Right after he reached Cynthia’s side.
Twenty yards.
Ten.
His skis caught on who-knew-what and Alexander went sprawling, landing in an ungainly heap two haystacks down from hers.
People were running toward them.
They were still a hundred yards away.
He flung his poles aside and threw off his skis, half sprinting, half scrambling, across the ice-slick snow. He gathered Cynthia up and cradled her to his chest.
“I will kill you if you die,” he choked into her hair.
“Ironic,” she mumbled. “I like it.”
She was alive.
“I didn’t mean to!” came a panicked, desperate voice.
“Is that... the Duke of Nottingvale?” said another.
Alexander didn’t let go of Cynthia.
He wasn’t certain he ever could.
“If you take one step closer,” he snarled at the adolescent lad with the tear-stained face, “I will rip you asunder with my bare hands.”
The lad blanched and nodded jerkily, new tears escaping to join the others.
“Is she... dead?” he stuttered.
“She’s alive.” The look of abject relief on the boy’s face matched Alexander’s own. “Go and summon a doctor.”
The lad nodded and ran off, his thin elbows spiking into the air.
Alexander lowered his mouth to Cynthia’s matted temple.
“If you die...” he growled.
“You’ll kill me,” she mumbled. “I remember.”
“What the devil were you thinking?” His body still hadn’t stopped shaking. Might never stop shaking.
“It was Max,” she protested weakly.
A pathetic mewl sounded from the direction of her bodice.
“I got him,” she whispered.
“I don’t care about Max.” His body was definitely never going to stop shaking. “I’ve gotyou.”
“If it makes you feel better,” she said tentatively. “I think it’s a flesh wound.”
“It does not make me feel better. It makes me feel like throttling you.”
“I think I could walk. If you let go of me.”
