“Yes, but Howard will become suspicious in a moment. Come, Sybil.” Hand in hand, they hurried up the stairs, but before they reached the door, the shouting beyond fell silent.
“Now,” Sybil heard Howard say, “you will know what it is to pit yourself against a man like me.”
Fear, the likes of which she had never known, raced through Sybil, and she caught her breath. He had to be speaking to George. Her mother placed a hand on her arm, but Sybil refused to remain still and allow George to be hurt. He had come here for her, to rescue her, tohelpher.
And she loved him.
She had been afraid for herself before, but that was nothing to the thought that George’s life might be taken on her account. Without thinking—without even knowing what she was doing—she barged through the door and charged along the wide corridor that led to the hallway.
George stood beside two men lying motionless on the floor, his chest heaving and the skin on his knuckles split. In front of him, pistol raised and pointed at his face, stood Howard.
“There,” Howard said, sick triumph in every syllable. “I would kill you now, but killing you won’t be half as satisfying as letting you watch me marry the woman you love. The priest should be arriving in an hour or so, and then it will be too late.” His gloating made nausea rise in Sybil’s stomach. George’s gaze flicked to her, and his eyes widened.
She lifted her chin. “I told you,” she said, her voice calm and cool, “I have no intention of marrying you.”
Epilogue
At Sybil’s words, Howard turned, the barrel of his pistol facing her now. His face twisted into something monstrous she could hardly have believed could exist in a human expression.
As though time had slowed, she was at perfect liberty to see everything in slow motion—the way his lip curled, the way his eyes narrowed at her, the way his finger traveled to the trigger.
“Will you not?” he snarled, and there was something so dark in his expression that Sybil stepped back, her bravado gone. “Then make no mistake, Lady Sybil Wilson—if I can’t have you, no one else can.”
Everything happened at once. As Sybil flinched, George launched himself forward, and her mother yanked her back by her shoulder, positioning herself in front.
But Howard’s finger squeezed across the trigger, and there was abangthat reverberated about the room. Sybil screamed, and for a moment everything went white. Had she been hit? Had her mother?
“Sybil!” Someone was shouting her name, and she blinked, banishing the tears and the confusion and the worry as finally, she turned to face her mother. Unhurt. Unhurt.
Her gaze traveled down her mother’s front, scanning for any sign of injury as her ears slowly tuned back into the other sounds that were accompanying the shouting. Her name coming from another avenue.
George. When she looked up, satisfied her mother hadn’t been hurt, it was to George restraining Howard. The pistol lay on the floor where Howard had no doubt dropped it.
“Sybil,” George said, and the urgency of his voice finally penetrated. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Her cheeks were damp, she realized belatedly as she met his gaze. When had she started crying?
“Are you all right?”
Sybil turned her attention to the pistol and reached down to pick it up. It was oddly heavy in her hands, and she felt the weight of its power seep through her. This had the ability to take lives with very little effort on her part. All she would have to do is squeeze the trigger.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice calm and cool. “Mama, fetch the rope from the cellar. We should restrain him.”
Her mother left the room, and it was just Sybil and George and the knowledge of what had happened between them. There were so many things she could say, but not with Howard in the room. She wanted to rush into George’s arms, but he was actively holding back the man who had tried to kill her.
He’d tried tokillher. He had looked into her face and decided that he wanted her dead enough to pull the trigger. If it were not for George, she would be dead.
“You came for me,” she said, and this time, although the hand holding the pistol was steady, her voice trembled slightly. “You came for me.”
“Of course I did.” George twisted Howard’s arms viciously as he tried to escape. “I will always come for you, Sybil. Always.”
Yes, she was definitely going to cry. In fact, it was a miracle that, regardless of the dampness on her cheeks, she hadn’t curled into a sobbing ball of gratefulness. Howard had tried to marry her and kill her on the same day. It was too much. Too much.
Her mother arrived back with the rope and, obeying George’s terse instructions, bound George, wrapping the rope around his body several times for good measure. It was a good thing, Sybil reflected, that the rope was far longer than was needed to merely bind her hands and body to the chair.
Then, releasing Howard as though he could not wait to be done with him, George crossed to the room to her and pulled her in his arms, one thumb stroking her face, the other tight around her waist.
“Sybil,” he murmured, then he kissed her as though he, too, needed that reassurance she was there. She was unhurt. All was well between them.
