Natalie fought off a wave of fright. What now? Threats and admonitions had proven to be no deterrent. He was a broad man, bulky with muscles, and the odds were in his favor. Although taller than the average woman, she knew her limits. He could overpower her with brute force.

Her only hope was to catch him off guard. She must behave like a frightened ninny, make him believe her to be weak.

She willed herself to cower by hunching her shoulders and lowering her chin. “Please, sir, don’t hurt me,” she said, adding a quiver to her voice. “I’m a respectable woman.”

He stood a scant few feet from her. Shadows cast by the firelight gyrated over his gloating expression, proof that he’d been taken in by her sudden submissiveness. His lips peeled back in a grin that showed two rows of yellowed teeth. “Now, that’s more like it. Many a wench puts up a fight at the start. But they’re all eager for a taste of the big boy in my breeches.”

His meaty fingers began to undo the front buttons of his flap. As he glanced down to watch his progress, Natalie saw her chance. Using the folds of her robe to protect her fingers from the hot handle, she grabbed the pot and hurled the boiling contents at him.

He must have caught her movement from the corner of his eye. Cursing, he started to raise his arm as a shield. Some of the scalding milk struck his sleeve and upper trousers. The rest splashed onto the exposed skin of his face and hands. Bellowing with pain, he clutched at his groin as hot white liquid dripped from his chin and down over his clothing.

Before she could so much as blink, he charged like an enraged bull. Natalie acted on sheer terrified instinct. She swung the pot at him with all of her might.

His fingers bit into her shoulders at the exact moment that the saucepan clanked against the side of his head. His neck jerked back and his grip slackened, his forward momentum propelling her against the brick of the hearth. Pots and crockery clattered to the floor. She parted her lips to scream, but only a squeak emerged as she went tumbling down beneath him.

His eyes were shut.

She lay entombed beneath the heavy mass of his body, choked by the stench of sour whiskey. Had she killed him? Was he dead? A buried memory burst forth to swamp her senses, adding fuel to her wild panic. Dear God, no! It was just like before. She couldn’t escape, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded so hard that blackness encroached on her vision. In a mad frenzy, she shoved and kicked at his large, inert form.

In the next instant, his weight abruptly lifted from her. She sucked blessed air into her lungs and then rolled onto her hands and knees before scrambling to her feet. Dazed, she saw Hadrian. He held Bert by the scruff of his neck, his grip strong enough to lift the husky groom onto his tiptoes.