Page 8 of His Stolen Duchess
Thomas grinned. “Glad to be of service.”
Lysander didn’t linger. He turned and walked away without another word, leaving behind the bickering lords, the gawking women, and all the useless noise.
A snap from his right made him whirl around. He saw a small child with a pop gun, grinning as he reloaded the cork back into his weapon.
Pray you never have cause to handle a real one.
Lysander walked away from the noise, his strides long and swift. He needed space. Quiet. A place to sit and clear his head before the pounding in his skull drove him mad.
He found a small lake tucked away from the crowd, its waters still and dark beneath the midday sun. Without a second thought, he rounded it to the far side, where the trees were thicker and there wasn’t a soul in sight. He crouched quietly on the grass, shutting out the distant hum of voices and the laughter that grated on his nerves.
For a few blessed moments, there was nothing but his breath and the soft rustle of the wind.
Then—movement.
A sudden flash of ivory against the dark green of the trees caught his eye. A young woman stumbled through the nearby bushes,her skirts snagging on the branches. She kept glancing back, frantic, as though something or someone was chasing her.
Lysander straightened, every instinct sharpening.
She broke free of the brush with a gasp, but her gaze remained behind her, never once looking ahead.
She didn’t see the slope. She didn’t see the lake.
She stumbled forward too quickly, her feet slipping on the grass.
“Stop!” Lysander barked, surging to his feet.
But she didn’t hear him.
“No!”
His voice thundered across the clearing as she teetered on the edge. Time seemed to stretch, the scene unfolding slowly; her arms flailing for balance, her foot slipping again.
Without thinking, Lysander lunged forward, his hand outstretched, as if he could snatch her back from the brink in time.
But she was already falling.
Her foot landed where she expected solid ground, but there was nothing. Before she could catch herself, her body pitched forward, momentum carrying her over the bank’s edge.
She crashed into the lake with a violent splash, the chilly water swallowing her whole.
The noise yanked Lysander back to the battlefield.
The mud and dirt exploding around him, cries of men who would be haunted for the remainder of their days.
Suddenly, he was a child again, back in the boat with Augustus. Watching his brother fall out, unable to stop him from hitting the water.
Instinct propelled Lysander forward. He tore off his coat and plunged into the cold lake, swimming hard toward the spot where she’d disappeared beneath the surface.
The water was murky, swallowing the light, but he held his breath and dove deep, his eyes straining through the darkness. His hand swept blindly until it brushed against something soft.
Her dress.
He found her struggling near the bottom, her limbs weak, her dress caught beneath some jagged rocks. Without hesitation, he grabbed her waist and legs, pulling desperately to free her trapped dress from the rocks. With a sharp tear, she broke loose.
Lysander wrapped his arms around her and kicked powerfully toward the surface.
They both broke through the water, gasping for air. She coughed violently, sputtering as he held her steady.
