He laughed.
The sound was quiet at first. Almost disbelieving.
“You foolish woman.”
Heat crawled up Beatrice’s throat.
His eyes lifted from the blade to her face, and whatever surprise had been there hardened into something colder.
“Do you truly imagine you know how to use that?”
When he moved closer still, Beatrice steadied her wrist, forcing herself to think.
Sticking him in the eye would stop him—but only if she struck cleanly, and she would have but one chance. The neck would be easier. It was softer.
Her grip tightened.
As distasteful as the thought of stabbing him was, she would not be overpowered by any man again.
“If you think I won’t use this, you are sadly mistaken, my good sir.”
Another laugh. And then…
For such a dull-looking gentleman, he moved faster than she anticipated.
Reaching up with his right hand, he caught hold of her wrist, her knife arm. It should have set her off balance. And yet, she did not cower. No, Beatrice fisted her free hand and punched.
Striking with all her might against this man’s arrogance.
He let out a grunt of pain, but it wasn’t enough, and when she tried again, his other hand caught her forearm, effectively blocking the assault.
“Enough of this,” he murmured, no longer amused. “Drop it.”
She clutched the bodkin even tighter.
Her vision turned white, and then red. Every muscle in her body coiled tight. The legs were stronger than the arms, after all.
She allowed him to draw her in, just that slightest bit closer, intending to use the momentum, but just as she went to attack with her knee?—
A shadow charged through the darkness.
Hatherleigh’s grip went slack, releasing her immediately, as he was driven sideways into one of the columns. The sound of bone cracking against stone should have made her wince, but both the adrenaline and disgust she felt for his actions muted any sympathy she may have had.
For a moment, he stood there, stunned and swaying. Then he turned his head, slowly, almost stupidly, and Beatrice saw the blood at his temple.
It gleamed black-red in the moonlight.
He blinked.
Took one staggering step.
And… Simply dropped to the terrace stones as though the strings holding him upright had been cut.
Beatrice lurched back, one hand flying to her throat.
And brushing his hands as though he’d finished a particularly filthy task…
Gideon.
