And Then She Fell(108)

“That’s right.” The murderer was gloating. “Keep going.”

James moved slowly, backing one defined step at a time; Henrietta realized he was keeping his gaze locked with the murderer’s, and his slow, deliberate—clearly reluctant—retreat was keeping the murderer focused on him.

Step by step, James retreated, and, step by step, the murderer came further into the room.

At last, he cleared the open door; his gaze still on James, the villain reached back and caught the edge of the door with the hand holding the lantern and pushed it closed.

He was standing precisely where Henrietta was aiming.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled the trigger.

Two shots roared out, one immediately following the other, the combined sounds deafening in the enclosed space.

On a gasp, Henrietta opened her eyes. Heart thudding, she slowly lowered her pistol. As the echoes of the shots faded, she saw the lantern on the floor near her feet—and the murderer sprawled awkwardly across the floor, his upper back against the tallboy, one hand clamped to a massive hole in one shoulder.

“James?” She couldn’t see him. Panic surged.

Had he been shot?

Killed?

To get around the bed she had to pass the murderer. His pistol lay beside him, spent; she kicked it away from him regardless. She could see he was trying to gather his strength. Drawing back her foot, she kicked him squarely between the legs; he howled and curled up on himself.

Satisfied, she rushed around the bed. “James?”

Then she saw him. “Oh, my God!” He had been shot. He was struggling to sit up, to prop himself against the side of the bed. She rushed to help. “How bad is it?”

James blinked at her as she crouched beside him. He could barely believe it—they were both alive. He drank in her concern and managed a crooked, albeit pained, grin. “Not that bad. I flung myself aside and his ball clipped my arm. It probably looks worse than it is.”

He wasn’t sure she heard him over the thunderous cacophony of God only knew how many people pounding up the stairs. But all he cared about was her; his gaze feasted on her, devoured her face, her beloved features, then settled on her eyes. Lost in the blue, he murmured, “I assume that’s the cavalry. I’m glad you didn’t come alone.”

With his unbloodied hand, he gently touched her cheek, then cupped it. Just that touch was the most wondrous relief.

She looked fierce as a tigress as she raised a hand to cradle the back of his. “I would have come alone if that’s what it took, but I didn’t have to.” She glanced up as a horde of people rushed into the room.

James didn’t care about anyone else; for him, there was only her. Gently, he turned her face back to his, found her gaze, those lovely soft blue eyes, and held it. “I love you. God, how much I love you.” He let himself sink into the blue. “While I was tied up here, all I could think about was that I hadn’t told you that. In facing possible death, that was my one real regret.”

She smiled stunningly—a beauteous sight, sunshine banishing the darkness—and caught his hand in both of hers. “I love you, too. I truly do.” Raising his hand, she kissed his knuckles, held as tightly to his gaze as he was holding to hers. “I am so relieved that you’re alive.”

She leaned in and their lips touched. Softly lingered.

Just that, a simple caress that meant the world to them both.

She drew back and, eyes closed, sighed, then, her grip on his hand tightening, she leaned her forehead against his, and for an instant they both clung—to the moment, to each other. To the inexpressible joy of being together and alive.

Then Stokes arrived. They both looked up as he swept in to join the crowd already standing around the murderer, retribution in their eyes.

Stokes humphed, then bent over the villain and stripped away the black scarf and lifted off the wide-brimmed hat.

The others crowded around to look, to study the murderer’s face, to divine the identity he’d been willing to kill again and again to conceal.

While they were thus engaged, Henrietta rose and helped James to his feet. He was clutching his left arm just below his shoulder. His sleeve was torn and bloodied, but when she got him to ease his grip, the wound bled only sluggishly. As far as she could see in the poor light, as far as he could tell, the ball had passed through and wasn’t lodged in his flesh. Pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed, she stripped the case off one pillow and used the fabric to bind his arm. He smiled more strongly, more definitely at her, and murmured his thanks.