Every muscle in Quinn’s body clenched. He had never felt so helpless. Inside he was shaking, yet he forced a scoffing sound. “The woman I love? You overstate the extent of my fondness for her. She was not the bride of my choosing. I was compelled to wed her.”
He glimpsed the stricken look in Venetia’s eyes, but it couldn’t be helped. If Montreux knew how deeply he cared, he would cut her throat on the spot.
“However,” Quinn added dispassionately, “she is my wife, and it would hardly be honorable for me to leave her at your mercy. I will make a bargain with you.” While he spoke, Quinn slowly stepped to one side, hoping to leave a clear line of sight to the doorway.
“What bargain?” Montreux asked suspiciously.
“Release her unharmed and I will let you escape unscathed.”
Montreux visibly sneered. “Do you think me a fool?”
“You may be many things, monsieur, but not a fool. You have my solemn word as a gentleman. I will even guarantee your safe passage back to France.”
“I must decline.”
Crushing his fear, Quinn took another step, meaning to circle the room partway and distract Montreux enough for Hawk to join the fray.
“Stand where you are!” Montreux exclaimed.
The sharp command was enough to halt Quinn in his tracks.
“Now lower your weapons and set them on the table.”
Quinn knew better than to comply. As soon as he was unilaterally disarmed, Montreux would shoot him, and perhaps Venetia as well. Quinn would do better to try and provoke the French nobleman.
Changing tactics, Quinn adopted his own sneer. “You are a coward, monsieur, using a woman to shield you.”
Montreux reacted with fury. “You dare to call me a coward?” Outraged, he took half a step toward Quinn, waving his pistol, which caused his knife to slip a little.
Then three things happened in quick succession:
Clenching her teeth, Venetia braced her feet on the carpet and pushed sideways so that her chair tipped over, catching Montreux by surprise and throwing him off balance.
The compte’s pistol jerked upward, leaving Quinn a clear shot.
And Quinn lunged forward and fired, just as Venetia’s cry of pain stabbed through his heart.
The gunshot sounded loud in the small parlor, making Quinn’s ears ring as he charged his foe. Evidently he’d hit his target, for Montreux shrieked and staggered backward before falling to the floor.
He was still armed and deadly, however, for he was only wounded in the shoulder, Quinn saw through the haze of powder smoke.
When the compte raised the pistol still in his grasp, Quinn brought his booted foot down hard on the Frenchman’s wrist, forcing him to release the weapon, which Quinn swiftly kicked away.
Crouching down, he let go a fierce punch to Montreux’s jaw, stunning him just as both Hawk and Jack stormed into the room behind them.
Quinn snatched up the compte’s fallen knife and hastened to Venetia’s side. He used the blade to cut away the ropes binding her hands to the chair, then knelt beside her, urgently searching her pale face.
Her grimace of pain eased when she saw he had come out the victor.
“Are you badly hurt?” he demanded.
“No…not badly,” she whispered in a rasping voice.
Savage anger filled Quinn. Venetia was alive, but there were visible abrasions on one cheek and dark bruises on her neck.
Wishing his bullet had found Montreux’s heart, Quinn carefully eased her from the chair and helped her to stand. He wanted to cradle her in his arms, but the battle with the compte’s men was not yet won. He could hear the sounds of a scuffle echoing from the other side of the cottage—thuds and shouts and breaking glass, followed by another gunshot and Hawk speaking abruptly:
“Wilde, if you have Montreux under control, I will see to Firmin.”