Page 139 of The Viscount's Seduction
Bakeley leaned closer. “Your quarrel is not with Sirena. Let her go.”
His eerie calm floated out, surrounding her. Her breathing steadied.
“Let her go? No. She has a debt to pay. But if you keep moving this way, I’ll gut her in front of you.”
Hollister took a step back, his arm at her waist firming, her feet skidding. The heels of her dance slippers scraped the sharp edge of bricks and hot moisture trickled down her chest.
Bakeley stepped forward and stopped, constrained as if a force was pulling him back.
She gasped. Someone had come up in the dark behind him. They needed more time.
She writhed and squirmed and the sharp knife poked her. “Ow,” she cried. “Leave off the pricking and stop dragging me. I can walk.”
“How long is your fuse, Donegal?” Bakeley asked.
“It’s a short one, then, isn’t it? Should’ve blown by now.”
Her heart lurched again and behind her Hollister froze.
He’d heard it too. This was not Donegal.
Bakeley’s gaze stayed firmly upon her—he wasn’t surprised. He’d known.
In the moment Hollister turned to look, she jerked away from his blade and swung round, driving her dagger into his waist. His hand flailed and struck her, and an explosion ripped through the air.
She was suddenly free. Floating.
Strong hands caught her.
“Sirena.” That was Bakeley’s voice, close to her ear, and it was the last thing she remembered.
“Up the backstairs, Bakeley.” Charley was clearing a path, scooting servants out of the way. “Sure you don’t need a hand?”
“Shut up.” His heart was about to burst, not from the load in his arms but the load of almost having lost her. He’d promised to protect her and he’d failed.
She’d had to protect herself. Jenny met them in the kitchen and ran up ahead of them, opening the door to Sirena’s bedchamber.
He laid her carefully upon the bed, and Jenny waved the vinaigrette under her nose. She didn’t respond.
He snatched the vial from the maid and clamped a hand over Sirena’s mouth. She sputtered, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up.
“Shhh.” He stroked her cheek. “I’m afraid you fainted.”
“Oh, no. I don’t—”
“I know. But this time you did.”
“Aye, milady,” Jenny said. “You were out cold.”
She collapsed against the pillow, dislodging a braid.
“It is these blasted stays. Hollister?”
“Is dead. Or wishes he was.”
Her eyes clouded. “I k-killed him?”
“No. Kincaid shot him.”
