Page 60 of An Outlaw’s Desire

“Nay!” Raising her hand, she slapped his cheek.

He swore and stepped back.

Go! Run.

Even as she turned to bolt, steel rasped against leather. Galven had drawn his sword. Torchlight limed the blade as he pointed it at her.

She swallowed a shocked cry. She’d never had a deadly weapon aimed at her before. The sharp tip hovered less than a hand’s span from her throat.

A bone-deep chill rippled through her, for she didn’t want to die. Not in this cold, dank passageway. Not when she must do all she could to help Pitt escape, for they had just found each other again.

“Now,” Galven said. “Hand over the book.”

Her heart pounded. The fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled. As a horrible sense of entrapment overtook her, her gaze shifted to Pitt, lunging and dodging in his fight with Sherborne.

If she yielded the book, could she save Pitt’s life, as well as her own?

She seized the tiny bloom of hope…just as an idea stole into her mind.

Blythe met Galven’s gaze. “All right.”

“Good,” he said. “Hold it out to me. Slowly.”

She uncrossed her arms, took the tome in both hands, and then held it straight out. As she did so, she caught Pitt’s gaze. The powerful emotions in his stare—fear, dismay, love—brought an answering cry burgeoning within her.

Have faith.

Do it.

She let go.

The tome dropped to the floor.

Swinging his blade up, Pitt blocked another strike.

Clang.

His lordship dodged back, lunged again. Steel screamed against steel. The clank of swords echoed in the enclosed space. So did the scuffling noises of Blythe and the guard.

Pitt desperately hoped she was all right. While she had a fighting spirit, she was no match for a trained warrior.

“Stop! You will damage it,” Blythe cried.

Damage what? The book? He didn’t dare look away from Sherborne.

His lordship’s sword swung again. His lips curling back from his teeth, Pitt brought his blade crashing down into Sherborne’s before he shoved, hard. For an instant, his lordship lost his balance.

Triumph hot in his veins, Pitt thrust his blade to the center of Sherborne’s cloak. ’Twould take but a slight shove forward to pierce flesh. “Yield,” he growled.

Breathing hard, his lordship smirked. After wiping his brow with the back of his glove, he motioned to Blythe.

His sword still at Sherborne’s chest, Pitt stole a quick glance. His gust twisted, for Galven held his blade pointed at her throat. Blythe still held the book, but likely not for much longer.

“You will yield,” Sherborne said. “Lay down your sword, and I might spare her.”

Might. Not a promise she’d survive.

As though resigned to her fate, she held out the book. Sherborne’s lackey reached for it—