“He said I was to use them on brutes but not family members . . . unless they were behaving like brutes, in which case I was free to use them on—”

“Myrtle,” he warned.

“Oh, right! We should hurry. Will you drag that one over here?”

Puzzling his brow, he looked about.

Myrtle rolled her eyes. “The thief, Val. The thief,” she repeated back as if it were every day she politely requested he bring her a felled ruffian.

Catching the bounder under his arms, Val dragged the man over; a small groan escaped the other man, but he continued to sleep. “We should have left,” he mumbled as he set him down beside the other still slumbering fellow.

“I promised we will. But first . . .” Dropping to a knee, Myrtle wrapped one of the loops about the burlier thief’s wrist, locking the clasp, and then locked the right hand of the smaller thief’s so that the two of them were connected by those metal bonds. She assessed her handiwork a moment, and then gave a pleased little nod. “Now we can go.”

With Myrtle’s hand tucked in his, and Horace following close behind, they hurried from the room.

“Wait!” she exclaimed.

Val released an exasperated groan. “What now?”

“Can you drag that”—Myrtle pointed to a nearby table in the hall covered with a blanket—“and put it in front of the door? I’d suggest a key,” she ran on. “But it would likely take too long—”

“Myrtle,” he said warningly.

“Oh, yes. We should hurry.” She gave a little clap of her hands. “If you will?”

And he did. Because he found himself increasingly unable to say no to her or deny her . . . anything.

“Now, can we go?” he repeated for a second time.

She beamed. “This time, we may.”

And this time, they did.

There would be time enough for a different sort of terror this night, a fear he’d been battling over his feelings for this woman.

But for now, there was just this joyous relief—and he was selfish enough to take it.

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Myrtle sat in the window seat, wearing a warm blanket about her shoulders.

This time, however, she occupied a different window seat, staring out across the way to her own, that same spot she’d occupied these past days.

Her knees drawn up to her chest and her chin resting atop them, she considered her family’s townhouse.

How much time had she spent staring at Val’s residence, seeing him at the window, imagining him there, wanting to be with him?

And now she was.

She was in this house—his house—a place she’d thought she’d never be. But she was here now, with him.

And it felt . . . so very right.

And she at last admitted the truth to herself, allowed herself to see that which she’d fought.