She couldn’t breathe.
She knew that he hadn’t done enough to kill her. That he’d simply knocked the wind from her. But it was enough to terrify her.
The terror turned to anger.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she struggled more, willing to do anything to free herself from his hand. She squirmed and pushed, and still he held her, his free hand tearing her coat apart, sending buttons flying before he grasped at her skirts, pulling them up, letting the frigid air curl around her ankles, her calves, her knees.
“Hold ’er,” the first man said, reaching for the fall of his trousers as breath returned, miraculously, and her fear turned from death to something else. Something worse.
She clawed at her captor, hands punching and hitting at his arms, but she was no match for him. She changed tack, feeling for the knife in the lining of her cloak, trying to stay calm. Trying to focus.
She found it as she felt the other man’s hands grab harshly at the skin above her knee, and she closed her eyes, unable to shake the vision of his filthy hand on her skin there. Slid the knife from its mooring.
But her captor saw it before she could use it. Caught her.
Was too strong for her.
He wrenched it from her hands and pressed it to her throat. “Silly girl. Weapons like this are too dangerous for the likes of you.”
Fear gave way to horror.
And then he was gone, her blade clattering to the cobblestones, the loss of his weight accompanied by a deafening roar that should have increased her fear, but instead brought relief like none she’d ever known.
Temple.
She was free, her captor releasing her the moment the duke arrived, at first attempting to rescue his friend, but now standing back, unable to tear his gaze from the fight. She scurried backward, clutching her knees to her chest, and watched as well.
Temple pummeled her attacker, now pressed against the wall just as she had been, and no doubt feeling a fear similar to hers as England’s winningest bare-knuckle boxer used every ounce of his skill and force to mete out justice.
But this was not a professional fighter who fought with rules and regulations, somehow finding a space for sport in the fight.
This Temple was out for blood. The movements were precise and economical, no doubt the product of years of training and practice, but every blow carried the heavy weight of his anger, hitting again and again until it was the momentum of his fists that kept her attacker upright, and nothing else.
He was stronger than gravity.
The second man in the alleyway seemed to have a similar realization, and decided that rescuing his friend was far less important than rescuing himself. He pushed past Temple, headed for escape.
But luck was not on the man’s side.
Temple dropped his current foe into an unconscious heap at his feet and reached out to catch the second man by the neck, pulling him off balance and throwing him to the ground. Mara saw the glint of silver in the villain’s hand. Her knife. He’d found it in the darkness.
“Blade!” she called out. She came to a crouch, ready to enter the fight. To protect him as he’d protected her. Before she could, however, Temple took a knee next to the man and resumed his battle. As though weaponry could not hurt him. As though he were immune to threat.
The knife flew through the air, finding its mark before Temple knocked it away, sending it skittering across the cobblestones, coming to a stop mere inches from her boots. She lifted it, held it tight in her hands, and did not stop watching Temple.
This time, he spoke, his blows punctuating the words that came through clenched teeth. “You. Will. Never. Hurt. Another. Woman.”
The man whimpered.
Temple leaned in close. “What did you say?”
The man whimpered again.
Temple lifted him from the ground by the lapels, then dropped him, allowing his head to fall back on the cobblestones. “I cannot hear you.”
The man shook his head, eyes closed. “I—I won’t.”
Temple landed another blow, then leaned in. “Won’t what?”
“Hurt another.”
“Another what?”
“Another woman.”
Temple leaned back on his haunches then, his massive thighs firm and wide, his breath coming hard and fast. “Get up.”
The man did as he was told, scrambling to his feet.
“Take your bastard friend with you if you wish him to live.”
The man did as he was told, pulling Mara’s groaning attacker to his feet and beating a path from the alleyway with as much haste as possible.
She watched them go, and it took her several long moments before she looked to Temple, who was staring at her from his place, several feet away, still as stone.
Once he met her eyes, everything changed. He swore once, under his breath, and came toward her, on his hands and knees, slowly. “Mara?”
The sound of her name on his lips, soft and graveled, unlocked her, and she began to tremble there in the darkness, on that grimy London street. He was by her side in seconds, reaching out, his hand hesitating in the space between them, hovering scant inches from her. Less. Not touching her. Not wanting to scare her, she imagined. Not wanting to impose.
The movement was so gentle, so kind, that it was hard to believe that he was anything but a friend.
You came, she wished to say. Thank you.
She couldn’t find any of the words. And she did not have to, because he was swearing softly and pulling her into his enormous embrace.
And she felt safe for the first time in years.
Perhaps ever.
She leaned into him, reveling in his warmth, his strength, his size. His arms came around her, pulling her tight against him, and his head bowed over hers, his whole body encircling her, protecting her.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered to the top of her head. “You’re safe.” He rocked her back and forth. “They shan’t be back.” His lips grazed her temple as he spoke to her.
She believed him.
She believed the way he spoke with care, the way his hands, instruments of her attackers’ retribution, now stroked softly along her back and down her legs, tucking her skirts carefully around her, spreading warmth through the parts of her that had gone cold with fear.
“You bested them. There were two. And you are one.”
“I told you, I do not lose.” There was lightness in the tone, one she could tell he did not entirely feel.
She smiled at the words, nonetheless. “Such arrogance.”
“Not arrogance. Truth.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she decided on: “You are not wearing a coat.”
He hesitated at that, barely, then said, “There wasn’t time. I had to find you.”
And he had.
“Thank you,” she said, the words strange and strangled and unfamiliar.
He pulled her closer. “Don’t thank me,” he whispered. “I was quite angry.”
She smiled into his topcoat. “I imagine you were.”
“I might still be angry, but you’ll have to wait until I am through being terrified.”
Her head snapped up, and she cursed the darkness in the alleyway, wishing that she could see his eyes. “Terrified?”
He turned away from her. “It doesn’t matter. You’re safe now.”
And she was. Because he was here.
Remarkably.
“How did you—”
He gave her a little smile. “I also told you I would find you if you ran.”
She shook her head, tears threatening. He’d passed. She’d heard him.
And still, he had found her.
He brushed her hair back from his face. “I doubled back.”
“If you hadn’t—”
He shook his head and pressed her tight against him again. “I did,” he said firmly.