He finally glanced at Portia. “I’d thought you were different-certainly more intelligent.” He met her gaze, smiled. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
It was the smile that did it-that sent a wave of ice washing over her. Convinced her she was walking beside Kitty’s murderer, that it wasn’t Henry, or James…
“Aren’t you?” She halted. Managed a frown. She wasn’t walking another step closer to the path through the pinetum-leading into the darkness where no one could see. “If you didn’t come here to comment-impertinently-on my behavior, what, then, is your point?”
She swung around as she said it, planting herself before him-facing back along the path so she’d be able to see Stokes, but Ambrose, facing her, wouldn’t.
His smile remained. “That’s simple, my dear. My point is to silence you and leave Cynster to take the blame. He’s out walking, so are you. After that scene on the terrace…” His chilling smile deepened. “I couldn’t have scripted it better myself.”
He lifted his hands, until then clasped behind his back. She saw a curtain cord dangling from one, then he caught the swinging tassel, wound the cord between his hands-
She grabbed it. Locked both fists around the cord between his hands and hung on.
He swore. Tried to shake her loose, but couldn’t-couldn’t break her grip without letting go himself.
Behind him, she saw the burly shadow that was Stokes burst from the bushes and rush toward them.
Snarling, Ambrose released the curtain cord-throwing her off-balance. She staggered; he grabbed the trailing end of her silk shawl.
Swung about her, whipping it around her neck.
She didn’t think-didn’t have time. She got a hand inside the folds; in the instant before he wrenched them tight, she leaned back toward him, pushing the shawl simultaneously away, and slid down.
Out of the noose.
She ended crouched at Ambrose’s feet, hard by the lake’s edge. Stokes was thundering up. Ambrose was too close, standing, snarling over her, looping the shawl between his hands.
She flung herself sideways, into the lake.
The black waters closed over her-the banks were precipitous, there was nothing beneath her feet. But the water was cool, not icy; the long summer had warmed it. There was neither current nor waves to fight; it was easy to rise to the surface and swim.
As she did, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Ambrose’s stunned face-then he heard Stokes. Saw him. Realized…
Ambrose’s face contorted with fury-
She swam. Behind her, she heard a thud and an “oomph!” as Stokes collided with Ambrose. Kicking as well as her skirts allowed, she stroked away from the bank, then, at a safe distance, turned.
Charlie was rushing up to assist. Henry was lumbering down the path. Simon had been on his way to help the others but had stopped on the lake circuit at the point closest to her. He now stood at the lake’s edge. Watching. Poised to react…
Reaching the fray, Charlie joined in, grappling to help Stokes hold his prey. Ambrose fought like a madman- wrenched free-
And jumped into the lake.
Her heart leaping again, Portia turned to swim away-saw Simon tense on the bank-
But he didn’t dive in.
Hearing splashing-too much splashing, surely?-she glanced back.
And realized, as all the others had, that Ambrose had assumed the lake was ornamental-not fathoms deep.
He couldn’t swim. Certainly not well enough.
Within a few strokes he was foundering.
She drifted, watching…
Stokes and Charlie stood on the bank, hands on hips, chests heaving, and watched as Ambrose, now panicked and thrashing wildly, sank.
He came up spluttering. “Help! I’m drowning, you bastards!
It was Stokes who answered. “Why should we?”
“Because I’m drowning-I’ll
“The way I see it, that might be best all around. Save us all a lot of bother.”
Startled, Portia looked at Stokes. It wouldn’t do-they had to have Ambrose known as the murderer-
But Stokes knew his man.
Ambrose went down again, and came up screeching, “All right. All
“That would be Mrs. Glossup, I take it?”
“Yes, dammit!” Ambrose was yelling at the top of his lungs. “Now get me out of here!”
Stokes looked at Charlie, then at Henry, who, stunned, had slowly come to join them. “You heard?”
Charlie nodded; when Henry realized Stokes had included him, he nodded, too.
“Right, then.” Stokes looked down at Ambrose. “I can’t swim either. How do we fetch him out?”
From the water, Portia raised her voice. “Use my shawl.” It was lying on the ground where Ambrose had dropped it. “Wind it and knot the fringes as well-it should reach him. It’s silk-if it’s not torn, it’ll hold.”
She waited, watching while they followed her instructions. Heard, from the bank a little way behind her the growled words, “Don’t you dare even
For the first time in too many hours, she smiled.
Luckily, with rescue assured, Ambrose calmed enough to, very clumsily, keep his head above water until they flung the shawl out to him.
He lunged, grabbed the knotted fringe, and clung. The dunking and his resulting panic had drained all the fight from him. As they drew him, shaking, from the water, she turned and stroked to the nearer shore.
Where Simon stood waiting.
She couldn’t read his expression as he stood looking down at her. Relief and something more poured through her. Smiling-simply glad to be alive-she held up both hands. He grasped them, waited until she’d brought her feet against the rocky wall of the lake, then pulled her smoothly out, onto the bank.
Released her hands and caught her in his arms.
Yanked her close, locked her to him.
Ignoring her dripping state, he kissed her-hard, ruthless, ravishing, and desperate-kissed her witless.
Much better than being shaken witless.
When he finally consented to lift his head, she looked into his face, didn’t need her intellect to correctly interpret the tension holding him, to know that he had come very close to the edge of his control.
“I’m perfectly all right.” She spoke directly to what she knew to be his fear, the vulnerability he possessed, all because of her.
He humphed. The telltale tension eased only slightly. “As I remember it, the plan did not call for you to jump into the lake.”
His arms loosened; she pushed back. Stepped out of his arms as he reluctantly let her go. Lifted her hands to her shoulders and pressed down on her gown, following the line of her body to her hips and thighs, squeezing the water out and down, then grasping her skirts and wringing them.
“It seemed the most sensible way to go.” She kept her tone determinedly mild, as if they were discussing a hunt meet rather than her flight from a murderer.
“What if he’d been able to swim?” The aggravated growl was still tense and accusatory. “You didn’t know he couldn’t.”
She straightened, looked him in the eye. “I didn’t know about Ambrose, but I swim quite well.” She raised her brows fractionally, let a smile touch her lips. “And you swim even better.”
He held her gaze. She could feel him weighing what she’d said…
Suddenly realized. “You did know I could swim, didn’t you?”
His lips, until then a tight line, twisted, then he exhaled. “No.” His gaze locked with hers; he hesitated, then grudgingly added, “But I assumed you could or you wouldn’t have jumped in.”
