Page 85 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

That entity inside him who viewed her as his calmed a little more.

Together, they watched Smiggs, who had unbarred and opened the main door, help the watchman outside.

Ned and Ollie had armed themselves with identical metal poles to the one Jack wielded. Any attempt by Nunsworth to so much as lift his head was met by a hail of sharp raps on the pail; he’d learned to lie still.

“You came for me.” Sylvia’s ungloved fingers slipped into Kit’s hand where it rested on his thigh.

Kit gripped—harder than he’d intended. Gentling his hold, his gaze still on the boys, he softly snorted at the silliness of her words. “I will always come for you no matter what monster tries to steal you away.”

He turned his head enough to meet her gaze as, with an unvoiced question in her eyes, she looked at him. He read that question and replied, “I’m not about to let anyone steal my future.”

Lost in the warm caramel of his eyes, Sylvia felt her heart, which had slowed, start to beat faster. She arched her brows. “Your future?”

His lips eased. His gaze still locked with hers, he raised her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “You,” he whispered. “You are my future, and I’m not of a mind to allow anyone to steal the years I hope you’ll agree to share with me.”

Her heart leapt, then raced. She studied his eyes. “Is that an offer, my lord?”

He tipped his head, his lips curving. “Not as such, but it’s the promise of one.” His expression remained relaxed, but there was seriousness behind his next words. “You’re a clergyman’s daughter—I plan to do everything by the book in wooing you.”

She felt her heart soften and shift, and in that instant, she knew to her soul that her heart was already his.

That she’d succumbed to this nobleman reputed to be a rakehell, who was, in fact, so much more.

Certainty filled her; she let it show in her eyes, let the radiance of it fill her smile.

“M’lord, what do you want us to do with this blighter?”

Ollie’s question broke the moment. Together with Kit, Sylvia looked to where the three boys still had their attention focused on the fallen Nunsworth.

“He’s getting squirrelly,” the lad, who Sylvia had realized from the boys’ exchanges was none other than Jack the Lad, reported.

And, indeed, Nunsworth appeared to be trying to surreptitiously shift into a position from which he could swing away from the boys.

Not that they would let him escape.

Smiggs lumbered up, a length of heavy rope in his hands. “The watchman told me where to find this. He’s—pardon the pun—ropeable about letting Nunsworth down him.”

To the boys, Smiggs said, “Keep those poles handy. Whack him if he gives me any trouble.”

The boys shuffled and circled as, none too gently, Smiggs rolled Nunsworth over, hauled his hands behind his back, and secured them with the rope. Then Smiggs reached down and bent Nunsworth’s legs at the knees, looping the rope around his ankles and cinching it tight. “See?” Smiggs said to the boys. “This is how you hog-tie a man. It’ll keep him right where he is until we decide different.”

While the boys, curious, inspected Smiggs’s handiwork, Kit rose, crouched by Sylvia’s feet, and untied the hobble Nunsworth had fashioned. Then Kit straightened, reached down and gave her his hand and, when she put her fingers in his, drew her upright.

She swayed, and he caught her around the waist. She leaned into his support as the boys turned their way. “Thank you, boys, for coming to save me. I don’t know how you realized that I was in danger before I did, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

All three boys blushed and looked bashful.

“Tweren’t nothing but what you deserve, miss,” Ollie said, “for all your hard work at the school an’ all.”

The other two nodded earnestly. Then Jack’s eyes lit, and he added, “And it was fun!”

Kit chuckled, and she smiled. Then he urged her to the door.

They left Nunsworth, trussed and mumbling curses muted by the metal pail, on the mill floor and walked out into the gathering dusk. Kit led her to the bench against the wall and gently—as if she was porcelain—eased her down to sit.

She shot him a grateful smile; she could do with a moment to gather her wits and simply breathe.

With a last glance to reassure himself that she was as well as she could be, Kit walked to the other end of the bench to speak with the watchman.