poorly.

He hauled open the door, took her free hand, and led her down the rickety stairs. At the third step, he halted. One hand in the air, he stared into her eyes, then froze, listening. “We will go past the way to the great room. Out to the courtyard. No stopping.”

“No. My husband—”

“Fights well, mum.” He tugged her forward.

Down she went, but at the bottom floor, she dug in her heels. In the great room, she heard clattering and groans.

She pulled away from Duggan and ran into the great room. Tables were upended. Chairs were broken, pieces scattered on the floor.

Behind her came Duggan, who clamped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet.

She kicked him in his shins, but he did not let her loose.

Rafe, two feet from her, wrestled a tall, thin man whom she recognized at once. Tauzain.

Faucon.

Whatever his name, he would not have her husband.

She bent over and, with a mighty jerk backward, freed herself from Duggan’s hold.

She fell forward, her hand landing on a table…and beneath that hand, a large, cold butcher’s knife.

She grasped it with strong fingers and whirled, her arm up, her heart pounding, her whole body to bear in that arm as she sank the blade in Faucon’s broad back.

He sputtered. His arms flailed. He wove about. But he could not fly away—only sink to his knees, his eyes on his very surprised opponent as he fell, face first, to the stone floor.

She gasped. The knife was still in the man’s back.

Rafe bent over the creature at his feet. With fingers to Faucon’s neck, he looked up into Zeph’s eyes. “He is dead.”

It took her a minute, perhaps more, but the moments rang in her head like pealing bells. Faucon was dead before her, and dead too were the two guards who had abused her and taken her integrity. No one would ever do that to her or her loved ones.

No one.

Ever again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

No. 15 Queen Square

London