Page 122 of Three Weeks with a Princess
He held her tight as a vise, all but pushing the air from her lungs. She didn’t care a jot. He could squeeze her like a stuffed toy for the rest of her life and she would never utter a word of complaint.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled. “I thought I was too late.” He eased her back to study her, his mouth flat and tight, his gaze shadowed with anxiety. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m a little bruised, but he didn’t have time to do much damage.”
He touched her cheek, then trailed a hand down to her throat. Prudhoe must have left a mark because Jack’s gaze turned black with fury.
“Where is he?” he asked in a lethal voice.
“On the other side of the bed.”
He eased her out of his embrace and stalked over to the bed, stumbling to a halt as Lia came up beside him. “You did this?” he asked, staring at the heap on the floor.
She nodded, carefully breathing through her mouth. The baronet was exceedingly ripe, and, to be fair, she didn’t smell like a bouquet of posies either. Some of the contents of the chamber pot had landed on the skirts of her gown—a small price to pay for her safety.
“Well done, love,” Jack said with a ghost of a laugh.
She grimaced. “I’m afraid I may have killed him.”
He crouched down and felt for the baronet’s pulse. “No such luck. You just knocked him out.” He straightened and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”
“Not in any way that matters,” she said, mistily smiling up at him.
She braced her hands on his chest. Now that the worst was over, she was feeling wobbly and light-headed. And despite what she’d just told him, her head was starting to pound—no doubt from those ringing slaps.
“You look like hell,” he said, frowning with worry.
Lia was surprised she could still laugh. “Thank you very much, kind sir.”
He pulled her close. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“I’ll try not to.” She nestled her cheek against his wrinkled cravat. “Jack, Amy is in trouble. You brought help, did you not?”
“I did. In fact, I think our reinforcements have arrived.”
They heard quick steps out in the hall and then Gillian strode through the door. She was hatless but garbed in a stylish green walking dress that seemed utterly incongruous, given the setting and circumstances.
She also held a knife in her hand.
“Darling, are you all right?” her cousin asked as she came up to Lia.
“Yes.” She waved a vague hand at Gillian’s knife. “Is that . . . blood?”
“I’m afraid so,” her cousin said with a shrug. “One of the louts downstairs wasn’t very cooperative, so I was forced to teach him a lesson.” Gillian scowled at the baronet, who was finally stirring, then leaned down and casually wiped her blade clean on his coat before slipping it back into her half boot.
“Good God,” Jack muttered, shaking his head. “Please tell me you didn’t kill someone. Charles will be furious if you did. Come to think of it, he’ll be furious anyway, because I allowed you to come along with me.”
“As if you could have stopped me,” she said with a snort. She nudged Prudhoe in the ribs with her boot. He responded with a moan. “Well done, Jack.”
“Sadly, I cannot take credit. Lia is responsible for Prudhoe’s sorry state.”
“Bully for you, old girl,” Gillian said with a grin. Then she sniffed. “What is that dreadful smell? Did someone cast up his accounts?”
“You don’t want to know,” Lia said, clutching Jack’s coat with both hands. She was feeling more light-headed by the moment and a very odd sensation was overtaking her, as if her brain was pressing up against the top of her skull and trying to escape.
Gillian frowned. “You’re looking rather grim, Lia. Are you going to faint?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, blinking at the swarm of dots drifting across her vision. “I never faint.”
