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Blake shoved Demeter back and ducked a swing of the axe, vaguely aware of the leader grinning at the spectacle. The man swerved back around with the weapon and Blake stepped closer, bringing himself almost toe to toe with him, meeting the hit of the handle instead of the blade with a forearm. A suppressed shout tore through him as pain reverberated down his arm. He was close enough, though, able to grip the handle, tear it from his hold, and shove the wood into the man’s face.
His enemy screamed, jerked back, and clutched his nose. When he released his hand, blood trickled down across his mouth and he bared his teeth to Blake, his grin now a morbid red.
A scream from behind Blake shattered his focus and he looked over his shoulder to see the leader dragging Demeter along by the cut rope, her wrists still bound by the tight knots. She dug her feet in and battled him like a wild animal but she was no match for his brute strength. Before he could leap forward, a bright white shot of pain burst through his skull as a fist met his nose. He heard a crunch and his vision vanished behind a wall of water. He swung the axe aimlessly.
“Foster, get Demeter,” he bellowed, though he could only make out vague outlines of his cousin and the other man.
A blow to his gut winded him and he threw aside the axe, heard it clatter upon the stone, then swiped the tears from his eyes and lifted his fists. He tasted the iron tang of blood and eyed his cousin. His fists remained raised and his opponent grinned, mocking him by leaping from foot to foot, feinting a jab every now and then. Foster inched back while Blake’s attacker latched his hands around his neck, pressing hard.
The man intended to kill. He saw it in his eyes. Revenge for the punch perhaps or maybe the man simply liked killing.
Behind him, the leader hauled Demeter toward the edge of the docks, perhaps intending to use her as a getaway or to stow her away somewhere else to get his ransom. Whatever it was, Blake could not let it happen.
“Hit him, Foster, for Christ’s sakes,” he gargled, pulling the man’s fingers while his lungs ached and his face heated.
There was a splash and Blake’s heart, somehow still beating, jerked in response. He would have screamed her name if he had any air left in him. Where Demeter once stood remained only the man. No rope, nothing. He knew it as sure he knew he loved her. She’d gone into the river—fully dressed and bound.
She was going to drown if his cousin didn’t act.
Foster swung a wild glance at Blake, his opponent, and the spot where Demeter had been—then turned and fled.
A string of curses burst through Blake’s mind though he didn’t have enough air left in them to utter them. The damned coward! How long had Demeter been under now? Seconds? Minutes? His vision grew spotty and he dug his fingers into the man’s wrists, feeling the slightest give in his attacker’s strength. He’d die rather than let anything happen to her but for today, he had to survive.
He lurched forward abruptly, ripped one hand from his neck, and slammed an elbow into the man’s injured nose. He yowled, let his hand drop from Blake’s neck, and bent in two. Blake slammed his other elbow down onto the man’s back then a knee to his face, gulping down breaths as rapidly as he could. The man dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, moaning.
His cousin’s attacker merely grinned at the sight, fists raised and still jumping around as though he were at a boxing ring rather than a dilapidated dock. Blake didn’t have time for this.
Head low, he shot forward, slamming the man to the ground. Keeping him pinned with his body weight, Blake drove a fist into his face again and again until the cocky smile faded and the man went limp.
Well, he had wondered whether he still had it in him to fight. Now he knew.
He clambered off him, snatched up the axe, and raced to the spot where he’d last seen Demeter. He heard splashing and the leader hesitated, glancing at the water and Blake.
Blake made his decision for him. He’d take the time to tear him apart if he could but there was no time. Using the blunt side of the blade, he slammed it into the side of the man’s head. His eyes widened briefly before he toppled sideways, his huge body landing on the ground in a kick of dirt and old straw.
Discarding the axe, Blake leaped into the water, the coldness stealing his breath. He reached out, grabbed a fistful of fabric and hauled it toward him. Fingernails scratched his face and he grabbed Demeter’s wrist then looped an arm around her squirming body.
“It’s me,” he told her breathlessly, latching a hand about the rung of a ladder to support the weight of them both.
She coughed and spluttered, her hair a wild mess about her face. He shoved her hair back.
“It’s me,” he repeated.
She ceased fighting and sagged against him. “Blake,” she managed to murmur.
“Yes. Blake.”
With great effort, he eased her up onto the dockside, hauled himself out of the water then dropped down on the flagstones beside her. She coughed, spitting up more water, and he rolled onto his side to push a damp strand from her face. “Are you well?”
“Just about.”
“Good.”
She offered a fatigued smile. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He tugged off his wet jacket when he spied a tremor rippling through her—not that it would do much good—but he could hardly have her traipsing through the streets of London in a see-through gown. They needed to find the nearest bailiff and have these men arrested before they roused. He frowned, pressed fingers into the jacket pocket, and grimaced.
