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“A woman’s strength lies not in the sword she bears, but in the truth she speaks when all others fall silent.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

Marco could hear his knock echoing through the bowels of the manor. From the sparseness of the entry hall and the deliberation of his thunk, it sounded like a crack of overhead thunder. MacNaby would certainly know that he had arrived.

Putting his ear to the door to listen for the butler’s approach, his finger hovering over the trigger and ready to fire, Marco sought to keep his calm as the desire to break the door down made his heart pound in his ears.

He heard nothing for a couple of interminable minutes, but just as he stepped forward to bring down the knocker a second time, the creak of a metal key in the lock informed him his foe had arrived.

Marco tensed, aiming the pistol to where the door would open, but reminding himself that the butler could be using Molly as a shield. The door swung open to reveal a shadowy form.

He blinked, hastily pointing the pistol down at the ground lest he accidentally pull the trigger.

“Molly?”

She was framed by flickering light from the dim wall sconces, and she was … alone?

“What took you so long?” she asked, her tone almost annoyed, but then her lip quivered and she burst into tears. Despite it being the second weeping woman to disrupt his day, Marco found that, unlike Miss Dubois’s tears, which had merely made him uncomfortable, Molly’s tears were devastating. It was as if he had re-entered the eighth circle of hell from his recent nightmares.

Peering into the hall behind her, he saw a few small furnishings, covered by dust cloths and leering like tiny specters in the low light, but he could see no evidence of a lurking blackguard. Marco tucked the pistol away and quickly entered the manor, shutting the cold winds out behind him. Then he drew her into his arms, resting her head against his chest as she wept into his overcoat.

It took a few moments for her breathing to steady, and when the last of her sobs had subsided, he leaned back to gaze into her face. “Molly, where is MacNaby?”

Her eyelids were puffy and red, and he wanted to offer comfort beyond words, but he needed to address the danger first.

“I convinced him to leave.”

Marco shook his head, hoping that would clear his befuddled thoughts, yet he remained just as confused. “What?”

“I tried it a few times, but eventually when we reached Elmstead, I pointed out that he had not hurt anyone. That Simon was happy in his new role. That Madeline might even now be bearing his grandchild. He threatened me repeatedly, but I did not let up. I reasoned that MacNaby is not a bad man. He had not hurt anyone yet. I even pointed out that if he had truly intended to kill you, would he not have succeeded? That perhaps his failure to do so was a sign he did not wish to walk that path.”

He blinked rapidly, but he still had difficulty gathering his wits. “And that worked?”

“Not at first, but I persisted. I think the notion of a grandchild was what swayed him. Lady Blackwood had used his desire for legacy to trap him into this grim pact, so I used the same to break her thrall over him.”

Pride in her courage and ingenuity swelled in his chest. He should have guessed, as his brother and friends had suggested, that Molly would find a way to take care of herself. The intrepid young woman must have persisted with her arguments for hours if the butler had gotten her all the way to Elmstead before finally relinquishing his mission. Marco supposed he was well aware that she was a tenacious negotiator, finding himself wholly entangled these past few days by her compelling nature.

“Where is he now?”

“I advised him to take the coin Lady Blackwood had given him to complete her mission and perhaps find the closest port. I expect he will sail from English soil by the end of the night because he left some hours ago. I confess, as part of our negotiation, I encouraged him to raid the silver so he would have sufficient funds to make his escape. I thought the baron would not mind.”

He shook his head in disbelief. Part of him wanted to holler out for his fellow rescuers so they might chase MacNaby to ground. The butler would likely head for the London docks as the closest departure point, but he had several hours’ head start and seen the error of his ways. “Uncle John will be overjoyed to recover you at such a low ransom to the Blackwood coffers.”

Suddenly, the dread of the past few hours coalesced, and Marco caught her by the arms, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

“You are the most”—Marco’s English failed him as a tide of relief, anger, and fear for Molly swept through him—“esasperante?”

“Infuriating,” she supplied, still staring at him with those opalescent eyes.

“Provocatoria?”

“Provocative.”

“Allettante?”

“Enticing.”