“Stay away from her.” Avery growled the words as he planned his move. He could disarm Prachett if he stepped into him, threw his elbow, and…

Three of Prachett’s men entered through the duke’s dressing chamber.

Prachett stretched out a finger and drew it across the valet’s throat, pausing for a moment over the pulsing vein there. Avery fought the urge to swallow and kept his gaze locked firmly ahead. Blast and damn.

“You’ll face Emersen tomorrow, lad.” Prachett leaned close, whispering the words in his ear. “And do you know to what lengths I shall go to ensure your victory?”

Avery kept the image of her locked in the forefront of his mind, abandoning all attempts at pretending she did not matter to him. Leah. His angel. The only bit of heaven he’d see in this life or the next, he was certain.

“Your lady is in my keeping. If you lose tomorrow, she will die.” Prachett’s words may as well have been a bullet, for they shot Avery straight in the heart.

* * *

The gravel crunched beneath her slippers. She shivered, rubbing her arms briskly. The night had turned chilly.

“Avery?” she called him in a quiet voice. “Are you there?”

She’d probably gone too far. The strains of the orchestra and laughter of the partygoers was hard to hear now. She’d passed the last lamppost a few minutes ago. Reluctantly, she turned to go back.

A twig snapped close by.

“Avery?”

Something went over her head, and she dropped into fight mode without hesitation. Her elbow connected with soft flesh, probably someone’s belly. She kicked viciously, but her toes bent backward as she hit someone’s shin. Pain arced through her foot. Stupid flimsy slippers. That kick had hurt her more than her attacker. Her struggles were ineffective as the sack tightened around her. Before she knew what was going on, she’d been tied up and was being toted like a Christmas tree atop a Bronco.

Her screams for help were just warming up when a blow landed on her skull and everything went dark.

* * *

Avery’s knuckles had gone numb nearly an hour before. That didn’t stop him. Keenly aware of Prachett’s presence on the other side of the cottage door, he kept up his movements. Every blow, in his mind’s eye, landed straight in the man’s face.

How dare the bastard go after Leah? How dare he use her for his own gain? Avery grunted as he gave the sand bag a body blow.

And is that any different from what you’ve done to her?

“I love her.” His words were lost in the sound of the ropes overhead creaking wildly as the bag swung.

He loved her, but he could not protect her. Gripping the bag, he rested his head against it, his breaths coming quick and heavy.

Prachett had her. If Avery lost to Emersen in the morning, he’d kill her. Steel lined Avery’s backbone as he stood. He could not let that happen.

Damning the consequences, he pulled his shirt over his sweat-dampened skin. Prachett and his men had brought him here to fight, and so he would. He would fight, and he would win, no matter the cost. His body would suffer, but that did not matter.

Leah mattered.

He lay on the narrow straw mattress and stared at the ceiling. Though he wanted nothing more than to break through the door and go to find her, he knew that would only cause her more harm.

He’d play this game to win, and once he had her safe, he would break the men who’d dared lay a hand on her, bone by bloody bone. And Prachett? Prachett he would kill.

* * *

Sounds swirled around Leah, penetrating the painful haze that surrounded her brain. She groaned and tried her best to put her hand against her aching head. It felt like she’d drunk about three cases of beer and then had a Dance Dance Revolution competition. She hurt everywhere, and dammit, why couldn’t she move her hands?

Oh. She was still trussed in some kind of burlap sack. Lovely.

“Help!” Her scream was only half the volume she’d intended, because the sound of her own voice echoed through her skull with a ricocheting pain.

“The liddle bird’s awake.” A rough male voice with a coarse accent came from somewhere above her. She scowled in the darkness of her cloth prison. Of course the shitheads were still there. She’d be smart about this and be quiet and obedient until they untied her. Then she’d go all Kill Bill on their asses.

Leah bit her lip and moaned as another pain speared her head. What had they hit her with, a freaking bat?

“Oy, darlin’, you can’t be comfortable like that. Let me ’elp.”

Her gorge rose as a broad, sweaty hand rubbed up her calf to rest behind her knee. This wasn’t happening. There was no way she was tied up and helpless. Nothing bad would happen to her.

Even though she tried her damnedest to block out the reality, the touch on her leg became more and more insistent. She pulled away, but her bonds made moving more than an inch or two nearly impossible.

Another voice joined the first, and then Leah knew real fear.

“Untie ’er, then we can ’ave us a lark.” The sour smell of cheap alcohol drifted through the weave of the bag, and Leah coughed. Drips of the stuff trickled down her nose and chin.

“You bloomin’ idiot, don’t lose all me brandy!”

“The chit was thirsty,” the second man laughed. “Untie ’er legs, at least. I’ve a mind to get between ’em.”

Leah gagged.

The hand drifted down to her ankles, and the first rope loosened. She fought the urge to stretch, to help restore the circulation in her feet. She had to keep still until they untied her more. Her chances wouldn’t be good then, but they’d be a helluva lot better than they were at the moment.

The knot on the next rope must have been tangled, because it took them several moments to loosen it. Leah used the time to think.

What had happened to Lady Chesterfield and the duke? She should be really pissed at herself for wandering down that dark path in the garden, but right then, all she could think about was getting out of there and seeing Avery again. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as pain needled the bottoms of her feet. The circulation’s painful restoration opened the floodgates, and her silent tears quickly changed to sobs.

She’d fucked this up. All of it. From the minute she’d fallen through that mirror, she’d been determined to go about things her way. And she’d been wrong every fucking time. When was she going to learn to think before she tossed herself face-first into everything? Life wasn’t a storybook adventure, and bad shit happened. Pretending otherwise hadn’t done her any favors.

The rope knotted at her knees finally loosened. Panic welled in Leah’s throat, and even though her feet and legs still prickled with the pain of the fresh blood flow, she kicked out as hard as she could. She could cry later. She had to live now.

Her heels connected with someone’s face. The sharp crack of the blow made her smile.

“You goddamn bitch.” Something hit the floor. She hoped it was a mouthful of his teeth. Bastard.

A blow glanced off her shoulder, and she jerked in pain. She didn’t regret her rebellion, though. She’d do it again. She wouldn’t stop as long as there was breath in her body.

Four hands rubbed along her legs as she kicked out. They gripped around her ankles, stilling her motions. Panic sped her heart and she thrashed as hard as she could. But there were two of them, and only one of her. It didn’t look good.

“What are ye doin’?” An angry voice with a Scottish sounding accent rang through the room. It was kind of familiar, but where had she heard it before? The grip on her legs disappeared, and she clamped her thighs together as tightly as she could.

“Havin’ a bit of fun, s’all,” the first man mumbled. The second man’s reply was garbled, sort of far away. Leah strained to understand it, but the bag muffled her perception.

The conversation continued on the other side of the room, and Leah huffed her frustration to cover her fear. She’d rather be pissed than scared. After her one lapse into desperate sobs, she wasn’t interested in trying that again.

A few minutes later, a door slammed shut and silence reigned. Relief soaked through her. Inwardly thanking the weirdly familiar Scotsman, she pulled at her bonds. They held fast.

Time dragged along like a two-legged dog. The tingling in her feet and legs abated finally. The alcohol dried on her face. The sharp ache in her head reduced itself to a dull throb centered just above her left ear. She was hungry. She had to pee. The hope that someone had followed them to wherever the hell they were dissipated as the minutes—hours? days?—passed.

She had a lot of time to think, and she used it. She thought of Muriel and Lady Chesterfield and their many kindnesses to her. She thought of Jamie and Ella back home, and wished she could give them big hugs and giggle at Monty Python movies again. She thought of Pawpaw, and the tears flowed fast and freely. Would she ever see him again? Would she ever be able to tell him about Avery?

And the valet who’d chased her down and stolen her heart? She thought of him most of all.

If she survived this, the first thing she’d do was tell him she loved him. It couldn’t wait another second. He had to know that he meant everything to her.

Twenty-Seven

The next day dawned grim and gray, like Avery’s mood. He rose early, energy humming through his muscles. The sooner he beat Emersen, the sooner he could rescue Leah.

Leah.

She was in danger because of him.