Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(95)

Garrett’s eyes widened in horror. The mechanism was like the spring lancets used for bloodletting.

Beacom grinned at her expression. “With this one little blade,” he told her, “I can drain a man as empty as weekday church.”

Gamble rolled his eyes. “You could do it just as easily with a small folding knife.”

“Toss off,” Beacom told him good-humoredly, and loped to the grand staircase, effortlessly ascending the steps two at a time as he headed to Ethan’s room.

A muffled scream tore from Garrett’s throat. She ran after him, only to feel Gamble’s arms latch around her from behind. She used all her weight to plant her feet hard on the ground, just as Ethan had taught her. The maneuver pulled Gamble a degree off balance. Garrett sidestepped and used her bound hands to strike backward at his crotch.

Unfortunately her aim was off, turning what would have been an incapacitating blow to the groin into a glancing swat. But it hurt Gamble enough to make his arms loosen. Twisting away, Garrett raced up the stairs, making as much noise as the gag would allow.

Gamble caught up to her as she reached the next floor, and gave her a hard shake. “Stow it,” he growled, “or I’ll break your neck right here, no matter what Jenkyn wants.”

Garrett went still, panting, as she heard noises in different parts of the house—a crash of what sounded like glass and furniture, and a heavy thud. Good God, how many men had Jenkyn sent?

Flicking a contemptuous glance at her, Gamble said, “You should have let Ransom die from the bullet wound. Would’ve been a damn sight more merciful than what Beacom’s doing to him.” He gave her a slight push. “Show me to his room.”

A few burning tears runneled down to Garrett’s chin as Gamble pushed and prodded her along the hallway. She reminded herself that Ethan was a light sleeper. It was possible he’d awakened in time to defend himself, or hide somewhere. Soon the servants would realize the house had been invaded, and they would come down from the third floor. If Ethan could manage to stay alive until then . . .

The door to his bedroom was wide open. The interior was faintly illuminated by the pilot lights from the hallway lamps, and a weak spill of moonlight from the window.

Garrett let out a muffled cry as she saw that Ethan was in his bed, facing away from the doorway. He lay on his side, making quiet sounds as if he were in pain, or lost in a nightmare. What was wrong with him? Was he ill? Was he pretending to be incapacitated?

Gamble steered her into the room with his hand at the back of her neck.

She felt a hard pressure against her skull, and heard the ratcheting click of a pistol hammer.

“Beacom,” Gamble said quietly. He moved to glance back at the hallway, while keeping the gun to Garrett’s head. “Beacom?”

No answer.

Gamble switched his attention to the man on the bed. “How many times do I have to keep killing you, Ransom?” he asked dryly.

Ethan made an incoherent sound.

“I have Dr. Gibson with me,” Gamble taunted. “Jenkyn wants me to bring her to him. Too bad. His interrogations never end well for women, do they?”

On the periphery of Garrett’s vision, a shadow lengthened slowly on the floor, like a spill of warm tar. Someone was approaching from behind. She resisted the temptation to look directly at the shadow, instead keeping her attention on Ethan’s still form.

“Should I put a bullet in her head instead?” Gamble asked. “As a kindness to an old friend? I’m sure you’d rather have her shot than tortured.” The muzzle of the revolver lifted from Garrett’s head. “Should I start with you, Ransom? If I do, you’ll never know what happens to her. Maybe you should beg me to shoot her first.” He pointed the gun at the figure on the bed. “Go on,” he said. “Let me hear it.”

As soon as Gamble took aim at Ethan, Garrett burst into action, using her right elbow to deliver a sharp blow to his throat.

The explosive jab took Gamble by surprise. Although she hadn’t managed to hit him squarely, it caught enough of his goiter to make him wheeze and clutch his neck with his free hand. He staggered back, barely managing to retain the revolver.

Although Garrett’s wrists were bound, she leapt toward his gun arm, grabbing desperately for his wrist. But before she could reach him, she slammed against a big, dark shape that had come between them. It was like hitting a stone wall.

Shaken and stunned, she stumbled backward and tried to make sense of what was happening. The room was filled with violent motion, as if a storm had found its way inside. Two men were fighting in front of her, using fists, elbows, knees, feet.

Reaching up to the tightly cinched gag, Garrett managed to tug it from her mouth. She spat out the sodden cloth and worked her dry, rough tongue against the sides of her cheeks. Without warning, the pistol came skidding across the floor, its trajectory so close that she was able to stop it with her foot. She fumbled to snatch up the weapon and hurried to Ethan’s bedside.

Croaking out his name, she tugged back the covers . . . and froze.

The man in the bed was Beacom. He was battered and only semiconscious, his body immobilized with a collection of trouser braces and surgical bandages.

Utterly bewildered, Garrett turned back to the brawling figures near the doorway. One of them had collapsed to the floor. The other had straddled him and was pummeling him unmercifully, intent on murder. He was dressed only in trousers, his upper half bare. She recognized the shape of his head, the breadth of his shoulders.