The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

  “So he’s here, with her.” And she was still alive. “I’ll check to see if he went in through the door.” Christian glanced at Dalziel.

  Who nodded. “The rest of us will scout outside. Whoever sights him, yell.”

  Christian left them to sort out who would look where. He jogged to the house, scanning the ground along the way for any signs of a struggle or fresh footsteps.

  He reached the door. There might have been a scuffle just outside it, but the grass was thick; he couldn’t tell who might have stood there or how long ago it had been.

  Opening the door—unlocked, as most doors in the country were—he stepped inside, into a shallow hall with two corridors leading off, one to the left, one to the right. He debated for an instant, then turned left, away from the front of the house. The other corridor almost certainly led to the front rooms the butler watched over, and presumably Mrs. Swithin would be somewhere in that region, too.

  If Swithin had brought Letitia inside, he would have gone somewhere else—somewhere away from all others.

  It wasn’t that large a house, but a modest, relatively modern manor in the Palladian style. The first stretch of floor beyond the hall was covered by a runner, but beyond the runner’s end, bare floorboard stretched.

  Noting a darker mark on the wood, Christian crouched, touched a finger to it; his fingertip came away damp, slightly green.

  The grass outside the door had been damp.

  Moving faster, he went on—and found an even clearer set of footprints around the corner, at the base of a set of bare wooden stairs—servants’ stairs, leading up. There were two sets of footprints, the larger clear and well-defined, the smaller smudged and muddled, as if Letitia had been tripping over her own toes.

  Christian swore beneath his breath and started up the stairs. The blackguard must have drugged her.

  He didn’t yell for the others; they almost certainly wouldn’t hear him, but the servants would—and so would Swithin.

  Reaching the first floor landing, he forced himself to search for footprints to show him the way—along the corridor or up the next flight of stairs. His inner clock told him time was running out; panic threatened—but now more than ever he couldn’t afford to go the wrong way.

  But there were runners all about, even on the stairs.

  “Swithin!”

  The hail came from outside.

  Two strides took Christian to the landing window. Looking out, he saw Dalziel, hands on his hips, looking up and shouting—at the roof.

  Christian swore and bolted up the stairs. If Swithin had taken Letitia onto the roof…there was only one possible reason he would.

  And she was drugged.

  On a narrow ledge a bare yard wide, just behind the low parapet encircling the roof, Letitia struggled—wrestled—for her life.

  Her wrists were still tied—she hadn’t been able to do anything about that—but by pretending she couldn’t get up the stairs, she’d forced Swithin to unhobble her ankles.

  So she could balance well enough to counter his shoves, pull back enough when he tried to yank her forward. But bit by bit, his jaw set, his fingers biting into her arms, he maneuvered her closer to the edge.

  She’d pretended to be drugged as long as she could, used her slumping weight, her inability to walk, to slow them.

  He might not be anywhere near Christian’s size, but Swithin was still heavier and stronger than she; fighting him in the carriage wouldn’t have worked—she’d been afraid he might simply have drugged her again. But Swithin had managed her exit from his carriage well, making sure she was out of sight and too distant from his stablemen for there to be any chance of escape. Not with his pistol pressed to her side.

  So she’d worked and worked, forcing her panicking wits to find ways to slow them as much as possible.

  But now she had to fight to keep him from flinging her over the edge.

  Screaming hadn’t been an option, not with that pistol digging into her ribs and no one nearby, but he’d had to put the pistol away so he could use both hands to seize her.

  Now she could scream.

  “No!” She didn’t want to die—not when everything in her life had at last come right. “Stop it—let me go!”

  What right did Swithin have to take her life from her—and for such a nonsensical reason?

  Temper, as ever, was her strength. She used it, drew on it, worked to keep it stoked.

  Desperate, she wrestled, fought as well as she could with her hands tied—would have kicked but she had to keep her balance.

  Swithin pushed—she pushed back.

  But she couldn’t keep going forever.

  She was weakening; just as she started to wonder if Christian would be too late, yells came from below.

  She recognized Dalziel’s voice. If he was there, Christian was close.

  Swithin knew; his face empurpled, then contorted in a snarl. He steeled himself, locked his fingers even more tightly on her arms.

  Letitia felt him gather himself, muscles bunching, prayed she’d have strength enough to counter his shove when it came—

  Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs beyond the half-open roof door.

  Smothering a roar, Swithin wrenched back from her. Holding her at arm’s length with one hand, with the other he scrabbled at his coat pocket.

  He pulled out his pistol.

  Aimed it at the door.

  Just as Christian thrust it wide.

  “No!” Letitia’s heart clogged her throat.

  Time stopped.

  Christian took in the scene in one glance. He saw the pistol aimed at his heart, saw Swithin—no longer the quiet, reserved, cautious gentleman-investor, but a disheveled merchant’s son with a crazed light in his eyes.

  His gaze found Letitia, fixed on her. She’d largely thrown off the effects of the drug. She’d been fighting Swithin. Her green-gold eyes showed healthy fear, but no panic.

  They also glowed with temper, and a determination not to be killed.

  He would have closed his eyes and given thanks, but she wasn’t safe yet.

  Locking his gaze with Swithin’s, he slowly stepped onto the narrow parapet walk, letting the door swing half closed behind him.

  “Get back,” Swithin shouted. “Or I’ll shoot!”

  Christian halted. Looked puzzled. “You don’t want to shoot me.”

  The unexpected reply confused Swithin. He frowned.

  Christian couldn’t risk looking at Letitia—he wanted Swithin’s full attention on him. All he could do was will her to stillness, and silence.

  From the corner of his eye, on the ground far below he could see Justin haring back to the stables. He’d be after the long-barreled pistols they all carried beneath their box seats. Justin had been a crack shot since his childhood, and, Christian suspected, so was Dalziel.

  From where they were, they’d have a clear view of Swithin.

  All he and Letitia had to do was wait.

  And keep Swithin occupied.

  “There’s no sense to any of this, Swithin.” He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly. “Letitia won’t sell her share of the company if you don’t want her to.”

  Swithin sneered. Jeered. “Of course she’ll want to sell—no lady like her would want to have anything to do with such an enterprise. And Trowbridge wanted to sell, too—he told me so. And then I’d have to sell, no matter that I don’t want to, because how can I not without admitting—”

  Abruptly he closed his lips. Eyes distinctly feverish, he shook his head. “No, no—I’m not going to say. I’m never going to tell anyone. Can’t. It’s my secret. We kept a lot of secrets, but that one’s mine alone.” His lips lifted in a parody of a smile. “No one else gets to know that one.”

  Christian inclined his head in acceptance. “But why kill people?” Justin had returned, pistols in hand. Christian could see the others moving about below. Keeping his gaze locked with Swithin’s, he frowned. “I don’t understand. Killing people never helps.”
/>
  Swithin’s expression turned superior. “In this case, it will—it does. It stops them from selling the company without me having to admit…anything. Without me having to beg them not to.”

  “But being convicted of murder’s not going to help. You don’t want that.”

  Swithin smiled slyly. “It won’t happen—I won’t be convicted. No one can prove I killed Randall and Trowbridge. It was surprisingly easy. Just a knock on the back of the head and they were gone. Quick and neat. But there’s no proof I killed them—I made sure of that. No—now I just have to pitch this bitch off the roof and everything will work out.”

  He shifted, turning toward Letitia as if to do just that.

  Christian seized the moment to glance down; the others were repositioning, trying to get a bead on Swithin without Letitia or he anywhere close. Dalziel saw him looking and waved, beckoning—they wanted Swithin closer to the edge. Christian hurriedly asked, “But why from the roof? Why not just knock her on the head like the others?”

  It was the only thing he could think of to ask.

  Swithin looked back at him, a strange smile curving his lips; beyond him, Christian saw Letitia gathering herself—she’d used the time he’d bought them to regroup.

  “I can’t do that,” Swithin told him. “She’s Randall’s and Trowbridge’s murderer—she’s the one who knocks people on the head. Not me. Never me. She was making far too many inquiries—or you were on her behalf. I know you spoke with Gallagher, and then you went to see Roscoe. I couldn’t allow that—couldn’t allow you, and her, to learn too much. But it doesn’t matter now. Once she goes over the edge, you won’t be able to help her anymore. And everyone will see that she killed the other two, then came after me, and when she couldn’t kill me, she rushed up here and threw herself off.” His smile widened. “It’s obvious.”

  Christian didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such foolishness.

  But it seemed they’d run out of time.

  That quantity slowed as Swithin turned to Letitia. Christian saw him tighten the grip he had on her arm.

  He was going to half throw, half swing her over the edge—he’d only need to make her topple. He could do it without stepping closer to the parapet. There was only one thing Christian could do—one risk, one gamble, he had to take.

  “Swithin.” He poured every ounce of command he possessed into his voice. “Look down.”

  Startled, Swithin glanced back at him; he still had his pistol in a firm grip. Christian didn’t move so much as an eyelash.

  Puzzlement growing, unable to read anything in Christian’s face, Swithin shifted; bracing his arm, anchoring Letitia at arm’s length, he edged closer to the parapet, looked over and down.

  Two shots rang out, virtually inseparable.

  Swithin jerked, then stumbled backward, crumpling to the ground.

  Slinging Letitia forward as he fell, his descending weight acting as a fulcrum propelling her over the edge.

  Christian shot forward, leapt over Swithin, dove for the edge, grabbed—but her body had already cleared the parapet.

  He couldn’t reach her—but her bound hands, desperately reaching out to him as she twisted and fell, brushed, clutched at his sleeves.

  He seized her wrists, hung on with both hands as her falling weight yanked him to the edge. Going down on his knees, he braced his body behind the low parapet, his hands locked viselike about hers.

  Her fingers clenched convulsively, gripping, clinging.

  Then came the jerk as he took her weight.

  The muscles in his arms screamed; pain shot across his shoulders. He heard her cry out in pain and shock.

  But he had her. Mentally giving thanks, he closed his eyes for a second, savored the feel of her hands still in his.

  Still alive in his.

  She gasped, gulped in air as her swinging weight steadied.

  After a moment she looked up; he felt the shift in her weight.

  Spreading his knees, lowering his body, he leaned into the parapet, and opening his eyes, looked down.

  Into her face.

  He smiled. “I’ve got you.”

  The concern—the fear—in her eyes didn’t fade.

  She studied his face, then he saw her gaze lower.

  “You can’t hold me forever.”

  “Believe me, I can—or at least for long enough now to be able to manage forever.”

  She smiled faintly; something in her face changed. Her eyes, when she lifted them to his again, were filled with an emotion he hadn’t seen in them before—one she’d never let him see.

  “I love you.” Letitia knew that, no matter what he said, she was going to fall and die. The muscles of his neck, shoulders, and chest were under horrendous strain, the veins in his throat starkly corded. Even now the muscles in his arms were starting to quiver.

  So she had to say now what she hadn’t yet. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you. I’ve always loved you, every day through all the years. I never stopped loving you. Even when I lay with Randall, it was you I was with in my heart.” She smiled softly. “That was yours from the first, and will be yours to the last.”

  “I love you, too.” He continued to look into her eyes. “I always have. I never stopped loving you—I never will.” His hands tightened on hers. “Now hold on.”

  Her smile faded. “It’s hopeless.”

  “Nothing’s ever hopeless—just look at us. And in this case, we have friends who are running hither and yon as we speak.”

  He glanced past her. “Apparently there’s refurbishing still going on around the house—they’ve found a large oilcloth. And there’s bales of hay, too. They’re arranging them beneath you.” His gaze switched back to her face. “You can’t possibly be so gauche as to fall before they’re ready to catch you—they’re going to so much trouble.”

  Hope sprang to life within her. A bright burning flame, it caught and flared—so quickly, so strongly, she felt giddy. She nearly laughed.

  If there was hope, she’d cling to it—cling to life, and him.

  He was looking down past her again. “They’re almost ready—they’ve stretched out the oilcloth. There’s only four of them—no, Barton has joined them. Good man. You’ll have to stop hounding the poor beggar now—very bad ton to hound a man who was instrumental in saving your life.”

  The thought of Barton finally being helpful was too much; she humphed.

  But then his expression sobered and he looked back at her.

  “Now comes the difficult part.” He held her gaze. “You have to trust me. When I say let go, you have to let go. Believe me, that won’t be as easy as it sounds. You’ll be falling. But the straw bales are beneath you—you won’t hit the ground. And the oilcloth will slow you—which is why you have to let go exactly when I tell you, because they’re going to have to pull the cloth taut at the right moment.”

  She nodded her understanding. “Yes, all right.” She trusted him implicitly, more than enough to trump all fear.

  “Good.” He looked down, raised his voice. “On the count of three.” His gaze returned to her face. His hands shifted on hers, easing his grip but not yet releasing her. “One, two…” His eyes held hers. “Let go.”

  Wrapped in his gray gaze, she opened her fingers.

  Felt his warm grasp slip away as gravity took hold and she started to fall.

  Heard him call from above, “Three!”

  And then she was falling.

  Falling.

  Onto the taut oilcloth. As she landed, she saw the other men hauling back hard, hands locked on the edge of the cloth, their weight fully back.

  She bounced once, then settled onto the bales of hay as the men released the tension on the cloth. Sitting up, she flicked her black skirts down, then frowned at her bound wrists.

  Justin grabbed her, hauled her to the edge of the bales and hugged her wildly. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Perfectly.” And she was. She thumped his side with her h
ands. “Here—untie my wrists.”

  Without meeting her eyes, Justin bent his head to pick at the knots.

  Dalziel, as cool as ever, came up. “Here—let me.” He had a wicked-looking dagger in his hand.

  Justin straightened. Letitia held out her hands and Dalziel expertly sliced through the cords.

  She couldn’t quite believe she was alive.

  Determined to hang onto her composure, she glanced regally around the circle of her rescuers, inclining her head and bestowing a smile on each of them—even Barton. “Thank you, gentlemen. That was…quite an experience.”

  Beyond Dalziel she saw Christian come out of a door.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She stood, discovered her legs were fully functional. She started to walk along the facade to where Christian had halted, just beyond the door.

  Then her Vaux heritage got the better of her; she picked up her skirts and ran.

  Straight into his arms.

  He opened them as she neared, closed them tightly about her as she landed against his chest, wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.

  She closed her eyes, felt the tears leak out.

  She was safe. She was where she’d always wanted to be. This time he’d come for her. This time he’d saved her.

  Christian knew beyond doubt what she was thinking. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in her scent—that elusive, unforgettable scent of jasmine—murmured, “I’m here,” in her ear.

  She hugged him harder.

  For one moment they simply stood, wrapped in each other, and let the past go, let it fade. Knew they stood on the cusp of their future—the future they’d dreamed of so long ago.

  Eventually she drew back. Looked up into his eyes. Smiled one of her seductive smiles. “I’ve already thanked the others. I’ll have to thank you appropriately…but later.”

  He smiled back. “Later.” Releasing her, he took her hand. “Now”—expression hardening, he looked up as Dalziel and the others neared—“we have to deal with the aftermath of Swithin’s Grand Plan.”

  Inside the house, they located Swithin’s wife. A pale blonde of good but minor family, she was a mild, gentle, quiet female; with his extensive experience in dealing with such ladies, Tristan took on the task of explaining what had occurred without reducing the poor woman to hysterics. Letitia sat beside Mrs. Swithin, lending wordless support, but wisely leaving the talking to Tristan.