In the dim firelight, with Rose struggling in his grip, the risk was too great. One inch off, and he could kill the woman he loved.
“Put it down, Balfour. Put it down, or I swear I’ll snap her neck right here.”
James’s mind raced through options, each one worse than the last. His splinted leg made it impossible to lunge for a better angle. He could wait Vincent out, but the man was desperate now. Cornered. And desperate men did awful things.
Rose’s eyes met his across the cabin, wide with fear but also with something else—trust. She trusted him to save her. The rifle felt like lead in his hands, useless despite its power.
The one thing he couldn’t risk was Rose’s life.
“All right.” James lowered the weapon and leaned it against the wall.
Vincent’s expression relaxed—just a fraction, but enough.
Rose must have felt it. Her heel drove into Vincent’s knee. He stumbled backward, his arm releasing her throat. She threw herself forward, away from him.
James lunged.
He had to get to Rose. To get between her and Vincent.
Vincent recovered and charged forward. James met his blow with his shoulder, shoving back. They melded into a tangle of limbs, then crashed into the cabin’s rickety table. It collapsed beneath their weight in a shower of splinters.
Vincent possessed the advantage of not being injured, but James had desperation and fury on his side. Vincent’s fist connected with James’s jaw, snapping his head back, but James didn’t let go. He drove Vincent backward into the wall, and the entire structure shuddered.
They grappled on the filthy floor, James’s broken leg twisted. Bolts of white-hot agony shot through his body. But the pain only fueled his rage.
This man had tried to drag Rose back into slavery, and James would die before he let that happen.
Vincent rolled on top of him, his hands closing around James’s throat. He fought for breath, his hands gripping the knave’s shoulders. Vincent’s arms were longer though, giving him?—
The pressure built, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. His lungs burned.
Rose appeared behind Vincent, a cloth in her hand. She’d somehow worked one of her arms out of the ropes that bound her to the chair. She pressed the rag to Vincent’s snarling open mouth.
The surprise made his grip on James’s throat loosen, just enough for him to suck in a desperate gulp of air.
Vincent jerked his head away from the rag, but whatever that sweet fragrance was must have already started to work. His movements slowed, turning clumsy. The iron fingers around James’s neck weakened.
James shoved hard, throwing the villain off balance. He toppled sideways, and James rolled with him, ignoring the agony from his broken leg.
He had to pin Vincent down. Had to keep him there so Rose?—
She crouched beside James and pressed the cloth again to Vincent’s face with her free hand. Ropes still bound her body and other arm to the splintered chair pieces.
Vincent thrashed beneath them, weaker now, his struggles growing sluggish. At last, his eyes rolled back, unfocused.
His body went slack.
James couldn’t trust it. He kept the weight of his good knee pressed down on Vincent’s chest, his hands pinning the man’s shoulders to the grimy floor.
His own chest heaved, dragging in air that tasted like rot and chemicals and blood. The room tilted sideways, and he blinked hard to clear his vision.
“Is he…” Rose’s voice came out hoarse, raw from whatever this blackguard had done to her.
“Out.” James forced the word through his own burning throat. “For now.”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t make himself ease the pressure keeping Vincent pinned. The security of Vincent’s body beneath him felt like the only solid thing in a world gone sideways.
Rose’s hand trembled against his shoulder. “James, you can let go now.”
