Page 87 of How the Earl Entices

He lunged.

She darted aside, with her hand clamped around the little book like a vise. He turned and charged back toward her. She snatched up a brass blotter from the desk and heaved it at him as hard as she could.

The throw missed, but he ducked his head. In that moment, she turned to run. Her hand reached for the door—

An arm clasped around her waist and tackled her to the floor. She slammed hard against the rug, the journal flying free from her grip and across the room. Large hands grabbed her shoulders and twisted her arms as he rolled her over and pinned her down. His heavy body straddled hers.

“Well, well, Contessa,” he leered as he leaned over her. “You’ve returned. Looks like we’ll have that private party after all.”

The sadistic look of violence on his face pulled a cry of terror from her lips. She struggled beneath him to free herself, but he was too strong, too heavy. Helplessness crashed over her in a terrifying flood.

“That’s it, pet,” he purred as he pinned her arms over her head and reached down to grab up her skirt. “Fight your hardest. It’s always more fun when the lady struggles.”

Bile rose in her throat, and a fierce hatred instantly flashed over her, pushing out all traces of fear and leaving only blinding fury in its place. She yanked her arms as hard as she could, and her right wrist slipped free of his grasp. Desperately, she flung her hand out around her, reaching for anything she could grasp. Cold metal touched her fingertips—

The brass blotter! Her hand tightened around it, and with a groan of exertion, she swung. It struck him on the temple and knocked him off-balance, dazing him just long enough for her to swing again. Another strike against his head, and he fell over onto the floor beside her, moaning with pain as he reached a hand to the trickle of blood at his cut brow.

She scrambled to her feet and backed away. The journal lay on the floor behind him, just out of her reach.

“You bitch!” He climbed unsteadily to his feet. Stalking toward her, he circled her around the room.

Never taking her eyes off him, she backed slowly away, matching him step for step, and waited for the shift of his body that signaled another lunge for her. How many times had she replayed in her mind the memory of Vincent doing just that, until she knew exactly when a man’s posture changed, when his shoulders stiffened and his thighs tensed, ready to spring? More than enough times to have imprinted that hard-learned lesson forever on her mind.

From the corner of her eye she saw the fireplace behind her. A flash of dark memory—the hard shove, the fall, the sickening give of her cheek as it ripped open on the iron…barely inches from the flames, so close that her hair singed and her fingertips burned on the iron fender when she pushed herself away…The pool of blood on the floor, her face mercifully numb in her shock…And Vincent’s eyes blazing at her, black murder in their depths. He’d reached for her a second time, to grasp her dress and toss her into the flames. But her maid screamed from the doorway at the sight, of what she mistakenly believed was Vincent hauling her back from the fire, to save her—

Her terror rose as the memories flooded back, until Patton’s face blurred with Vincent’s, until there was no difference between the two men who wanted to harm her.

She’d died that day, as surely as if Vincent had managed to cast her into the flames after all. But from the ashes rose another woman, one so much stronger and more powerful than he would ever know.

A murderous look blazed in Patton’s eyes as he reached up to touch the trickle of blood at his brow. “You’ll pay for this.”

She took another step back, angling her body toward the marble fireplace surround, reached her hand back to feel for the set of iron tools—

He pounced.

Her hand closed over the poker. With a fierce cry, she swung with all her strength. The metal rod hit the side of his head with a dull thud. He froze, momentarily stunned, and then collapsed onto the floor at her feet, unconscious.

“No, I won’t,” she muttered, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth .

She hit him a second time. For good measure. Then she tossed the iron rod aside, grabbed up the journal, and ran.

But the servants had been startled by the noise of the fight. Sounds of bewildered calls and running footsteps filled the house. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked behind to see the butler and two large footmen running toward her, anger distorting their faces.

She ran on without hesitating into the entrance hall toward the front door and escape.

But they were close on her heels, their pounding strides gaining on her. She grabbed at the lamp on the table as she raced past and flung it behind her, shattering glass across the floor in an oily mess. The men hesitated before following across the puddle of slippery oil, for only a few precious seconds, but that was all she needed to open the door.

Her feet hit the footpath at a dead run. Not glancing back, she darted down the street and away from the house, turning randomly down street after street, alley after alley, and paying no attention to the strange looks the pedestrians and carriage drivers gave her. Behind her the two footmen gave chase. She ran on, propelled by panic and her fear for Ross’s life, going deeper and deeper into the maze of back alleys and narrow streets, until she had no idea in which direction she was heading, how far she’d run, or if the men were still chasing her.

When she could run no longer, her chest heaving and her side twisting into an agonizing knot, she stumbled to a stop and sank to the cobblestones beneath her. Resting on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her belly and gulped in large mouthfuls of air. Her stomach roiled from exertion and from the terror she finally let come over her, unable to tamp it down any longer now that she clasped the journal so tightly in her hands that her fingertips turned white.

She staggered to her feet and limped painfully down the street until she reached a wide avenue. It took the last of her strength to raise her arm to signal for a hackney.

A black carriage stopped at the side of the street, and she bit back a cry of relief.

“Westminster—Parliament,” she rasped out, her throat raw. “As fast as you can!”

With a knowing look at her disheveled and filthy appearance, the coachman held out his hand for payment up front. Panic seized her as she frantically searched her pockets. Dear God, she had no more coins! She’d given the last of them to the boys.