He slammed his forearm into Eleanor’s shoulder, hard enough to drive her backward. Eleanor hit the wall with a breathless sound.
Arabella rushed forward.
She did not think. She did not plan. She only moved.
She seized the nearest object, a porcelain pitcher on the washstand, and swung it.
It cracked against the side of the man’s head.
He snarled.
The pitcher slipped from Arabella’s hands and broke on the floor, water spilling across the boards.
Eleanor pushed off the wall, eyes wild. “Arabella, behind you!”
Arabella turned too late.
The intruder’s hand closed around her wrist like iron. He yanked her forward, twisting her arm until pain shot up to her elbow.
Arabella gasped.
“Let go,” she choked out.
The man’s other hand grabbed a fistful of her night rail and hauled her closer as if she weighed nothing.
Eleanor lunged at him again with the candlestick she had somehow retrieved. She struck his forearm.
He grunted, but he did not release Arabella.
Arabella’s fear flared into something hotter. Anger. The old, familiar rage at being powerless in a house ruled by stronger voices.
She drove her heel down on his foot.
He cursed again, sharp this time, and his grip loosened just enough.
Arabella twisted free, stumbling back. Her wrist burned.
Eleanor moved between them, shoulders squared.
“You will not touch her,” Eleanor said, voice shaking but fierce.
The intruder hesitated.
Arabella used the moment to shout again, louder, desperate enough to tear her throat raw.
“Pritchard!” she screamed. “Mrs. Hargreaves! Anyone? Help!”
Footsteps. Faint. Distant.
Or her imagination.
The intruder seemed to hear them too, because his posture changed. Impatience. A decision made.
He surged forward, aiming for Eleanor.
Arabella grabbed his coat from behind, yanking with all her strength. “No!”
The fabric tore slightly. The man spun.
