A ragged cry echoed in the stairwell.
High. Broken. Animal.
It took her a moment to realize it came from her.
Gathering all her strength, she drew her foot back and drove her knee upward, striking with all the force she could muster.
The answering groan that cut through the dark was real. Human.
And vaguely familiar.
The stairwell came back to her in pieces.
Dust. Cold air. The hard edge of the wall at her back.
Then the bent-over man looked up and she caught the scent of him.
Not whisky. Not stale tobacco.
Tea.
Everything stopped.
She was not on the ground. She was not pinned beneath crushing weight or being forced to endure foul breath and painful…
THERE YOU ARE
Gideon remained bent forward, one hand braced against his thigh, the other pressed rather firmly to the source of his current distress, breathing with great care and very little dignity.
He had not endured such a blow since his time abroad, when an unscrupulous sparring partner had demonstrated precisely why certain tactics were excluded from polite instruction.
It had been memorable.
This, he surmised, would be more so.
For several seconds, there was no sound but their heavy breathing.
His. Hers.
The distant thrum of voices overhead, dulled by walls and stone so it seemed to belong to another world entirely.
And Beatrice…
She stood a few feet from him, utterly still. Not poised. Not composed.
Frozen.
Gideon forced himself not to move. Not to reach for her.
Not to do a single blasted thing that might send her back into whatever dark place had found her.
“Beatrice,” he said, keeping his voice low despite the effort it cost him. “It’s just me.” He swallowed against another wave of pain and tried again. “Gideon.”
That seemed to reach her.
A flicker crossed her face.
Good.
