He might not be anywhere near Christian’s size, but Swithin was still heavier and stronger than she; fighting him in the carriage wouldn’t have worked—she’d been afraid he might simply have drugged her again. But Swithin had managed her exit from his carriage well, making sure she was out of sight and too distant from his stablemen for there to be any chance of escape. Not with his pistol pressed to her side.
So she’d worked and worked, forcing her panicking wits to find ways to slow them as much as possible.
But now she had to fight to keep him from flinging her over the edge.
Screaming hadn’t been an option, not with that pistol digging into her ribs and no one nearby, but he’d had to put the pistol away so he could use both hands to seize her.
Now she could scream.
“No!” She didn’t want to die—not when everything in her life had at last come right. “Stop it—let me go!”
What right did Swithin have to take her life from her—and for such a nonsensical reason?
Temper, as ever, was her strength. She used it, drew on it, worked to keep it stoked.
Desperate, she wrestled, fought as well as she could with her hands tied—would have kicked but she had to keep her balance.
Swithin pushed—she pushed back.
But she couldn’t keep going forever.
She was weakening; just as she started to wonder if Christian would be too late, yells came from below.
She recognized Dalziel’s voice. If he was there, Christian was close.
Swithin knew; his face empurpled, then contorted in a snarl. He steeled himself, locked his fingers even more tightly on her arms.
Letitia felt him gather himself, muscles bunching, prayed she’d have strength enough to counter his shove when it came—
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs beyond the half-open roof door.
Smothering a roar, Swithin wrenched back from her. Holding her at arm’s length with one hand, with the other he scrabbled at his coat pocket.
He pulled out his pistol.
Aimed it at the door.
Just as Christian thrust it wide.
“No!” Letitia’s heart clogged her throat.
Time stopped.
Christian took in the scene in one glance. He saw the pistol aimed at his heart, saw Swithin—no longer the quiet, reserved, cautious gentleman-investor, but a disheveled merchant’s son with a crazed light in his eyes.
His gaze found Letitia, fixed on her. She’d largely thrown off the effects of the drug. She’d been fighting Swithin. Her green-gold eyes showed healthy fear, but no panic.
They also glowed with temper, and a determination not to be killed.
He would have closed his eyes and given thanks, but she wasn’t safe yet.
Locking his gaze with Swithin’s, he slowly stepped onto the narrow parapet walk, letting the door swing half closed behind him.
“Get back,” Swithin shouted. “Or I’ll shoot!”
Christian halted. Looked puzzled. “You don’t want to shoot me.”
The unexpected reply confused Swithin. He frowned.