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Wild cheers and Seth’s head shot up, saw the culprit pinned to the sawdust of the arena by Kian’s clown, the audience applauding, the fire doused, all believing it part of the bloody show.
And he twisted to–
“Matilda! Chloe!” he yelled to the empty box.
A rush of air as Kian hurtled past him for the curtain.
Matilda’s screamwas severed as the arm encircling her throat from behind wrenched tight.
Through eyes that watered, she saw Mr Finlay wrestled to the hall floor by broad-shouldered men hammering him with blows, while another gripped Chloe, fingers twisted in her hair.
Seth tore towards her, and Matilda fought for breath, to warn, but all she could do was lock eyes – too late as the awaiting villain spun him, knuckles crashing into his jaw.
Raking the arm which grasped her, she strove to wrest it from her neck, fright overwhelming all else as the callous grip began to drag her backwards, her throat aflame, lungs empty.
Matilda’s heart roared its pulse in her ears as she was hauled to the deserted staircase, slippers finding no purchase on the rugs, Seth and Mr Finlay a blur of shadow and fists as her glasses knocked sideways.
Stubble pressed to her cheek, harsh breath in her ear.
“You bloody harridan. I’m your guardian and you’ll do as you’re told.”
Guardian?
And Matilda stilled…
As far back as she could remember, she’d considered herself a calm, level-headed sort of person, not prone to histrionics, bad humour or bouts of petulance. Her confidant, Evelyn, referred to her as rational, and even Seth appeared to think her quite sensible.
Yet at this moment and at that voice, an ember of unbeknownst temper lit within her.
It flared and flourished.
This guardian had squandered her beloved parents’ money, her dowry, threatened Seth, his daughter and their splendid academy, shaken her harshly, bruised her wrists, stolen her future and sought to marry her off to a diseased libertine with fetid tongue.
A savage rage now flamed and spat, overwhelming all fear, all sound, all else.
And so, with the last remnants of her breath and all her gathered might, she pitched her head back to bestow a reverse nobbler to his ivories.
The grip loosened, allowing her a lungful, so fisting her right mitt, she shifted her hip to one side and burst a box of fives in Astwood’s ballocks.
Yowls of pain disturbed her ear, the arm dropping, and she spun on a yellow-slippered heel.
He bent to clutch his ballocks and she spied her chance, so without remorse, peppered his lugholes with thumb-curled fists.
No time to dally and she pitched a chopper to his chin, chipped him low, and then, for good measure, bashed a rattler to his potato trap.
Her guardian fell upon his arse on the crimson rug and Matilda raised her right foot to stomp on his talliwa–
“Mercy!” he cried.
Matilda took no notice and walloped down.
Lamentably, in her enthusiasm, the slipper merely grazed his thigh but ’twas good enoug–
“Miss Griffin!” With skirts hoisted and blond mop flopping, Chloe hurtled towards her. “That was magnificent,” she cried breathlessly. “I saw it all.”
Matilda pushed her bent spectacles up her nose and breathed deep. “Do you think so?” She bit her lip. “I’d not thought I had the wherewithal but… All at once, I found myself so intensely irritated with the man.”
“You were perfect.”
