Page 85 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
“Ye can damn well hobble fer all I care.” Russell gave a gritty laugh. “Aye, and I’d like to see it.”
With a guttural growl, Kit let his cane drop to the ground, and began to slowly, painstakingly proceed with his steps in an ungainly limp.
Phoebe closed her eyes for half a second, breathed in, held up the pistol. The middle of his back, she thought. If she could only collapse a lung, that would be debilitating. She wasn’t certain she could manage to hit his head; wasn’t certain the tiny lead ball with which her pistol was loaded was even capable of piercing a skull as thick as his. One shot. She had to make it count.
“Do ye know,” Russell said reflectively as Phoebe lined up her aim. “I think I’d rather see ye crawl.” He lurched forward, lashing out with the cane in his left hand to strike at Kit’s bad knee just as Phoebe fired.
Kit collapsed onto the ground with a shout of pain. Russell reared back, dropping his own cane to press one hand to his side, where a spot of blood had begun to bloom and grow. Slowly. Too damned slowly. He bit off a harsh cursed, swinging about to train his weapon upon her.
She’d hit, but it hadn’t mattered. It was a minor wound; a graze at best. Infection might take him, if she were lucky. But not nearly soon enough.
And now—now she was going to die.
∞∞∞
As the echoing report of Phoebe’s spent pistol reverberated in his ears, Chris’ heart thundered in his chest. He had never been so damned frightened in all his life. Phoebe stared down the barrel of the pistol that Scratch had thrust in her direction and he couldn’t even rise to defend her. His leg, he knew, would not support him if he tried to, and his cane was too far away to reach.
Instead he cast about for something, anything, to redirect Scratch’s attention to him instead. His fingers slid through the grass, searching for something, anything—the stone that had once bordered Hieronymus’ pond. His hand seized it, and he wrenched his arm back, hurling it with all his might.
It thwacked Scratch in the back of a head, drawing forth a pained hiss, and a swing of the pistol in Chris’ direction.Thank God.
“Run!” he shouted, and Phoebe—Phoebelungedinstead, her fingers curling into claws as she fisted the left in Scratch’s grimy hair, wrenching his head back. Her right caught him beneath the elbow, ruining his aim.
“Ye nasty bitch,” Scratch howled, and he shoved his elbow backwards, catching Phoebe about the ribs hard enough that it forced the air from her lungs. As she wheezed, he yanked his hair out of her loosed hold, then turned to lash out with his free hand, landing a ringing slap across her face. He was not a man who had ever pulled his punches; she stumbled with the force of it, yelping out a pained cry. In the shadows, her teeth were smeared with blood that looked nearly black.
Behind the cage of his ribs, Chris’ heart burned with a feral rage unlike anything he had ever known before. “Don’t fucking touch her,” he snarled, shoving his good leg beneath him in an attempt to gain his feet once more.
Scratch gave a nasty laugh as he snatched up a handful of Phoebe’s hair, almost yanking her straight off of her feet as he pulled her bodily back against him and nudged the barrel of the pistol beneath her chin.
No. God,no.
She whimpered in pain, cold fear in her wide open eyes, in the hollow of her cheeks, in the hard swallow that slid down her throat. And there was nothing he could do. He could not retake his feet, could not possibly move fast enough to get to her in time. A lead ball could fly ever so much faster. It would take only the slightest squeeze of the trigger.
“Stop,” Chris rasped, beyond shame, beyond pride. “For the love of God, let her go. I’ll go with you quietly—only let her go.”
“Naw,” Scratch said. “I like a bitch wiv a little spirit to ‘er. Think I’ll keep ‘er,” he jeered. “Give ‘er some good nightmares afore I’m done wiv ‘er, eh?” Another vicious yank of Phoebe’s hair, another whimper she was helpless to stifle. “Ye can damn well crawl to the bloody carriage,” he snarled to Chris. “I think I got all I need to make certain ye does right ‘ere.”
And he was right, damn him. Chris would have crawled across broken glass to keep her safe. He would go willingly to a certain death for only a fraction of a chance to spare her.
“My man’s got the carriage already,” Scratch said. “Soon as ‘e’s back—”
“He’s not coming back,” Phoebe said, her voice tight with strain. Her fingers flexed at her sides, and her jaw tensed. Just as it always did during their sparing bouts when he’d trapped her in an unenviable position and she was forced to consider her options. “I killed him.”
For the first time, Chris felt the tiniest flicker of hope. She’d had only a pistol when she’d come out into the garden. Perhaps she’d wielded the dagger already.
Scratch hadn’t noticed, but she’d settled onto the balls of her feet, bracing herself. She couldn’t possibly get the leverage necessary to slam the back of her head into his nose. There were two viable options at present: gouging the eyes, or getting rid of the pistol. She would know, though, always to prioritize disarming her assailant. Chris was mostly certain of it.
“Lying bitch,” Scratch said, twisting her hair in his fingers until she let out a cry.
“I stabbed him,” she hissed savagely, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. “If he’s not dead, he’s dying. I stabbed my dagger straight into his gut and fuckingtwistedit.”
That’s my girl, Chris thought with a surge of pride.
Her hands shot up, wedging themselves between Scratch’s arm and knocking it upward. With a quick, vicious motion that must have pulled free several strands of hair from the fierce clutch of Scratch’s fingers, she sank her teeth straight into his arm hard enough to draw blood.
Scratch howled in agony, his fingers clenching in reflex. The pistol fired its single shot, and the sound was loud enough to make Chris’ ears ring—but the ball had gone flying up into the air. One shot, wasted.
But the pistol wasn’t yet useless as a weapon.
