Page 88 of The Countess Caper

Tessa frowned as she continued to edge away. All of this for a letter? George did not notice. He was too intent on his triumph.

The footman, unfortunately, noticed.

He grabbed Tessa’s hair, yanking her back. Pain lanced through her skull. She staggered, clawing at his wrist.

But not before she’d glimpsed the writing, the signature, the words.

“Where are you going, lovey?” the footman snarled.

And then an answer, in a voice she had never heard before, all earthquakes and lightning, sword and dagger:

“Get your hands off my wife.”

She had no idea how Roarke had found her. How he had even known how to begin looking. She was sure of one thing, though.

He was absolutely going to commit murder.

The terrifying giant that the ton whispered about was here. And he was as terrifying as they claimed. George had already raced down the long nursery room and out the other door. He knew full well that Roarke could not chase him without abandoning her. And she knew in her bones that he would never abandon her. She wanted to throw herself at him. He’d catch her.

The footman was a problem. He was used to intimidating people who could not fight back. Who weren’t as strong as he was, or weren’t as cruel. He didn’t know what to do with Roarke.

Or with Tessa, for that matter.

She wasn’t weeping or begging. She was fuming. Also immobilized, though it galled her to admit it. He might be stronger and meaner, but she was faster. And smarter.

And Roarke was a force of nature.

The thrill that went through her at the look on his face, formidable and relentless, was hot and liquid. And rather badly timed.

“For every second your hands remain on my wife,” Roarke said, dark and deadly, “I break another one of your bones.”

“If I let her go now, you’ll kill me.” The footman jerked her back, and she made a little sound of pain. The pressure on her scalp made her eyes water.

“She cries, you die,” Roarke said.

The threat rippled through the footman. He knew truth when he heard it.

As it happened, Roarke was tired of waiting.

So was Tessa.

She wasn’t quite as steady on her feet as she would have liked, due to the lingering effects of the laudanum, but it didn’t stop her. She called on the Tessa she had created for everyone else: flighty, bubbly, cheerful. That Tessa had never dealt with a man like the footman, had never known anything but champagne flutes and silk dancing slippers.

That Tessa would surely faint in such a predicament.

She let herself go limp. Abruptly. Heavily.

When he shifted to catch her weight and alter his hold, she rammed her elbow into his groin as hard as she possibly could.

Turned out, elbows were very hard. Sharp.

A satisfying, choked grunt of pain was her reward. His fingers loosened as he doubled over. And then she was suddenly shoved behind Roarke, barely able to see around the breadth of him as he pummeled the footman’s face.

Unlike Lord Beville, the footman knew how to fight back and knew how to fight dirty.

It only made Roarke smile, once, as he ducked a vicious return jab. He followed with a strike to the ribs, then the throat. The footman staggered and hit the ground, groaning. Roarke did not stop.

“Roarke,” Tessa said. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate this, but if you murder him, there will be a trial and a lot of fuss.”