Page 41 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

The sharp reek of smoke reached Fiona first, followed by the shouting in the corridor. Guests gasped and shrieked, clutching one another as a dark haze began to creep beneath the ballroom doors. One woman collapsed against her husband, wailing that they were all going to die.

The bandits were in sheer panic, leaving the ballroom except for one who peeked his head out, talking with someone on the other side.

The house was on fire.

She pressed her back against the cool wall, wondering if this was how she was going to die.

A scrape of metal sounded somewhere to her right. She turned her head and frowned. Was it coming from the door leading to the music room?

How?

And then, right before her eyes, the door scraped open.

Her breath caught in her throat.

A shadow materialized from behind the door, and a hand reached out, closing around her wrist. She jerked instinctively, her lips parting to scream, until her gaze lifted and met his eyes.

Beloved, unforgettably fierce gray eyes gleamed in the dim ballroom light.

Edward.

Her lips moved soundlessly, forming his name, but no sound emerged. This had to be a dream, a fevered hallucination brought on by terror and desperation. He couldn't actually be here, couldn't have materialized from her deepest wishes like some guardian angel.

But his fingers were solid and warm around her wrist.

Real. He was impossibly, miraculously real.

Edward's eyes held hers for one burning moment, a thousand unspoken words passing between them. Then he tightened his grip and drew her with him through the music room door, closing it behind them with barely a whisper of sound.

In the sheer panic, nobody seemed to notice her disappearance.

"Ed!" The whisper burst from her lips before she could stop it, weeks of longing compressed into that single syllable.

His palm immediately covered her mouth, warm and slightly callused against her skin. "Shh," he breathed against her ear, and she shivered at the familiar timbre of his voice.

Voices grew louder in the ballroom, two or more bandits returning inside. Clearly, Fiona had slipped away just in time. But what now? What about the others?

"Come with me. Quickly."

Edward’s fingers enveloped hers as he led her silently across the dark music room toward what appeared to be a solid wall. To her amazement, a section of the paneling swung inward, revealing a narrow passage beyond.

A secret passageway!

He drew her into the cramped space, and the panel closed behind them with a soft click.

Instantly, the sounds from the ballroom cut off completely—no voices, no smoke, no chaos.

Only the thundering of her own heartbeat and the impossible, overwhelming reality of her husband's presence in the darkness beside her.

Edward lit the candelabra on the wall and turned toward her.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was low and urgent. His hand brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, the touch achingly gentle. His fingers lingered against her cheek just a moment too long, and she had to swallow hard to steady herself.

Her gaze darted over him, unable to settle. His silver hair, usually so carefully restrained, now tumbled wildly over his brow. Blood and soot streaked his face, his neck, and his formerly white shirt, which gaped open, exposing a dusting of gray hair on his chest.

His throat was blackened in places, glistening with sweat. His sleeves were rolled back to his elbows, baring strong forearms smeared with ash and bruises.

The linen of his shirt hung loose and untucked from his breeches, and—dear God—his feet were bare. Naked against the cold floor, stained with ash and blood.

Yet it was her he was worried about.

“I am not hurt,” she answered, “but it looks like ye are.”

He waved it away. “I’m in one piece.” Then he continued patting her body, a frown marring his face, concern shining in his eyes. “Are you certain you’re not hurt?”

"Aye, I'm fine," she managed. "But the others are not. Mr. Whitmore was shot, they took Margaret, and Lady—"

“Margaret is safe, and I will save the others, I promise.”

“She is?” Relief flooded through her. Her heart almost broke at the thought of that poor girl’s fate. “How?”

He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her words. "Not now, love. I’ll tell you everything later. Now we have to go.”

Love. He used to call her that all the time, and it was her favorite endearment of his. She knew he didn't mean it—it was simply an expression. Yet hearing it on his lips always brought her joy, though it also made her chest tighten with longing.

"Edward, ye don't understand." She caught his hand as he started to move deeper into the passage. “We need to help them; the house is on fire!”

“No, it’s not,” he reassured her. “It was a distraction. The fire is contained to the hearth. Once the bandits realize where it’s coming from and lift the damper, the smoke will clear.”

“Ye did that?” Her chest burst with pride. He was clever, her husband.

“Yes, to get to you.” He squeezed her fingers as they made their way down. "Just enough of a distraction to make sure you have enough time to escape.”

Fiona froze just as they reached the landing, forcing him to halt, too. "I have enough time to escape?”

“Yes.” He turned toward her and frowned.

“What about everyone else?”

“I will go back for everyone else,” he reassured her.

Fiona blinked. “By yerself?”

“Yes. And I will save everyone, I promise.”

“Ye will save two dozen people who are being held captive by murderous ruffians.” Fiona scoffed. “And what am I to do in the meantime?”

"I'll escort you to the stables. The snow must be deep by now, but you should be able to make it to the gamekeeper's cottage—"

"Gamekeeper's cottage?" He truly expected her to run and hide. Had he forgotten he didn’t marry a coward?

"Yes, it's about two miles through the woods. You can wait there until I've dealt with the situation."

"I'm not leaving ye.” Her tone was final.

"What do you mean you're not leaving?" He looked genuinely baffled.

"Just that!" She kept her voice low but let her determination show clearly. "I'm not riding off to some cottage while ye face a dozen armed bandits alone. Besides, what makes ye think they haven't posted guards at the stables? Ye don’t know if there are more of them outside."

Something flickered in his eyes, a small, approving smile touching his lips. "I already helped Miss Harold escape. I led her to the shed where my chaise driver was waiting, and there was no one manning the stables—"

"Chaise driver?" Another detail that didn’t make sense. "Ye came here by chaise?"

"I had to hire one because—" He waved the question away with obvious impatience. "It's a complicated story. The point is, I know the path is clear."

“But I don’t know the route to—”

“I will lead you there.”

"How exactly do ye plan to escort me anywhere?" She glanced pointedly down at his bare feet. "Yer barefoot! And why exactly are ye barefoot in the first place?"

Color rose in his cheeks, as if he were an embarrassed schoolboy caught in mischief. "I was... taking a bath when I heard the commotion. There wasn't time to dress properly."

He had just arrived at the house party today on a post chaise and was in the bath when the bandits attacked. This actually explained how he managed to evade capture.

My brave, clever, resourceful husband.

“See?” she quipped. “Without me or the servants, ye can’t even manage to put on yer boots, and ye want me to leave ye behind?”

“I managed to save you, didn’t I?” Irritation laced his voice.

“Aye, but I can help ye save everyone else.”

“No, you can’t.” His tone was final.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are ye calling me useless?”

He let out an exasperated breath. “You always do this, twisting and dramatizing my words. I am telling you I will not allow you to linger here any longer. You are leaving. I am not putting you in danger.”

“Well, I am not leaving ye in danger either.”

“The longer we argue, the more time they have to find out you escaped and discover the secret passage.”

“Well, then ye need to stop arguing and let me help!”

Edward ran a hand through his hair. “Why did I ever think you’d listen to me just once for the sake of your own well-being, you stubborn woman?”

“I don’t know, considering yer not acting in the best interest of yer own well-being, either!”

“I am,” he growled.

“How? It is obvious that—”

He seized her by the waist and pulled her against him, his mouth descending on hers with desperate hunger.

Oh. The thought dissolved into sensation as his lips moved against hers, warm and familiar and achingly right. She gasped in surprise, and he took immediate advantage, his tongue slipping past her parted lips to explore the depths of her mouth.

The world tilted and spun around them. Fiona's knees went weak, and she would have collapsed in a boneless heap if she hadn't clutched desperately at his shoulders for support. Those broad, wonderful shoulders had haunted her dreams for months.

This is madness. We're hiding from killers, people are depending on us, and I'm melting in my husband's arms.

But God help her, she didn't care. She'd missed this—missed him—with an ache that had become as much a part of her as breathing. The familiar taste of him, the way he held her as if she were infinitely precious, the low sound of pleasure he made against her lips drove her mad with desire.

He broke the kiss abruptly, both of them breathing hard in the confined space. His thumb brushed across her lower lip with devastating gentleness, and she shivered at the simple contact.

"Why did ye do that?" she asked when she could finally speak, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I wanted to…” He trailed off and cleared his throat.

“Wanted to… what?”

He swallowed. “Wanted to kiss you.”