Damn it, Bishop. Stand the hell up!
His limbs would simply not obey. In fact, his other damn leg joined the first.
The behemoth laughed again, his eyes flicking over the room. “How shall we end this? A kick? A fist? Or a chair? I’m feeling a chair.”
The man reached for the one Bishop had used on him earlier.
Petty blackguard.
Bishop reached for a toppled lamp. As weapons go, it wouldn’t do much. The right angle, however, he could knock shut an eye. Perhaps. Hopefully. He drew on something primal—an animal, stubborn cord of strength. Every muscle burned. His lungs burned. His damn heart burned. He pictured Alyssia’s face, the way she’d run; the thought wasa hot coal in his chest. He would not let the memory of this night be one of failure.
Damn you, stand.
Do. Not. Collapse.
Bishop had just hauled himself to his feet when the blackguard suddenly crumpled to the ground. What the hell? His brows furrowed. Had the man actually succumbed to the blow to his head?
Then his gaze fell on a man standing behind the giant.
Bishop blinked, sure he was seeing things. He blinked again, but the man remained.
“Crane?”
“This is the second time I’ve saved your life,” the duke said as if reciting the morning’s errands. “And what the devil is this about you being bloody Winterbourne?”
“Ah, so itisyou.”
“Explain yourself, Bishop, or you will be joining your friend here.” The duke paused. “And did you bloody get married without inviting me?”
The last question cleared his head. Alyssia. He stumbled forward, only to be caught by Crane.
“What the devil is wrong with you? You need to sit down.”
No! “My wife. Alyssia. She drew the other cutthroat away.” Damn it all to hell. He needed to get to her.
Crane cursed. “There’s another one?”
Bishop nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure his head moved. He hadn’t heard anything since the last crash, but that might simply be the ringing in his ears. Silence was worse than noise. Noise meant she was still fighting.
God, was Alyssia all right?
He pushed forward, vision swimming. If that brute laid so much as a finger on her—if she was so much as bruised—he’d never forgive himself. He’d tear his uncle limb from limb. He bloody well couldn’t survive failing her again.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Chapter Seventeen
Alyssia had neverknown terror could come with such wild clarity. Being chased down a corridor by a blackguard stripped the world to a single command: move. She flung anything she could grab in her mad dash—candlesticks, vases, a serving tray—anything to slow him. Each crash was a tiny victory, though it bought only a breath more distance.
This was madness. Giles was in the drawing room, fighting a man twice his size, and she had abandoned him. She’d thought it the wisest choice at the time, but with every blink, she saw him falling beneath that behemoth’s fist. She did not want to imagine how this ended if they failed.
Servants surfaced, startled from sleep. “Hide!” she snapped at them. She would not let innocent blood be spilled for her name. But the ones who remained had the audacity to overturn a side table between them to slow the man down and join her in her dash. A loud curse whipped at them.
Brave fools!
You’re one to talk.
