Wrapped in his gray gaze, she opened her fingers.
Felt his warm grasp slip away as gravity took hold and she started to fall.
Heard him call from above, “Three!”
And then she was falling.
Falling.
Onto the taut oilcloth. As she landed, she saw the other men hauling back hard, hands locked on the edge of the cloth, their weight fully back.
She bounced once, then settled onto the bales of hay as the men released the tension on the cloth. Sitting up, she flicked her black skirts down, then frowned at her bound wrists.
Justin grabbed her, hauled her to the edge of the bales and hugged her wildly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly.” And she was. She thumped his side with her h
ands. “Here—untie my wrists.”
Without meeting her eyes, Justin bent his head to pick at the knots.
Dalziel, as cool as ever, came up. “Here—let me.” He had a wicked-looking dagger in his hand.
Justin straightened. Letitia held out her hands and Dalziel expertly sliced through the cords.
She couldn’t quite believe she was alive.
Determined to hang onto her composure, she glanced regally around the circle of her rescuers, inclining her head and bestowing a smile on each of them—even Barton. “Thank you, gentlemen. That was…quite an experience.”
Beyond Dalziel she saw Christian come out of a door.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She stood, discovered her legs were fully functional. She started to walk along the facade to where Christian had halted, just beyond the door.
Then her Vaux heritage got the better of her; she picked up her skirts and ran.
Straight into his arms.
He opened them as she neared, closed them tightly about her as she landed against his chest, wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.
She closed her eyes, felt the tears leak out.
She was safe. She was where she’d always wanted to be. This time he’d come for her. This time he’d saved her.
Christian knew beyond doubt what she was thinking. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in her scent—that elusive, unforgettable scent of jasmine—murmured, “I’m here,” in her ear.
She hugged him harder.
For one moment they simply stood, wrapped in each other, and let the past go, let it fade. Knew they stood on the cusp of their future—the future they’d dreamed of so long ago.
Eventually she drew back. Looked up into his eyes. Smiled one of her seductive smiles. “I’ve already thanked the others. I’ll have to thank you appropriately…but later.”
He smiled back. “Later.” Releasing her, he took her hand. “Now”—expression hardening, he looked up as Dalziel and the others neared—“we have to deal with the aftermath of Swithin’s Grand Plan.”
Inside the house, they located Swithin’s wife. A pale blonde of good but minor family, she was a mild, gentle, quiet female; with his extensive experience in dealing with such ladies, Tristan took on the task of explaining what had occurred without reducing the poor woman to hysterics. Letitia sat beside Mrs. Swithin, lending wordless support, but wisely leaving the talking to Tristan.
Tony meanwhile organized butler and footmen to fetch Swithin, not dead but wounded, and definitely incapacitated, from the roof. Barton assisted; he no longer had his eye on Justin, but on Swithin.
Swithin wasn’t unconscious. He babbled incessantly, the pain and shock of his wounds having unhinged what little rationality he’d possessed.