Page 89 of A Wicked Game

The thick book connected with a terrible sound against the Frenchman’s ear. De Caen cursed and Harriet took full advantage—she grabbed the barrel of the pistol, thrusting it aside just as he pulled the trigger. It fired with a deafening roar and a flash; the bullet missed her head by a fraction of an inch and shattered one of the panes of glass in the bay window behind her.

The Frenchman staggered, and Father hit him again, then again.

“Get off my daughter, you cur!”

De Caen slumped against the counter, then crumpled to the floor, toppling the oil lamp as he fell. The glass globe shattered. Oil spattered the carpet and instantly caught alight.

Father let out a shout of dismay and leapt backward: The hem of his banyan robe was in flames.

Harriet rounded the counter and leapt over De Caen’sprone body. For a split second she couldn’t think of what to do. She tried to beat the flames out with her bare hands, but that just spread the fire upward, toward Father’s waist, fanned by her efforts.

“Harry!” Father grunted in alarm.

Harriet lunged into the back room and grabbed a vase of flowers from the sideboard. She dashed the contents at the front of Father’s robe, daisies and all, but the splash of water only extinguished half the flames.

Father was twirling this way and that in agitation. She snatched his lap rug from the chair and tried to wrap it around his waist, but he wouldn’t stand still.

An earsplitting crash interrupted her frantic efforts, and she glanced up to see Morgan come stumbling through the shop’s glass front door, shoulder first.

Harriet blinked in astonishment. Shards of broken glass glittered like raindrops on the shoulders of his coat and in his hair. “Morgan!” she panted. “Help!”

He raced across the room, pulled the blanket from her hands, and tackled her father to the floor. Harriet gasped at such rough handling, but Morgan rolled her father over and over, smothering the flames with the rug.

Within a few moments the fire had been completely extinguished. Harriet stamped out the last remaining spots of oil that still flickered on the carpet, and both Morgan and Father sat up with a series of groans.

“Holy hell!” Morgan panted, draping his forearm over his bent knees and dropping his head in an attitude of weary exhaustion. “What in God’s name happened here?”

Harriet gingerly helped her father to his feet and inspected him for damage. The thick cotton material of the banyan had, mercifully, been slow to burn where it hadn’t been splashed with oil. His hands and face had not been damaged.

“Father, are you hurt?” she demanded shakily.

He shook his head. His hair was sticking out at all angles, like a haystack.

“Just a little shaken.” He caught her shoulders in his hands and held her at arm’s length, then let out an incredulous laugh. “And dear God, I canseeyou, Harry! Really see you, not just a blurry shape!”

He blinked, studying her features with such a look of wonder and affection that a lump formed in her throat. His thumb brushed her chin fondly.

Harriet stared into his eyes. The cloudy white lenses that had obscured his pupils for the past few years had gone.

She let out an unsteady breath and turned to Morgan. “Thank heavens you came.”

Morgan clambered to his feet and gestured to the broken lamp on the floor. “What happened?”

A noise from behind the counter made all three of them turn and Harriet let out a groan of dismay. She’d forgotten about De Caen in all the excitement.

“Morgan, it’s—”

She didn’t have time to complete the sentence. The Frenchman emerged from behind the counter and her heart seized as she saw her own pistol in his hand; he must have found it on the shelf when he was down there on the floor.

Bloody hell.

His brows shot toward his hairline as he recognized Morgan, and an incredulous wheeze escaped him. “You! Even here you plague me.”

Morgan had stilled, but he sent the Frenchman one of his most sarcastic smiles. Harriet had been the recipient of that particular look a dozen times: She knew just how infuriating it could be.

“Commander De Caen! What a pleasure to see youagain.” His voice oozed insincerity. “I trust you’re enjoying our famous English hospitality?”

De Caen cocked the weapon with a snarl. “A curse on this country!”

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