Page 92 of How to Tempt a Duke

Hugh didn’t reach for the journals. Instead he pushed the pistol barrel harder into her head.

A cry rasped from Eleanor’s throat despite her attempt to maintain her composure.

“Do you truly think I’d let you both live after this?”

Hugh’s feet were so close to Eleanor they pressed against her thigh where she sat in a daze on the floor. Panic raced through her. They couldn’t die. Not now. Not like this.

She put the hand of her good arm to her brow, as if mopping the layer of sweat there, then drove her elbow down with all the strength she could muster.

It connected sharply with the side of Hugh’s knee, exactly where she’d intended to strike. Her aim had been true and Hugh’s legs folded against themselves as he fell to the ground with a shout.

Charles did not hesitate. He ran at Hugh and kicked him square in the face. The sound was hollow and wet, like a melon breaking against a hard surface. Then Charles bent and retrieved the gun before dropping to Eleanor’s side.

He gathered her in his arms and the pulse of pain splintered into mindless agony. The world swam in a wavering light in front of her, threatening to pull her under.

“Eleanor...” There was alarm in his voice, a quivering pitch she’d thought never to hear from a man as brave and strong as Charles.

She was of a mind to answer him, to tell him she was fine and cry out at what he’d sacrificed to save her. And she wanted to tell him that she loved him, more than life itself.

But her voice did not correspond with her mouth any longer. An intense fatigue washed over her and left her with a thick and lazy sensation.

“Eleanor.” Charles caught her face in his palms and stared down at her with wild eyes. “Please. I love you.”

I love you.

The words floated above her pain and smoothed over her heart like a balm.

“Don’t leave me.” Charles stroked her face, his eyes red-rimmed.

Tears leaked from her eyes at his admission, and her heart gave a weak flutter. The room began to fade.

“Please,” he begged. “Focus.”

Yes, focus.

She squinted her eyes at him and did exactly as he bade. Her thoughts centered on watching him, on resisting the urge to succumb to the sweet lure of oblivion, on wanting him to say he loved her again and again and again.

A shadow rose over them and Charles’s head snapped to the side. He collapsed to the ground the way a marionette might do if its cords had been cut. Eleanor fell to the ground too, and pain shone bright anew.

Helpless, she could only watch as Hugh bent over Charles and grabbed the gun. Charles did not stir. The darkness pressed around Eleanor. She tried to blink it away. She had to do something. She had to help.

There came a loud crack at the opposite side of the room. Still Charles did not move.

“Halt!” The voice was authoritative, coming from where Eleanor could not see. “Put the gun down, my lord, or we will have no option but to use force.”

In answer, Hugh raised the gun, pointing it at Charles’s face.

The fog of exhaustion dissipated for a brief moment.

No. Not Charles.

Eleanor struggled to stand, drawing from a waning well of strength. Black dots swam in her vision and her body went limp. She fell to the ground, only vaguely aware of the agony in her arm when the hurt in her heart was so great. Too weak to even save Charles.

The pounding of footsteps thundered for only a scant second before the popping of gunfire filled Eleanor’s ears and she could no longer fight the pull of darkness.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Charles’s head throbbed with pain and his ears shrilled with a high-pitched whine.