The powde
r horn spun off the railing and fell into the race.
Something clattered on the wooden floor. Both she and Phillip instinctively looked.
And saw a knife. Royce’s knife.
Like most gentlemen, he always had one somewhere about him—but she’d only known him ever to have one.
A thump had their heads snapping around—
Royce had leapt onto the lower end of the gangplank.
He stood directly before them, his gaze locked on Phillip’s face. “Let her go, Phillip—it’s me you want.”
Phillip snarled; backing quickly, he pressed the muzzle of the cocked pistol to Minerva’s temple. “I’m going to kill her—and you’re going to watch.”
“You’ve only got one shot, Phillip—who are you going to kill? Her…or me?”
Phillip halted. He rocked back and forth, heels to toes, indecisive, undecided.
Then his chest swelled; with a roar, he flung Minerva to the side, and swung his pistol up to aim at Royce. “You!” he screamed. “I’m going to kill you!”
“Run, Minerva!” Royce didn’t even glance at her. “Through the doors. The others are outside.”
Then he charged up the gangplank.
Having landed on her side on the millstone, she was frantically hauling up her skirts.
She sat up—saw Phillip brace his pistol arm with his other hand. His face aglow with maniacal joy, laughing, he aimed for Royce’s chest.
Her fingers closed about the hilt of her knife. She didn’t think, didn’t blink, just threw it.
The hilt appeared on the side of Phillip’s neck.
He choked, pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out, filling the enclosed space.
Phillip started to crumple.
Minerva scrambled off the millstone. Her eyes locked on Royce as he halted before Phillip, looking down on his cousin as he slumped to the floor. Her gaze raced over Royce, seeking the wound…she nearly swooned with relief when she finally accepted that there wasn’t one. Phillip’s shot had gone wide.
Her gaze returned to Royce’s face; behind his mask, he was stunned. In that instant she knew he hadn’t expected to survive.
He could have run for cover, but he’d run toward Phillip to give her time to get away, to make sure Phillip shot at him, and not her.
Dragging in a deep breath, she went to join him.
Just as the doors at both ends of the mill swung open, and Christian and Miles appeared at the lower end of the gangplank.
Reaching Royce, she laid a hand on his arm. He looked at her then, met her eyes, then he looked down at the knife in Phillip’s throat, and didn’t say anything.
The others gathered around; what expressions were discernable were unrelentingly grim. She glimpsed pistols being slipped back into pockets, the flash of knives being put away.
Royce drew in a breath—almost unable to believe he could. Almost unable to believe that Minerva stood, shaken but otherwise well, beside him—that he could sense her there, steady and sure, that he was still alive to feel her comforting warmth, her vital presence.
The emotions churning inside him were staggeringly strong, but he battened them down, left them for later. There was one more thing he had to do.