He immediately released her, clutching his bleeding cheek.
Amelia, seized with panic, ran with all her might back toward Duke Humphrey’s library. Tears flowed from her eyes as she sprinted, losing her slippers on the way.
She could hear Mr. De Rees’s frantic panting behind her, his footsteps like thunder against the stones underfoot.
Her lungs burned with the effort of her run—her life a fragile thing in that moment, as vulnerable as her propriety in the hands of Mr. De Rees.
A few yards from the door, she felt him catch up with her, his hand reaching for her hair.
Just as he did, the door before them opened, and a man stepped out.
Amelia, not able to stop herself in time—notwantingto—collided into him.
Nicholas felt the impact before he could register it, and he stumbled backward. The door had just closed behind him, and he crashed into the wood so hard his head knocked brutally against the door. A wave of pain thrummed over his skull, ears ringing from the impact.
“What the devil—”
Something else was wrong, and the words suffocated, unspoken, in his mouth. His arms were clutching a warm but limp body, and he scarcely knew how it had arrived there.
Gritting his teeth, he looked down at the woman in his arms. Her face was concealed against his chest, and he feared that shewould fall to the floor if he released her, wanting to see who it was.
Holding her upright, unsure if she had fainted, he cast his eyes ahead, watching as a dark form retreated down the cloister, footsteps echoing behind him.
He called out, “Stop!” but the shadow disappeared, appearing only briefly in the light of the open door opposite them before the door fell shut behind him.
Nicholas leaned back to inspect the woman in his arms, his head still thumping in pain. He took a step forward, and her body collapsed against his.
Looping his arms under her shoulders, he carried her awkwardly toward the balustrade—how could he possibly take her indoors?—trying to prop her up against the colonnade to waken her, like a child with a beloved poppet.
He realized then what he should have realized before.
Tilting her head back to be sure, her features illuminated by the moon, he revealed a familiar countenance.
“Miss Tate,” he gasped, almost losing his grip on her in alarm.
The sound of her name, or perhaps the prospect of falling, awakened the woman suddenly. Her eyes fluttered open, her body going rigid, her delicate face contorting in fear.She squirmed in his hold as she regained consciousness, immediately screaming and pushing him away.
“Let go of me,” she cried, batting at his chest. “Let go!”
Her hand came up fast, and he narrowly avoided a blow to the face. He had never seen so much power, so much anger, in a woman—and it terrified and thrilled him.
Grabbing her wrist, he froze in shock to find her fingers bare, fingertips stained with something dark and wet. The feeling of her skin on his, the sight of blood, caused them both to start.
“It’s… it’s you...” she whispered, looking like she would swoon again. “Mr. Moore...”
“No, no,” Nicholas warned, holding her upright with an arm around her back.
It had not occurred to him, until that point, how closely entangled their bodies were in the darkness, the impropriety of it all, the heat between them. Her chest pressed against him, body warm and small.
Propriety be damned!
He would not let her faint again.
“Do not fall, Miss Tate. I won’t stand for it. You must resist whatever damnable urges are compelling you to leave this world again.”
She blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut as though she was waking from a bad dream. Suddenly alert, she looked down the cloister. “Mr. De Rees…”
“De Rees?” Nicholas followed the line of her gaze. “Is he the scoundrel who was following you?”
