Page 104 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Locking her fingers about the handle, Violet grimly hung on, shifting to keep her feet as Mortimer tried to wrench the weapon from her.

He paused, clearly thinking of some way to dislodge her. Before he could, she kicked him in the knee.

Thunder rumbled.

Mortimer cursed and staggered but didn’t let go of the poker. Regaining his balance, he set his feet and braced his shoulders, his features contorting in a black snarl as he tensed to, once and for all, wrench the poker from her.

The floor shook. From the corner of her eye, Violet saw a flash of movement in the open doorway. Heard a curse—not from Mortimer.

Wholly focused on her, Mortimer didn’t register the intrusion. Jaw setting, he violently yanked—and wrenched the poker from Violet’s grasp.

Immediately, he swung it high over his head, clearly intending to strike her down.

With a roar, Montague charged across the room, driving his shoulder into Mortimer’s, barreling into him and knocking him away from Violet.

He and Mortimer ended on the floor, struggling in a heap beneath the window.

Vicious curses spewing forth, Mortimer struggled and fought to get free.

Montague wasn’t having that. Jaw clenched, propelled by a potent mix of fury and fear, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he grabbed Mortimer by the lapels, and, twisting and shifting, he slammed the other man’s back—and the back of his head—to the floor.

Swinging over Mortimer, straddling him, Montague planted a hand on Mortimer’s heaving chest and held the man down while he prepared to rise—to check that Violet was all right.

It was her scream that saved him. “Heathcote—watch out!”

He saw the poker swinging at his head just in time.

Grabbing the iron bar in his left hand, he staved off the blow. Gritting his teeth, he held the poker back, raised his right fist, and slammed it into Mortimer’s jaw.

Something crunched. Even though his hand throbbed, Montague realized on a flash of savage satisfaction that it wasn’t his bones that had broken.

Mortimer groaned, then slumped, eyes closed.

Montague twisted the poker from Mortimer’s lax grip, then slowly—watching to make sure the man truly was unconscious—he eased up and rose to his feet.

He turned to Violet—as she rushed into his arms.

He closed them around her, felt her arms go around him and crush tight.

Tossing the poker onto the bed, he hugged her even tighter, setting his cheek to her hair. “I was so frightened,” he confessed. “All the way from Albemarle Street, all I could think about was you—him hurting you. Possibly killing you. Then the carriage couldn’t get through, and I had to leave it and run . . . I didn’t think I would get here in time.”

He heard the emotion investing his words, heard the inherent vulnerability exposed, and didn’t care. Violet was in his arms, safe and whole, and nothing else mattered.

She tightened her arms, then eased her hold enough to lean back and look into his face. She met his eyes, and her face, her smile, was everything any knight could ever hope for; radiant, joyous, she held his gaze, her love shining in her eyes. “But you did arrive in time, and you saved me.” She studied his eyes and her smile softened. “Actually, you did more than that. You lent me your strength so I could hold on until you came.”

He arched his brows. “I did?”

She nodded. “When it came to that fraught moment when I had to face the reality of possibly losing my life . . . I discovered I wanted to live—so much. I wanted to live, was determined to live, because of you. You lent me your strength, even though you weren’t here. You gave me the will, and therefore the wherewithal, to fight, to resist, even though I had no idea anyone might arrive to help. But you did.”

Lacing the fingers of one hand with hers, he raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed her knuckles. “You fought, and held on, and I came, and so we’ve caught our murderer, and now we can go forward.”

She’d agreed he could speak the instant this was over. Trapped in his gaze, Violet felt the moment close around them. The sounds of arrivals downstairs reached them, but neither paid the impending interruption any heed. Heathcote’s gaze moved lovingly over her face, then, almost tentatively, he lowered his head.

Violet stretched up and, inwardly joyous, set her lips to his.

Kissed him as he kissed her, in an inexpressibly sweet exchange, an acknowledgment that they were there, together beyond the danger, alive and unharmed, able and ready to go forward hand in hand.

That they had found each other, had saved each other, and valued and wanted and desired the other above all else in the world—that was what their simple kiss said.