He really did think he was God’s gift to artists, didn’t he?
Still, Kenneth nodded enthusiastically, and Barbara smiled softly. “There you are. You are the victim in this, really,” she murmured soothingly, even as she turned them both toward the door. “Now, let me escort you to the hall…”
And in that moment, Kenneth understood the brilliance of the woman he’d fallen in love with.
By being the one to turn them, Barbara had given Kenneth the opening he needed. Sinter’s gun was in his far hand, but her head and body were between Kenneth and her captor, blocking Sinter’s view of him. As they stepped toward the door, Kenneth shifted his stance, flipping the knife down between his fingers. He stepped forward, drawing back his arm…
Barbara pretended to trip. “Oh!” she gasped as she went down.
Sinter instinctively turned to keep his hold on her, opening his neck for the shot.
And Kenneth took it.
His knife buried itself into Sinter’s throat a heartbeat before Kenneth himself barreled into the man, slamming them both into the bookshelf beside the door. He heard Barbara hit the floor as the gun boomed and she screamed.
For one, horrible moment, Kenneth thought she’d been hit.
Then the pain in his side caught up with his brain, and to his surprise, all he could feel was relief.
It wasn’t until the gun went off that Barbara’s mind caught up with events, and then she was screaming as Kenneth slammed into Sinter.
By the time she scrambled on her hands and knees to his side, Kenneth was already pushing himself upright. Unable to think of anything else, nothing butno no no,Barbara threw herself against him, patting down his chest, his face.
“Oh God. Oh God, Kenneth, are you—please!” she was gasping, crying, desperate. “Speak to me. Kenneth!”
His grin looked crooked, stiff, but he was smiling as he caught her hands. “I’m fine, love. I’m fine.” He glanced down at Mr. Sinter, and she followed his gaze.
The man she’d always admired, the man who had turned out to be a counterfeiting mastermind criminal, the man who’d taken her hostage and threatened to kill her and the man she loved…was dead. Perhaps he’d been dead when Kenneth’s knife had slammed into his throat, but if that hadn’t killed him, the awkward angle of his head now he’d slammed into the bookshelf would have.
His expression was locked in a look of mild surprise.
Shuddering, Barbara turned away.
Kenneth made comforting noises as he pulled her to her feet, holding her. “Dinnae look, Barbara. He cannae hurt ye now.”
“Hurtme?” She wrapped her arms around him, briefly noting he made a strange hissing sound, then pressed her cheek to his chest. “My God, Kenneth, I thought I had lost you?—”
“Of course ye didnae.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I cannae leave ye, no’ after ye just confessed yer love for me. Yediddo that, aye? I’m no’ delirious from blood loss?”
Blood loss? Frowning, Barbara slid her hands down his side, and when he hissed again, she gasped in realization. “You wereshot? Kenneth Fraser, heshot you?” she shrieked, realizing her hand was wet with blood.
His blood, Kenneth’s blood?—
“Hush, love, ye’ll wake?—”
“Who gives a shite if they wake up?” Her screech was loud enough to wake even Papa as she pulled his handkerchief out to press against his wound. “You do not think the yelling and gunfire would have woken them?”
“Ouch, Barbara, cease yer poking. I’m fine?—”
“You wereshot!”
His hands caught hers, stilling her movements, pressing her hand and the handkerchief against his wound. “Barbara,” he repeated softer, his eyes calm. “I will be fine. I’ve been shot afore, this is just a scratch.”
A scratch. She shifted her terrified gaze back to his, and the calm certainty in his warm brown eyes told her he wasn’t lying. Last night—had it really only been last night?—she’d marveled at the scars covering his body, and knew the truth.
“A scratch?” she breathed.
“Aye.” His grin was gentle as he lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I swear it. I would take four times this—to my heart—to no’ have to see ye in danger again. I loveye, Barbara. That’s at least three times I’ve said it—an’ I’m still waiting to hear ye say the words again.”
