Page 116 of The Mistletoe Countess
Grace took the rope, fastened it to one of the stone pillars in the room, and peeked back out the window. Elliott waited below, so she tossed the rope over and gathered the vase in her arms. It was much heavier than she’d anticipated, which only made her choice more rewarding.
With stealthy and somewhat awkward, steps, she approached her perch directly above the place she’d seen the man with the gun. The three villains faced Frederick, their backs to Grace, but she had a clear view of her dear husband.
He looked up haphazardly but refocused his attention on her, eyes widening. Well, one eye widened, of course. The other was pitifully closed and purplish. His look of utter shock nearly distracted her from her rescue mission. Why did he look so surprised? She attempted to offer him a reassuring smile, but it didn’t seem to help.
Oh well, if he’d been hit over the head, there was a good chance he wasn’t thinking clearly. Before the crew of menacing man-nappers could turn, Grace nodded to her darling husband, took aim, and released the vase to its ultimate destination.
It almost hit its mark.
With a thud, then a crash, the vase slammed against the man’s shoulder and maybe a part of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground and the vase crashing nearby. Grace turned to see if Elliott had made it up the rope yet, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Her plan suddenly shifted into the unknown. Where washerman with a gun?
The group of villains all stared up at her for a full five seconds, before Celia seemed to rally. “Parks, go get her.”
Grace gasped. What to do? Her attention fastened on the rope and back to the hole, where the malevolent mistress of evil stared up at her. Footfall from the stairway alerted her to Parks’s approach. Oh heavens! She had to do something.
Grace ran to the column and pulled up the rope. Clearly, Elliott hadn’t read her mind about the plan. She’d have to lay it out more clearly next time.
She ran back toward the hole, rope in hand. It didn’t look that far down. Her gaze came back to Frederick. Why was he shaking his head?
Perhaps his vision was imbalanced because of the swollen eye and possible head injury.
Parks appeared in the doorway, rushing forward as if to grab her. With a deep breath, a mental image of what she imagined Tarzan might do, and a quick prayer, she aimed for Lady Celia and slid through the hole.
Unfortunately, the idea in her head failed to execute as fluidly. In her haste to escape Parks, she overextended her swing, and since she had no trapeze experience of any kind, her legs flew in all different directions, spinning her body in a twirl of skirts, pantaloons, and red hair. One foot slammed into one of the villains, knocking him to the floor, and in another twirl she nearly decapitated Celia before landing directly on top of Frederick with such force he and the chair flipped backward.
She was no Tarzan.
It was a good thing Elliott wasn’t watching, because all sorts of propriety had just flown out the broken windows.
Frederick had just been thinking about how to protect his sweet, innocent wife from the wiles of the devious Celia Blackmore Percy, when Grace—standing as a fiery fairy in forest green —materialized above him holding a—vase?
He blinked his one good eye, but the picture stayed the same.
How hard had Randolph hit him?
He blinked again, but still she stood, a flaming glint in her eyes as she raised the vase.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the vision, but her sapphire gaze pinned him with purpose, and she nodded, as if that would explain everything.
He must be dreaming. Yet the vase slipped from her grasp and crashed into Randolph, sending him to the ground.
Silence enveloped the room as everyone turned to stare up at Lady Astley.
Celia turned to Frederick, a look of utter bewilderment crossing her face. “Parks,” she called, “go get her!”
“No.” Frederick tugged against his binds, his chair shaking beneath the force. “Grace! Run.”
Parks took off for the stairs. Grace disappeared from view, heeding his command.
“Turner, check outside to see if she’s alone,” Celia took a few steps back, her face raised to the second level, distracted.
With what strength he had, Frederick scooted the chair toward Randolph, who struggled to push himself up, still feeling the impact of the vase. One strong kick of Frederick’s hard-toed shoe rendered the man unconscious.
Now how to protect Grace?
But then she reappeared above him with a rope? He squinted to decipher her plan. What was she going to do with—
