Hell and damnation!
As Margaret dangled from the banister, agony coursed through her body like lightning. Every swing and kick, every movement was pure searing torment. Warm blood dripped over her skin, a thick sticky fluid.
She could not raise her bandaged arm to help support her weight. She could not pull herself back onto the staircase either. Unable to hold on, she could only try to control her fall.
She didn’t look down. She didn’t dare. She knew if she did, she’d lose her nerve.
Perhaps she would not hurt herself too much when she hit the floor. Were there not ways of landing from such a height that were not fatal? Not that she really had another choice.
Stilling her twitching legs, she shut her eyes and let her fingers slip from the polished wood. Both the men above her swore graphically. Slowly, the hands holding her wrist and arm lost their hold.
Falling, falling, falling. How long did she have to wait for impact? The distance from banister to floor was relatively short, but the plummet seemed to last forever.
The beauty and pain of the last few weeks played like a frenetic film in her mind. Flowers and spilled offal, sunshine and storms, a shared song and a vicious rage—it was a montage worthy of The Battleship Potemkin.
Yet, it was the last thing she saw that repeated the most. Just before she released her grip on the banister, she glanced up. Flanked by two policemen, Teresa grinned with exultation. Her main prey might have escaped her, but her rival had not.
The realization of Teresa's victory galled her. After all the hard work her rescuers did to save her life, it wasn’t going to be enough. The bitch had won!
What would happen now? Teresa was such a pretty little liar. Could she convince others that the fall was an accident? Would she use her influence and money to escape justice?
And what about Christopher? He had been so desperately worried about her. When she was so ill, he had tended to her better than any nurse.
The things he whispered to her while she slept revealed a deep loneliness and an abiding need for her. Would he be able to move on if she died? Her sweet earl did not deserve a wretched life alone.
Abruptly, Margaret felt strong arms catch her, holding her inches from the floor. At the same instant, a loud crash of wood, a clang of metal, and an explosion of broken glass and porcelain boomed through the room.
Her savior shifted her carefully. He supported her on his knee, removing his arm from under her legs gently. His free hand, shaking, brushed the hair from her face. A hoarse terrified voice called her name gently, asking her to look at him.
She lay there for a moment, her head spinning. The reversal of fortune shocked her, leaving her in a daze. Suddenly aware she was still alive, she opened her eyes.
The worried ruined face of Lord Christopher Tobias filled her vision. His complexion was blanched, his skin taut. He trembled, and his breath heaved. His beautiful blue eye stared, dilated and wide.
When her clear gaze met his, he gulped and grinned in relief. He closed his eyes, jaggedly exhaling a fervent thankful prayer. A tremor ran through him, and he quivered like a released bowstring. As if suddenly exhausted, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Christopher?” she croaked.
He cried out at the sound of her voice and embraced her suddenly, fiercely. Gasping and choking, he buried his face in her hair. A single laugh escaped his lips. In tone, it resembled the caw of a strangled and slightly hysterical crow.
“Are you all right, Maggie, my darling?” He asked softly at last. Lifting his head, he gazed down on her with moist eyes.
He studied her face with such concern and tenderness, she almost wept. She fought the impulse because she sensed that once she started, she would not stop for a very long time. And if she broke down, he might not be far behind. She could not let him do that in front of so many people. It would be too humiliating.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Sighing, she nodded and offered him her hand. He pulled her up gently, bracing her back and damaged arm.
She looked around. A low, heavy curio cabinet lay broken a few feet away. All the objects within it were smashed. He must have knocked the whole thing aside in his rush to reach her.
Once she was standing on her good leg, leaning on him for support, he instinctively turned his damaged countenance away. His cheeks flamed bright red. He winced, gritting his teeth, and shuddered.
He had made the decision to come out of the shadows. She had seen him gather the courage and stare them all down. It had been awe-inspiring to watch, and her admiration of him soared at that moment. However, confronting the whole village was one thing. She apparently was something else again.
She placed her hand gently on his jaw and turned his face to hers. “Thank you, Christopher. You saved me… twice.”
“You're more than welcome,” he muttered roughly, his glance still averted.
Slowly she caressed the scars. He didn’t move, frozen for a moment. Without objection, he let her examine the damage. He was stone still, barely breathing. He waited for her verdict with an expression like a man facing the hangman's noose.
“My dear Christopher,” she murmured. “You're one of the kindest, gentlest, truest, and most respectful men I have ever met. You gave of yourself selflessly, providing what I needed regardless of the cost. Twice, you rescued me in my hour of need.”
“Maggie…” he began.
With a gentle shush, she put her finger to his lips. He fell silent with a resigned nod. He obviously believed whatever determination she was going to make had already been decided. She knew he would accept her sentence, whatever it might be.
She smiled slightly, her fingers still tracing his maimed face. That was her Christopher, so accepting, so sincere, so foolishly pessimistic. “My brave and honorable Lord Yawron, my sweet and insecure earl, to me you can never be anything but beautiful.”
He grasped her exploring hand and, turning his head, kissed her palm fervently. Leaning close, she brushed her lips across his marred cheek and whispered, “I love you.”
With a cry, he clasped her to him as tightly and desperately as a starving man holds a cup of soup or a thirsty man a glass of water. His whole frame shook. A ragged sob escaped his lips, a single word breaking free, “Christ!”
“Careful, my lord,” she remarked, with a sharp inhalation. “Not so close.”
He quickly loosened his hold, but only a little. He seemed loath to release his grip as if afraid she might slip through his fingers. Trembling, he stood still as he fought to regain his composure. She remained pressed against him, her ear listening to his racing heart.
Suddenly, with a muttered apology, he tried to step away from her. She refused to let him go. Instead, holding him close, she lifted her head off his chest and examined his appearance again.
The image from the photographs was still there. Disfigurement and passing time could not erase the mixture of ennui and authority in his bright-blue eye. The eagle nose was still visible. His hair was dark brown, arranged in a haircut that was nearly two decades out of fashion.
There was a slight graying at the temples and one or two strands of white woven through the mahogany. He was far too young for the color. She suspected it was the trauma of his accident rather than age that had put the silver there.
Noticing the earl’s embarrassment at her scrutiny, Margaret chuckled and kissed him softly on the lips. He instantly went the color of a beet. She laughed softly.
Christopher pulled back, clearing his throat. “When I was young, such kissing was for courting couples only.”
“Oh!” she replied airily. “Well, if that’s the way you want to view it…”
A sensation ran through the people gathered in the hall. Someone who sounded strangely like Mr. Logan hooted, “You’ve cornered yourself right proper, my lord!”
Christopher asked, flummoxed, “Excuse me, Maggie, but did you just propose to me?”
She grinned. “Since we’ve only known each other a few weeks, and since I’m sure you think proposals are the man’s prerogative, I’ll let you off the hook.” The crowd snickered.
“I’ve never known a woman like you, Margaret Taylor,” he declared, admiration in his tone and expression. It was wonderful to finally see the emotions on his face as well as hear them in his voice.
“Women have become more assertive in recent years, my lord, but I like to think there are none like me.” At her quip, the townspeople laughed and some applauded.
“You're fond of Shakespeare, as I recall,” his lordship commented, with a twinkle in his healthy eye.
It was Margaret’s turn to be confused. “Yes.”
“Then, my dear Beatrice, ‘I will stop your mouth.’ ”
He kissed her full on the lips, elation making him reckless. With a gasp, she lifted her head. “Don’t you just love Shakespeare!” she declared, and then returned his kiss with equal passion. A cheer from the crowd echoed around the great hall.