That rhymed. The inane thought made a hysterical half-giggle, half-sob rise to her throat. She was about to meet her maker and she was rhyming. Lord, the idiocy!

“Who sent you?” Thornbury asked in a soft, deadly voice.

“Your mother. Drop the gun or yer ladybird dies right now! Or maybe I’ll kill you and keep her for fun.” His left hand dropped from around her neck to fondle her midriff. She stiffened, revulsion filling her, but didn’t dare move with the gun still in place.

The duke’s eyes narrowed, his face grimmer than she’d ever seen it. Bronwyn had never beheld a look like that come over a man, like Death himself had slid into his soul. A shiver of pure fear coasted through her. Thornbury didn’t look afraid or worried. His flesh could have been made of the ice she’d always accused him of being, but those nearly feral, golden eyes of his burned with lethal promise.

“You shoot her and you die,” the duke said.

The man huffed. “I wouldn’t be makin’ threats if I was you.” The muzzle of the gun tapped against her skull, making her flinch.

“Valentine.” No sound came from her lips as she breathed his name. It felt like goodbye, like this was the end.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Those eyes pierced her, saw through her, held her. Bronwyn wanted to laugh. It wasn’t as though she had much of a choice. “I—”

The discharge of the gun was deafening, cracking through the air just as the body holding hers was yanked backward by the force, nearly taking her with him. Delayed heat seared the crown of her head and her cheekbone, something warm splattering her skin before Bronwyn could gather her wits and register that she wasn’t, in fact, dead.

Or that Thornbury was gathering her shuddering, boneless body into his arms, scooping her up, and running once more for their lives. Or that he hadn’t just shot a man dead center in the middle of his forehead with cool, unerring precision.

On silent, fast feet, he left the streets for the cover of the woods near the riverbank. Her thoughts and faculties came back to her in sluggish spurts as the duke ran, her eyes taking in the thick cover of trees and her dulled ears registering the lack of any pursuit. The sound of the gunshot would have drawn other unsavory types as well as the local police.

When the skies opened up and a deluge poured down, Thornbury didn’t reduce his pace. A little rainstorm wouldn’t stop people who wanted to kill them, but it was a bit of a silver lining in itself. Rain covered tracks, deadened sound, and washed away scents. Most of all, it would wash away the blood she knew was on her face. Her assailant’s blood.