His elbow drove into Arabella’s chest, knocking the air from her lungs. She staggered.
Eleanor struck him again. The candlestick connected with his shoulder.
The intruder roared and shoved Eleanor hard. She fell to one knee, catching herself on the floor.
Arabella lunged for him again, reaching for anything, the broken edge of the pitcher, the fallen chair, anything sharp or heavy.
She got one hand on the candlestick.
The intruder’s fist met her temple.
White exploded behind Arabella’s eyes.
For a moment there was no room, no firelight, no sound. Only a ringing void.
She fell.
The floor rose too fast, cold and unforgiving against her cheek. She tasted blood, metallic and warm, and tried to blink but her eyelids felt too heavy.
Through the blur, she saw Eleanor move.
Eleanor’s voice cut through the ringing, sharp with terror. “Arabella!”
Arabella tried to answer. Her tongue would not cooperate.
The masked man loomed over them both, breathing hard, and Arabella understood with distant, horrified clarity that Eleanor was still between him and her, even now.
Eleanor’s scream had woken Arabella.
Arabella’s fall might leave Eleanor alone.
“No,” Arabella tried to say.
But the word did not come.
The last thing she saw clearly was Eleanor’s face, pale with fury and fear, and the intruder’s shadow lifting as he moved toward her again.
Eleanor acted on instinct. Every move. Her body simply refused to stop fighting back.
The masked man’s hands were on her again, rough and relentless, driving her backward until her shoulders struck the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She tried to scream, but the sound came out broken.
“Help, any –” Eleanor shouted, though her voice wavered.
The man’s forearm pressed across her throat, hard and unyielding. The room narrowed to pain and pressure and the terrible certainty that he was stronger than she was.
Eleanor clawed at his sleeve, nails scraping fabric and skin. She kicked blindly, her heel striking something solid, but it did nothing to slow him.
Her vision began to blur at the edges.
“No,” she gasped. “No, please!”
Her mind fractured into sharp, useless thoughts. Arabella on the floor. Arabella not moving. The sound of her sister’s body hitting the boards replayed again and again.
“James – Arabella –,” Eleanor whispered with what little voice and breath she had left.
The man leaned closer, his weight crushing, his breath hot and sour against her face. Her lungs burned. Her hands grew weak.
She thought, absurdly, of the morning light in the breakfast room. Of James’s hand lingering over hers. Of all the things left unsaid.
