“I love you.” Letitia knew that, no matter what he said, she was going to fall and die. The muscles of his neck, shoulders, and chest were under horrendous strain, the veins in his throat starkly corded. Even now the muscles in his arms were starting to quiver.
So she had to say now what she hadn’t yet. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you. I’ve always loved you, every day through all the years. I never stopped loving you. Even when I lay with Randall, it was you I was with in my heart.” She smiled softly. “That was yours from the first, and will be yours to the last.”
“I love you, too.” He continued to look into her eyes. “I always have. I never stopped loving you-I never will.” His hands tightened on hers. “Now hold on.”
Her smile faded. “It’s hopeless.”
“Nothing’s ever hopeless-just look at us. And in this case, we have friends who are running hither and yon as we speak.”
He glanced past her. “Apparently there’s refurbishing still going on around the house-they’ve found a large oilcloth. And there’s bales of hay, too. They’re arranging them beneath you.” His gaze switched back to her face. “You can’t possibly be so gauche as to fall before they’re ready to catch you-they’re going to so much trouble.”
Hope sprang to life within her. A bright burning flame, it caught and flared-so quickly, so strongly, she felt giddy. She nearly laughed.
If there was hope, she’d cling to it-cling to life, and him.
He was looking down past her again. “They’re almost ready-they’ve stretched out the oilcloth. There’s only four of them-no, Barton has joined them. Good man. You’ll have to stop hounding the poor beggar now-very bad ton to hound a man who was instrumental in saving your life.”
The thought of Barton finally being helpful was too much; she humphed.
But then his expression sobered and he looked back at her.
“Now comes the difficult part.” He held her gaze. “You have to trust me. When I say let go, you have to let go. Believe me, that won’t be as easy as it sounds. You’ll be falling. But the straw bales are beneath you-you won’t hit the ground. And the oilcloth will slow you-which is why you have to let go
She nodded her understanding. “Yes, all right.” She trusted him implicitly, more than enough to trump all fear.
“Good.” He looked down, raised his voice. “On the count of three.” His gaze returned to her face. His hands shifted on hers, easing his grip but not yet releasing her. “One, two…” His eyes held hers. “Let go.”
Wrapped in his gray gaze, she opened her fingers.
Felt his warm grasp slip away as gravity took hold and she started to fall.
Heard him call from above, “Three!”
And then she was falling.
Falling.
Onto the taut oilcloth. As she landed, she saw the other men hauling back hard, hands locked on the edge of the cloth, their weight fully back.
She bounced once, then settled onto the bales of hay as the men released the tension on the cloth. Sitting up, she flicked her black skirts down, then frowned at her bound wrists.
Justin grabbed her, hauled her to the edge of the bales and hugged her wildly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly.” And she was. She thumped his side with her hands. “Here-untie my wrists.”
Without meeting her eyes, Justin bent his head to pick at the knots.
Dalziel, as cool as ever, came up. “Here-let me.” He had a wicked-looking dagger in his hand.
Justin straightened. Letitia held out her hands and Dalziel expertly sliced through the cords.
She couldn’t quite believe she was alive.
Determined to hang onto her composure, she glanced regally around the circle of her rescuers, inclining her head and bestowing a smile on each of them-even Barton. “Thank you, gentlemen. That was…quite an experience.”
Beyond Dalziel she saw Christian come out of a door.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She stood, discovered her legs were fully functional. She started to walk along the facade to where Christian had halted, just beyond the door.
Then her Vaux heritage got the better of her; she picked up her skirts and ran.
Straight into his arms.
He opened them as she neared, closed them tightly about her as she landed against his chest, wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.
She closed her eyes, felt the tears leak out.
She was safe. She was where she’d always wanted to be. This time he’d come for her. This time he’d saved her.
Christian knew beyond doubt what she was thinking. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in her scent-that elusive, unforgettable scent of jasmine-murmured, “I’m here,” in her ear.
She hugged him harder.
For one moment they simply stood, wrapped in each other, and let the past go, let it fade. Knew they stood on the cusp of their future-the future they’d dreamed of so long ago.
Eventually she drew back. Looked up into his eyes. Smiled one of her seductive smiles. “I’ve already thanked the others. I’ll have to thank you appropriately…but later.”
He smiled back. “Later.” Releasing her, he took her hand. “Now”-expression hardening, he looked up as Dalziel and the others neared-“we have to deal with the aftermath of Swithin’s Grand Plan.”
Inside the house, they located Swithin’s wife. A pale blonde of good but minor family, she was a mild, gentle, quiet female; with his extensive experience in dealing with such ladies, Tristan took on the task of explaining what had occurred without reducing the poor woman to hysterics. Letitia sat beside Mrs. Swithin, lending wordless support, but wisely leaving the talking to Tristan.
Tony meanwhile organized butler and footmen to fetch Swithin, not dead but wounded, and definitely incapacitated, from the roof. Barton assisted; he no longer had his eye on Justin, but on Swithin.
Swithin wasn’t unconscious. He babbled incessantly, the pain and shock of his wounds having unhinged what little rationality he’d possessed.
When he was carried, still babbling, into the drawing room, Christian, who had more experience of gunshot wounds than the others, took one look at his injuries and ordered the butler to summon a doctor, then examined the wounds more closely. The bullet lodged in Swithin’s right shoulder he attributed to Justin; at twenty-six and unbloodied in war, he still possessed the naivete to shoot to incapacitate rather than kill. The other bullet-just a fraction too high to put an end to Swithin’s life-would have come from Dalziel, a man far too experienced to court the slightest risk.
As it transpired, they were all soon sorry Dalziel’s bullet hadn’t found its mark; it would have saved everyone a great deal of bother, and freed Swithin from a life of misery as well.
Luckily, Mrs. Swithin proved to have rather more backbone and nous than her meek demeanor had suggested. She accepted the tale of her husband’s villainy without protest or argument. “He’s always been quiet and strangely secretive for as long as I’ve known him, but over the last weeks he’s been acting
Swithin’s continued bleating in the background, fragments of sentences jumbling together in an incomprehensible ramble, verified that he’d deteriorated even further.
Tristan exchanged a look with Christian and Dalziel, then turned back to Mrs. Swithin and gently suggested, “Given the circumstances, it might be best for everyone concerned if we apply to have Swithin certified.”
Mrs. Swithin frowned. “What circumstances, and what would having him certified entail?”
Christian listed the number of people who would be harmed if Swithin and his secrets were put on public show via a sensational murder trial. Mrs. Swithin herself was at the top of the list; she nodded her understanding as he added Trowbridge, Honeywell, the elder Trowbridges, Letitia, Justin, the Earl of Nunchance, and the Vaux family in general.
When he fell silent, she stated, “There’s surely no need for all of us to suffer more.”
“No.” Tristan looked at Barton, who was frowning. “And if we manage it carefully, no one but the authorities needs to know the full story.”
