Page 5 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
My gaze skims along the rafter, then slams to a stop. A pit opens in my stomach. A hatchet lies in the cat’s path, directly atop the beam. Someone left a freakingaxeup there, probably while making repairs. Now all it will take is one jostle of feline paws to send the hatchet plummeting onto some hapless victim below.
I know exactly who it will be, of course.
A gnarled cry rips from my throat. “Move! Let me through!”
But the fight has reached its pinnacle, and every eye is glued to the arena. I search frantically for something to throw. I’ll knock that cat to its death before I’ll see a blade buried in Weston’s skull.
But there’s nothing at hand. Just men, frenzied shouts, and the stench of perspiration.
Desperation turns my insides to water. With no other options, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl through the sea of breech-clad legs. I have to get to Weston. Insulate him with my luck. And I have to do itnow.
Surprised shouts accompany my frantic burrowing. My lace skirts snag against the floorboards as splinters lance into my knees, but I don’t care. I’d rather shred this dress to ribbons than let that hatchet fall. From that height, it could kill him. Easily.
Fear throttles my airway as I squeeze between two pairs of polished black boots. No one steps on me, though. Not that they would. I’m too lucky for that.
The forest of legs thins. Suddenly, I’m free, my heart screaming as I stumble to my feet just inside the ring.
Weston freezes.
“Birdie?”he says, like he can’t believe I’m standing in front him.
My gaze flies to the ceiling, but it’s too late. The cat knocks the hatchet loose, sending the thing hurtling.
It arcs through empty space.
It’s headed straight for Weston.
Chapter Three
Ithrow myself at Weston, fueled by an instinct that directs my muscles without needing input from my brain.
The hatchet spins, a lethal whirl of steel, and I shout a silent prayer. I’m close enough now to cancel Weston’s luck, but that means he’s canceled mine, too.
Whatever happens next comes down to chance.
In another situation, that might feel thrilling. Freeing. But right now, someone’s stripped me of my armor and pressed a dagger to my breast.
Maybe they’ll stab me, maybe they won’t.
Our bodies collide. Weston staggers. We go tumbling, my skirts a flurry of taffeta and lace. I land squarely on top of him, our faces inches apart.
His eyes widen as he gazes up at me. I brace, awaiting the bite of a blade in my back, but a dull thunk sounds somewhere behind me. When I turn, the hatchet glints, its head buried so deeply in the floor that a fresh split runsdown the plank.
My pulse squeezes. Weston was standing there a moment ago.Rightthere.
“Birdie,” he whispers. “What’re you doing?”
I turn back, but he’s no longer looking at my face. His gaze jumps from my arms to my collarbones, then to the swell of my bosom. He catalogs every inch of exposed skin, a frantic light shining in his eyes.
But my dress has cushioned my fall, my splayed skirts sandwiched between us. My palms sting against the rough floorboards, but no part of me touches any part of him. Not directly, at least. And directly is what matters.
When he realizes it, his gaze flicks up to mine again. For the second time in as many moments, my mind empties of thought.
Fortuna’s blessings, I’ve never been this close to him before. Never realized he has gold flecks nestled amid the amber of his irises.
For a breathless moment, we just stare at one another. The crowd has fallen silent. All eyes take our measure, frozen as we are in our precarious position on the floor.
Then Weston gives a sharp shake of his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “Off. You have to get off.”
