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“Deliziosa?”

“Delectable?” She said the last with a bit of a squeak, as if overpowered by his words.

“Woman I have ever met!” he finished, and before he could think better of it, he drew her into a fervent embrace and pressed a kiss to her lips, tasting her tears with a rush of gratitude so strong it nearly undid him.

The world narrowed to that single, overwhelming moment. Relief, wonder, and a gratitude too deep for words flooded through him before he forced himself to draw back, resting his forehead briefly against hers as if anchoring himself to the reality that she was alive.

Why had he hesitated so long about choosing this life? Molly was indeed a rare treasure, but more than that, she was courage and conviction wrapped in warmth and intelligence, and he had been a fool to resist acknowledging it. He held her close, no longer kissing her, but sheltering her against him, keenly aware of how easily everything might have been lost.

Her hands clutched at his coat, not in passion, but in shared shock and relief, and it was that quiet intimacy that struck him most deeply.

The sound of heavy footsteps caused them to separate at once, and they turned to find Sebastian and Angelo entering from the back of the manor. Angelo had already dropped his gaze to examine his boots, while the Norseman folded his arms to grin like a pleased fool. “Miss Carter is well, I see.”

Marco stepped aside and Molly retreated a pace, composing herself, smoothing her gown and pressing her palms briefly to her warm cheeks before lowering them.

Angelo coughed into his fist, clearly uncomfortable. “Where is MacNaby?”

“Miss Carter convinced him of the error of his ways. He is likely at the docks negotiating his passage to”—Marco shrugged—“the Continent? Constantinople? The Americas? It is far too late to catch up with him.”

Sebastian arched his blond brows, clearly impressed. “Well played, Miss Carter.”

Molly had recovered her composure enough to offer a proper curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Sebastian.”

Marco roused himself fully then, ensuring the caretaker was unharmed. After a while, Angelo rode his mount to summon the carriage. When it finally arrived, the four men and Molly stood staring at it in thoughtful silence.

“Did we not plan how to return Molly home once we rescued her?” Lorenzo asked, irritation edging his tone.

“It would appear not,” replied Marco.

“Lorenzo can ride your mount back to London,” Sebastian suggested.

“Why must I ride the horse?” Lorenzo grumbled.

“Because I am decidedly heavier than you,” laughed the Norseman. “The fresh air will do you good, my friend.” He slapped the lean frame of the Italian on the back, perhaps with more force than he realized when Lorenzo appeared slightly unbalanced.

Duncan held out his hand to Molly. “May I assist you, miss?”

Molly hurried forward, accepting his help to clamber into the dark interior, which was when Marco noticed how pale her ankles were against the shadows and was struck anew by the reality of how vulnerable she had been. A jolt of protective instinct followed, sharp and unwelcome in its intensity. Where had her stockings gone? The thought troubled him far more than it should have.

Following her into the carriage, he took his place on the bench beside her, eager to maintain their proximity and to reassure himself of her warmth and safety, proof that this nightmare had finally ended.

Angelo and Sebastian took their places, and the carriage rolled forward.

“Do you think we have to worry about MacNaby returning?” His brother had addressed his question to Molly.

“I do not think so. His heart was not committed to doing evil.”

“How do you know that?” Marco queried, genuinely curious why she seemed so confident.

“I just think that his attempts were halfhearted. He could have done something more decisive, such as poisoning you. Instead, he chose methods that were prone to failing. Sabotaging the carriage? You were traveling within London, so the vehicle was never going to reach lethal speeds. The urn on the roof? The noise of it attracted your attention, and you had time to fling us from its path.” Molly stopped, looking at the others with mild embarrassment. Marco realized she had just revealed her presence during the second murder attempt. She pressed her lips together briefly before continuing. “And the fire could have been orchestrated to take hold far more quickly than it did, yet you had time to awaken and sound the alarm. When he took me hostage, I sensed him dithering and uncertain of what he wished to do with me. His discomfort when he tied me up in Edgware was palpable. Lady Blackwood is no longer here to encourage him, and deep down I believe he could see Simon did not need any more strife. I think it was just difficult for him to change his mind about the course he was on, and he needed a reason to release himself from his promise to Isla Scott. I might be naïve, but to me, he appeared unburdened when he made his choice to leave.”

Marco nodded and went quiet, lost in his thoughts about the day’s events.

It was intimidating to realize that Molly was pure strength. A formidable woman who knew how to take care of herself. But Marco wanted to be a man she could lean on, someone who added to her strength. How was he to demonstrate that he was such a man when the confounding female had rescued herself without his help? How was he to prove his worth under such circumstances?

While he was eternally grateful she was safe, it did offer a puzzle to reflect on how to display his esteem in a meaningful manner when his rescue effort had proved … how to say it … ridondante? … redundant.

He could imagine his mother tearing up with mirth at his ridiculous circumstances. His English girl who made him both proud and humbled had now relegated him to quiet reflection rather than heroics, leaving him to grapple with his wounded pride as an ineffectual mollaccione—how did the English call this? Milksop!