Page 85 of Tender Blackguard

“I told you I always have a way out, Warfield,” Lowndes noted with a smile. “Unfortunately, I’ve one more loose end to tie up.”

He stepped up to the desk and reached for the pistol he’d left there when he’d darted toward the liquor cabinet.

Alastair had never developed an aversion to the idea of his own death and had accepted the inevitability of it long ago. But in that moment, as he noted the murderous intent in the other man’s eyes, his entire being was filled with a fierce and sudden desire to stay alive. For one reason only.

Lark.

He wanted more time with her. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to somehow be a part of inspiring true happiness in her life. And love. He wanted the opportunity to love her.

With a harsh sound, he strained against the ropes securing him to the chair and was rewarded with a slight give, but not enough. “I had nothing to do with this,” he stated firmly, hoping to delay the other man long enough to free himself.

Lowndes shook his head as he palmed the weapon. “I’m afraid that no longer matters. You’ve become a liability, my lord.”

Alastair glared back at him but didn’t stop fighting to be free. He ground his back teeth as his wrists grew raw from the ropes, and his throat closed with the darkest, heaviest regret he’d ever known.

Lowndes simply smiled as he lifted the pistol and took aim.

Without warning, the false liquor cabinet suddenly swung outward, slamming against Lowndes. He stumbled to the side with a harsh curse, knocking over the garbage bin and casting its smoldering contents across the carpeted floor.

With decisive grace and speed, Lark emerged from the shadows behind the cabinet to pick up a crystal decanter that had fallen and lifted it over her head. Before Lowndes could regain his balance and turn to face her, she smashed the decanter against the back of his skull. The pistol fell harmlessly from his grip as he crumpled to the floor.

In the next breath, Lark rushed to kneel at Alastair’s side.

Shocked. Relieved. Terrified. Alastair growled furiously, “What in blasted hell are you doing?”

“You didn’t come out after the raid started,” she replied without looking up as she sawed at the ropes binding him with a small blade he recognized from when she’d bandaged his wound. “I suspected they’d restrained you somehow.”

“That’s no reason to put yourself back in harm’s way,” he shouted in frustration.

The ropes holding one arm to the chair fell away, and she shifted to the bindings on the other side as she calmly met his hard stare. “It’s every reason,” she said firmly. “You’d have come for me.”

Fear and a painful disbelief twisted through him. He brought his free hand to the side of her face. The urge to kiss her—to haul her into his lap so he could express the unspeakable rise of emotion inside him—was overwhelming. This wasn’t the time or place to say what he needed to say. And then he couldn’t say anything as a sudden movement behind her stopped his breath.

Alastair pushed Lark to the floor and leapt to his feet in one motion, putting his body between her and Lowndes as he grasped ahold of his chair and swung around to send it crashing into Lowndes.

Lark had cut through enough of the ropes that the impact freed him from his remaining bindings. As Lowndes staggered back, Alastair tossed the chair aside to face the other man unencumbered, flexing his fingers to restore proper feeling. His eyes burned from the smoke filling the room, and he could see small licks of flame igniting from the scattered remains of the burned book, but he kept his focus on the man whose dark glare promised murder.

Anticipation sparked through him as he prepared for a fight.

“You’re going to regret that,” Lowndes snarled. But before he could initiate an attack, a flash of red caught his attention as Lark flew past them.

Both men realized her intention at the same time, but Lowndes was closer.

Alastair’s heart raced as Lark and Lowndes both dove for the gun lying beneath the desk. He lost sight of the pistol a moment before Lowndes let out a harsh grunt followed by a roar of frustration as Lark suddenly rolled to the side. She had the gun, but before she could get out of reach, Lowndes grasped a fistful of her skirts.

As Alastair lunged for Lowndes, the wispy red silk simply tore away from Lark’s gown, revealing a pair of black fitted breeches as she scrambled to the other side of the desk, gun in hand.

Hauling the other man to his feet, Alastair hooked his forearm beneath the lord’s chin, angling his head back to allow a quick strike with the side of Alastair’s hand to his throat. The sudden trauma caused Lowndes to drop to the floor without a sound.

Heaving a breath, Alastair looked up to see Lark already lowering the pistol. Their gazes caught and held.

It was over.

He expected to feel some sort of triumph. Or relief. But all he felt was a soul-deep weariness.

She took a step toward him. Her expression was slightly shadowed by concern. “Alastair?”

With a rough sound, he opened his arms and she rushed into them. He held her tight for a moment. Just breathing her in. Reveling in the beat of her heart against his chest. When he finally loosened his grip enough to take her face in his hands, the shocking sight of blood smeared across her neck and bared shoulder stopped his breath.

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