Page 123 of The Bachelor Spy
Weber collapsed, his gun clattering away across the stone floor. He reached desperately for something in his coat—suicide pill, most likely—but Blake kicked it away and then, for good measure, delivered a boot to Weber’s temple that knocked him unconscious.
Not dying on my watch.
Not yet.
Blake stood over the unconscious operative, breathing hard, his side screaming with every inhale. Smith lay nearby, eyes glassy, breathing in shallow, wet gasps that wouldn’t last much longer.
“Sorry, old chap,” Blake muttered, though Smith was beyond hearing. “Wrong side. Wrong choices.”
Stumbling back and blinking his vision into focus, Blake pulled heavy twine from his coat pocket—Grace would have been proud—and bound Weber securely to one of the pillars. Hands behind his back, ankles crossed and tied. The man would have a devil of a time escaping, even if he woke before Blake could send help.
Then Blake gathered the scattered documents, shoving them back into the leather satchel. Intelligence. Proof. Everything Director Lark would need.
Mission accomplished.
Except for the part where Evie was walking into a trap and Blake was currently bleeding from his side, his shoulder, and his face.
Minor details.
He pressed a hand to his ribs, and his palm came away dark with blood. Darkening his excellent blue-pinstriped oxford.
With a deep sigh, he tore a strip from the shirt and wrapped it clumsily around his ribs. Not enough, but it would have to do.
Blake forced himself toward the exit, each step an exercise in will over body. Through the broken doorway, across the moonlit grounds, he could see Havensbrooke in the distance.
Impossibly far.
The world tilted slightly. He braced himself against the doorframe, willing the dizziness to pass. Blood loss. He’d lost too much already, and the makeshift bandage wasn’t holding.
He thought of Evie. Her violet-blue eyes. The way she’d looked at him in the storage closet, trust and vulnerability warring in her expression.
The way she’d kissed him.
He wouldn’t allow her to die. Not if he had a choice in the matter.
Blake pushed off from the doorframe and stumbled forward. One foot in front of the other.Don’t stop. Don’t think about the pain. Just move.
He was going to reach her.
He was going to save her.
Or die trying.
Pennington barely spoke to her during the walk from the house.
And anytime Grace started a conversation, he demanded silence.
When she asked about his family.
Or where he’d been stationed in the war.
Or even whether he enjoyed Mrs. Lennox’s cooking.
Which, in Grace’s opinion, was rather telling about a person’s character. Anyone who could remain unmoved by Mrs. Lennox’s seed cake was either deeply troubled or thoroughly villainous.
Though from the sweat on his brow on such a cool evening, she felt certain Pennington was the former rather than the latter.
His hand shook where it gripped her arm—not with violence, but with panic, if she guessed right. Angry people usually didn’t keep staring wide-eyed behind them, expecting pursuit at any moment. And when they’d passed near the ruins on their way to the chapel, she’d noticed his entire body tense, as if he’d heard something.
