Page 118 of The Mistletoe Countess
“Ah, I see you have things well in hand, Lady Astley.”
Grace looked up to find Blake staring down at her, pistol fashionably posed in his hand. She grinned. “Mr. Blake, what impeccable timing for a visit.”
His lips twitched into a smile, and he offered his hand to her as he trained the gun on a flailing Celia. “I couldn’t allow you to have all the adventures on your own now, could I? What sort of friend would I be?”
Grace took his proffered hand. “However did you know to come?”
His blond brows hinged. “I know too many people with too much information in various places, my lady, and I always make certain to keep informed about my friends.”
“Aren’t you clever to have around, then.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice.
Blake’s lips twisted with effort. He reached to grab Celia’s arm, keeping the gun trained on her. He was quite fluid with the device, as if he used it on a regular basis.
Grace’s thoughts spiraled in dastardly directions. Was Blake a secret detective of his own?
“Blake, you know you haven’t got it in you to shoot me.” Celia purred, jerking against his hold and sending Grace a glare.
“Actually, Celia, I’ve wanted to dispatch you for years.” He gave her arm a tighter squeeze, and she winced. “But that would be much too easy for the likes of you and much too messy for the likes of me.”
“And how is Elliott?” Grace smoothed a palm down her quaking middle. “Have you seen him?”
“He’s fine, Lady Astley,” Blake answered, tugging Celia away. “His boxing history came to the forefront as he took out one of Celia’s brutes who attempted an escape.”
Grace’s mouth came unhinged. “Boxing history? Elliott?”
Before Blake answered, around the corner of the house came a rush of men in uniforms followed by Detective Miracle. “Lady Celia Blackmore Percy, you are under arrest for the murders of Davis Lockley; Richard, Lord of Astley; as well as his son, Edward Percy.” Two men took her by the arms.
“And the attempted murder of quite a few others,” Grace added.
Celia’s face contorted into a menacing sneer as she was led away. With three murders and countless other crimes for which to atone, Celia Blackmore Percy was likely out of Grace’s life for good.
Grace held her smile in place until everyone had disappeared around the corner of the ruins. Then her knees gave way. She sank to the ground, the tension in her muscles uncoiling and leaving a shaky response. Poor Frederick had been man-napped and beaten. She’d scaled a wall, propelled from a ceiling, and been held at scissors-point, not to mention almost being strangled.
But everyone was safe now. Her emotions trembled beneath the declaration.Thank You, God.
“Grace.”
She turned to see Frederick march through the door. His breaths shook his broad shoulders, and his eyes—or at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut—fastened on her, holding her in place. Tears swarmed into her vision.
In one fluid movement, he pulled her up from the ground and wrapped her in the safety of his arms. That’s when the tears came, full and free against his strong shoulder. She tightened her grip around his waist, burying her face in his neck, refusing to let go. They stood together in an embrace until their lips finally found each other—a kiss of gratitude, of near-loss, of acknowledgment that they’d fought for each other and won.
“You shouldn’t have come.” He drew back, his knuckles skimming her cheek, words rasped. “You could have been killed.”
Her lip pouted, wounded at his reprimand. “But you needed me.”
A sound caught in his throat, and he lowered his forehead to hers. “Yes, my darling. I do need you. Always.”
Elliott gathered up their dishes from the small table in their sitting room, effectively taking Brandon’s place as the butler recuperated from the concussion he’d received when Celia’s men had taken Frederick.
Frederick welcomed the intimacy of their quarters over the dining hall, especially after the harrowing events of the day. His body ached all over, and though his eye was still sore, the swelling had reduced enough for him to see across the table to his wife.
She’d born a few wounds of her own. A scrape down one cheek. A shallow cut to her neck, and a bruise on her forehead. But in that moment as candlelight flickered across her features, deepening her flaming hair to auburn, she’d never looked more beautiful.
“How do you suppose Blake knew when to arrive?”
Frederick chuckled and sent Elliott a glance. “Blake has an uncanny way of knowing things.”
“It likely helps that he spends too much idle time either being arrested or befriending police, my lady.”
