Chapter Thirteen

T he gunshot still rang in her ears as she blinked away the shock and felt a sudden stinging in her cheek. Slowly, Mr. Dawson's cold fury came into focus, his face twisted and his hand still raised. He had hit her and the throb in her cheek began to sting more as the tiny pieces of reality sunk in.

They all heard a scream from downstairs, a sound that sent tingles up her back, so threatening that the noise sounded more like a war cry.

Thumps rattled the walls as boots pounded up the stairs. With a start, Mr. Dawson fumbled to the table and tried to reload his pistol.

Mr. Thompson, still holding his loaded gun, stayed by the window, his arm shaking a little as he lifted his weapon and aimed at the door.

With a cracking sound, the door burst open, whipping back on its hinges. Mr. Thompson fired and Elizabeth cried out, the noise catching in her gag. The doorway was empty. Suddenly, an object flew into the room and Mr. Dawson, who had just reloaded his pistol, shot at it, screaming, "Die!"

A wooden chair smashed onto the floor, the sound of it quiet compared to the sound of the gunshots still ringing in her head.

That was it. The men were out of bullets unless they could reload in the next.

He whipped into the room as he made for Mr. Thompson with a lethal grace. With his entrance, a crackling energy vibrated around the room and its center of control seemed to be Lysander as he dominated the room with his menacing movements. Mr. Thompson threw up his hands and Elizabeth was disgusted to realize he wasn't even going to throw a punch. Immediately defensive and useless, the whimpering man took a blow to the face.

She flinched as Mr. Thompson went down and then she tried to scream a warning. Mr. Dawson ran over, a knife glinting in his hand.

Lysander had already anticipated an attack on his back. He sidestepped and turned, catching Mr. Dawson's arm and gripping his wrist that held the knife. He yanked Mr. Dawson forward and smashed the back of his hand against the wall, the knife dropping immediately while Mr. Dawson howled. In a blink, Lysander had shifted his arm and then brought it back up, locking a handcuff around Mr. Dawson's wrist and hauling him over to the bed.

Mr. Thompson, still on the floor, grabbed Lysander's legs, hugging them tightly together and latching on like a child might try to stall a parent. Still gripping Mr. Dawson, Lysander looked down with an expression of irritation, as if he could scold the man into letting go.

But Mr. Dawson pitched himself over, yanking Lysander with him and toppling both of them to the ground. Now it was two against one and everyone was down. The change sucked Lysander's menacing energy out of the room and a trickle of cold fear snaked its way down Elizabeth's arms. Or maybe that was the cold sweat pouring from her body.

She yanked hard at her bonds, knowing it was useless. With Lysander down, panic took back over and she worried that maybe these two vile men would win.

Mr. Thompson still clung to Lysander's legs while Mr. Dawson rolled free and then lurched forward, his hands going for Lysander's throat.

The two men grappled at each other. Lysander was large with long arms, but Mr. Dawson had a lean, long body. He crouched and dug a knee into Lysander's stomach. Elizabeth heard Lysander's groan and wheeze and began yanking on her bonds with renewed vigor. It didn't matter that she hadn't been able to free herself before, she had to do something.

She watched, wriggling her wrists behind her, as Lysander suddenly let go of Mr. Dawson's arms. Mr. Dawson lunged forward, his hands closing over Lysander's throat.

Elizabeth screamed, tears drenching her face. She didn't know what else to do when a moment felt so utterly hopeless. She watched Mr. Dawson's hands connect with Lysander's neck, his white knuckles clenching and a sneer on his face as his intent blazed in his eyes.

Lysander, his face red, moved his hands to push away Mr. Dawson. No. Not to push him away.

He clicked the other half of the manacles onto Mr. Dawson's wrist. Then Lysander yanked not on Mr. Dawson, but on the chain.

Mr. Dawson snarled, "Now I can choke you with your chain!"

Lysander head-butted Mr. Dawson, his opponent losing focus and in the moment of Mr. Dawson's confusion, Lysander pushed him far enough away that he could smash his elbow into Mr. Dawson's side.

Mr. Dawson grunted and then gasped in a breath, but Lysander had already pulled back and smashed again in the same place. Once Mr. Dawson had given up more ground, Lysander cracked his fist against Mr. Dawson's temple and left the man blinking in a heap.

Lysander shouted, "Off me!"

Mr. Thompson whimpered and curled his body tighter, his eyes squeezed shut. Lysander reached down and grabbed the man by his ear, hauling him away. Mr. Thompson squealed and shrieked, "Ow, ow, ow!"

Lysander got to his feet, dragging Mr. Thompson with him to the other post of the bed. While he cuffed Mr. Thompson around the post, the man kicking and then slumping pathetically, Mr. Dawson tried to stand.

His hands still cuffed, he lunged for the table and was trying to, with his limited mobility, quickly reload his gun.

He was too slow. Lysander, in a few strides, moving with his precise grace, grabbed the unloaded gun, tossed it across the floor, and then grabbed Mr. Dawson by his throat.

Even through Mr. Thompson's pitiful whimpers, she could hear the broken gurgling of the life being squeezed out of a man. Lysander stood still and steady, unfazed at all by the death crawling its way into every corner of the room.

She knew Mr. Dawson. She hated him, and he deserved terrible things, but it was one thing to want payback and another to watch him die.

She strained and tried to call out. Her hand slipped out of her bond, her arm slick with sweat and she didn't even question her freedom, she reached up and yanked at her gag.

It was tied too tight, but she could wriggle it a bit, just enough to call for him, her voice weary and scratchy. "Lysander."

He dropped Mr. Dawson, letting the man slump to the floor. His eyes caught hers and she saw the fire behind them, the lethal focus that had consumed him. She saw it ebb away the longer he looked at her.

Without a word, he strode forward, his hand reaching into his boot to pull out a knife. She had watched him sharpen this very blade, the shink of the scraping metal ringing in her head.

She closed her eyes while he held her face, his large, rough hands gentle as he held her still and sliced at her ties. Then he caught her when her body failed and she fell forward. Sweeping his arm under her legs, he picked her up.

"Elizabeth."

His voice was like water over parched land. She opened her eyes and finally looked at him. He wasn't the daredevil who had stopped her carriage and he wasn't the lethal predator from a few minutes ago. He was her highwayman, his gentle gaze meeting hers and behind his eyes, she saw the words his voice wasn't saying. For you.

He set her gently on the bed and promised to return in a moment. There were a few more sounds, some rustling, grunting and groaning, but she was done watching.

He picked her up again, holding her against the leathery, woodsy scent of his clothing, an undertone of musky sweat clinging to his skin. Tucked safely against him, of all the things she didn't want to do, she began to cry.