Page 123 of Duke of Diamonds
“Isaac!” Fiona’s voice was thin, torn from a throat tight with fear. “Isaac, stop!”
But he did not hear her.
She lurched forward, seizing his arm mid-swing. Her hands closed around his wrist, feeling the tension thrumming through him like a taut bowstring.
“That is enough!” she cried, pressing herself against him, her fingers trembling around his bloodied hand. “Any more and we shall do him a damage that cannot be undone.”
His chest heaved beneath her palms. Isaac’s gaze remained fixed on the crumpled figure beneath him, eyes wild and unreadable.
“He deserves worse,” he muttered, breath ragged.
Aaron let out a sputtering cough, blood mingling with spit as it spilled over his lips.
At last, Isaac released his grip, shoving him aside with disgust.
Footsteps pounded across the flagstone path. Mr. Everett emerged, tying the sash of his night robe with clumsy urgency, his face pale and drawn. Behind him came Mrs. Burton, her white nightcap askew, and more figures began to crowd the garden, drawn by the commotion.
Gasps, whispers, a collective hush fell over the gathering.
Isaac turned to Fiona, his expression unraveling. He reached for her, drawing her against his chest.
“Are you harmed?”
The heat of his embrace, the tremble in his hands... it shattered something in her. The tears she had tried so valiantly to hold back spilled freely now, staining the fabric of his shirt.
He came. He found me.
Isaac’s arm tightened around her as he turned toward the crowd. “Everett, take him.”
The butler stepped forward without hesitation, two footmen trailing behind him. “Where shall we put him, Your Grace?”
“Secure him in the cellar,” Isaac ordered. “And lock the door. Post a guard and I will deal with him later.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Aaron groaned as the footmen hoisted him up, and Fiona could not bring herself to look. She buried her face against Isaac’s shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of sandalwood and starch.
Isaac bent to lift her once more, cradling her against him as though she weighed nothing at all. He carried her back into the manor, each stride full of purpose, and made straight for his study.
He lowered her gently onto the carpet before the hearth, his hand lingering at her back, steadying her.
Without a word, he crouched before her, eyes scanning her face, her arms, her form.
“I—I am unhurt, Isaac,” Fiona said, her voice soft, her breath still shaky.
Her cheek still stung, but she could move freely. No bruised ribs, no broken skin.
He exhaled sharply, though not with relief. With rage.
“I am sorry, Fiona.”
She shook her head, lips parting to protest, but he cut her off.
“No,” he said again, firmer. “I failed to see it. I did not realize you were in danger. I should have known—should have acted sooner. That he would dare trespass upon my land, lay his hands on you beneath my roof?—”
His voice cracked and fell to silence. His hands fisted at his sides.
“I could not sleep,” Fiona whispered, staring into the flames. “I thought a walk might settle my nerves. When I heard the knock, I assumed?—”
