Page 37 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Fiona pressed Lady Pelham's trembling hand between both of hers, trying to offer what little comfort she could. The older woman had been sobbing quietly for the better part of an hour, her elaborate coiffure now disheveled, her rouge streaked down her cheeks in pale pink tracks.

"Hush now," Fiona murmured, keeping her voice low enough that their captors wouldn't take notice. "Dinna fash yersel, Lady Pelham. We shall get out o' here as soon as thae men have gotten what they want."

Even as she spoke the words, she wasn't entirely certain she believed them.

These weren't ordinary thieves—something in their eyes, in the casual way they spoke of violence, chilled her to the bone.

But Lady Pelham needed reassurance, and so did the two dozen other hostages huddled throughout the ballroom.

If maintaining hope meant telling small lies, then so be it.

She adjusted her position on the cold marble floor, trying to ease the cramp in her legs from sitting in the same spot for so long.

"Fiona."

A soft whisper sounded somewhere by her ear.

Her spine went rigid. The voice was barely audible, more breath than sound, but something in it made gooseflesh rise along her arms.

It had sounded like... but no. Surely she was imagining things, letting her desperate wish for rescue conjure phantom voices from the shadows. Her mind was simply playing tricks on her, creating the sound she most longed to hear.

Edward.

Part of her—the treacherous, aching part that still remembered what it felt like to be held in his arms—would give anything to see him stride through those doors.

To see his tall, familiar figure cutting through the chaos, his gray eyes blazing with protective fury as they had so often during their long, tumultuous marriage.

But another part of her, the rational part that had learned to think beyond her own desires, was profoundly grateful he wasn't here. Edward had always been too much the hero for his own good.

If he were here now, he would undoubtedly do something magnificently foolish and brave. And he would probably be the first to catch a bandit's bullet for his troubles.

No, better that he was safe at his own estate, miles away from Thornbury Manor and its current Christmas Eve nightmare.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, then one of the guards from earlier appeared in the doorway and pushed Thornbury back inside. The baron fell to his knees, his forehead kissing the floor.

"Lady Thornbury! Come ‘ere, yer ladyship."

Their hostess rose on unsteady legs, her sapphire gown rustling softly. Lady Thornbury had maintained her composure better than most throughout their ordeal, but Fiona could see the terror in the woman's eyes as she approached the guard.

“Where’s t’ key, then?” he asked menacingly.

“W-what key?”

“From t’ safe?”

Her voice trembled. “I don’t know.” She glanced at her husband, fear in her eyes.

The bandit slapped her with the back of his hand so hard she fell back to the floor.

People gasped, and Fiona jerked instinctively toward her, but Lady Pelham seized her arm, keeping her in place.

“Well, baron, will ye give me t’ key, or do I ‘ave ta kill yer wife?”

A hush fell over the ballroom.

“If I knew, I would never put my wife in danger,” he whined.

The bandit laughed loudly. “We’ll pry open yer safe, me lord. But now yer wife ken’s ye’d rather see ‘er dead than lose yer wealth. Though she's no' surprised.” He turned on his heel, but before he left, he added, “Seems we’re 'ere awhile, lads. Amuse yerselves.”

"Hear that, ‘arry?" said one of the remaining guards after a brief silence, his voice carrying an unpleasant quality that made Fiona's skin crawl. It was the same lecherous guard who had pawed her earlier. “We're stuck 'ere a bit.”

His gaze swept over the hostages, then settled on Miss Margaret Harold.

The young woman was huddled against the wall, her golden hair falling in tangles around a face streaked with tears.

She couldn't be more than eighteen, barely out of the schoolroom. She was here with her father and his sister as chaperones, if Fiona wasn’t mistaken.

"Let me 'ave 'er, then!" The leech-like man pointed directly at poor Margaret, who shrank back as if his very attention could contaminate her.

The leader of their captors—apparently named Harry—waved a dismissive hand without looking up from cleaning his fingernails with a wicked blade.

"Go on then. The master chambers are on t' upper floor.

Take ‘er there but be quick. We ‘ave dozen men scattered around thae ‘ouse, and they’re gettin’ restless. They’d all love a turn. "

Horror crashed over Fiona. These weren't thieves at all. They were something far worse.

The lecherous man’s grin widened, showing yellowed teeth. His gaze swept the captives huddled against the wall. "Aye, and plenty more warm bodies t' go around."

Margaret began to sob in earnest as the pale-eyed monster approached her, his hands already reaching.

"Please, no," the girl whimpered. "I beg you—"

Her father held on to her tightly, refusing to let go. “Don’t touch her!”

"Leave ‘er alone!" The words burst from Fiona's lips as she jumped to her feet, protective fury boiling inside her. “Don’t touch ‘er! She’s just a child.”

Every eye in the room turned toward her, some in shock, others in gratitude, the rest in fear. Except the bandits, whose expressions ranged from amusement to annoyance.

The leech-faced man paused, one hand already tangled in Margaret's hair. "Wha' was that, yer ladyship?"

“Yer Grace,” Fiona corrected, her heart hammering against her ribs, but she forced herself to stand, to meet his gaze directly. "I said, leave ‘er alone."

"Duchess, no," Lady Pelham whispered frantically, tugging at her skirt. "Don't—"

But Fiona refused to back down. She couldn’t look at Margaret's terrified face and not react. She didn’t even want to think if it were Leslie in her place. A boulder was stuck in her throat.

"Take me instead," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

The bandit's grin widened into something truly obscene. "Oh, don't ye worry, Yer Grace. Ye'll get yer turn soon enough. But I've got my eye on this little morsel first."

He hauled Margaret to her feet. The girl's legs nearly gave out beneath her, and she would have fallen if not for his grip on her arm. Her father refused to let go of her either.

"Stop!"

To everyone's surprise, Mr. Charles Whitmore stepped forward, a quiet gentleman in his forties who had barely spoken all evening. "You cannot mean to—that is, I cannot allow—"

"Cannot allow?" The leader—Harry—finally looked up from his knife, his voice deadly quiet. "And what do ye think yer gonna do about it?"

Mr. Whitmore's face had gone pale. "I-I am a gentleman, sir. I will not stand by and watch innocents be harmed."

"Charles, please," his wife whispered from where she cowered near the corner. "Don't—"

“Very well, then.” Harry drew his pistol and fired at Mr. Whitmore. The bang echoed through the ballroom, deafening, while acrid smoke from the gunpowder billowed into the air.

Whitmore fell, clutching his shoulder as blood began to seep between his fingers. His wife's scream pierced the air, followed by gasps and cries from the other hostages.

In the ensuing chaos, Margaret’s father was pushed to the floor as the bandit managed to lead her away.

Fiona rushed to Mr. Whitmore's side, dropping to her knees on the blood-stained marble. Mrs. Whitmore was already there, sobbing and trying uselessly to stop the bleeding. Margaret’s father still lay on the floor, sobbing.

"Here," Fiona grabbed handfuls of her own petticoats and tore out a sizable strip of fabric.

Fiona pressed the makeshift bandage against the shoulder, instructing Mrs. Whitmore to keep applying pressure.

She thanked the lord the bullet had gone through the shoulder, not penetrating any vital organs. Even so, without a doctor, he wouldn’t last long.

A few other guests gathered around Mr. Whitmore, everyone offering their jackets to put under his head or to keep him comfortable, while a few others comforted Margaret’s father.

Satisfied that the men were properly taken care of, Fiona returned to Lady Pelham, who was crying hysterically now. She held the woman against her chest, praying silently.

Please, God, let help come. Please let us survive this. Please let that poor girl be safe.

As if in answer to her prayer, she heard the whispered voice again. "I'll come for you."