Page 84 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Letting out a scream, Alex propelled herself forward. She landed hard on the floor, then dragged her still-tethered legs over the gritty surface.
A gunshot exploded in her ears.
Clutching his upper chest, Stockwell staggered back.
His knees gave way, and he sank to the floor.
“I didn’t think you had the nerve, Marlsbrook. Well played.” Stockwell’s pistol slipped from his limp fingers. His eyes went closed as a rush of breath escaped him.
He stilled.
Horror and relief washed over her, overwhelming her emotions. Trembling wildly, she stared down at him.
Dear God, is he dead?
No. His body shuddered with the effort of each breath.
She turned her gaze to Benedict, seeing the revulsion on his face. Stockwell had left him no choice. But the act of employing lethal force against another man, even in self-defense, seemed a misery unto itself. Silent pain etched on Benedict’s drawn features.
“Are you all right?” he asked, the words sounding distant. It seemed they were both trapped in a nightmare from which they had not yet escaped.
“Yes,” she murmured as he holstered his weapon.
She wanted to go to him. Not wanted. Needed. Desperation spurred her to tear at the bindings, her fingers frantically unknotting the cords that still tethered her to the chair.
And then, Benedict was there. Framing her face in his hands, he kissed away the tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed.
“Alexandra, I’m sorry you had to go through that. I could not take the shot…I had to wait…” Regret brought a husky edge to his words.
“He did me no lasting harm,” she said, not quite the truth. She feared she would remember this day for a very long time. Stockwell might well haunt her dreams. But she’d come through it all.
They’d survived. That was all that mattered.
She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Benedict, I was so afraid…so afraid he’d kill you.”
A sudden flicker of light appeared in her side vision. Lamplight gleaming against steel.
A knife slashing through the air.
Benedict shoved her out of the dagger’s path.
Time slowed. The deadly blade plunged into him.
She heard herself scream.
Benedict went still. Unnaturally so.
Another scream tore from her lungs.
This. Could. Not. Be.
Benedict could not die. He could not have been cut down in cold blood.
Oh God. No!
Her mind raced. She searched for a weapon, something she could use against Stockwell as he spread his legs wide, struggling to stand on his unsteady limbs.
He brandished the dagger. “My face will be the last thing you ever see.”
