Page 43 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

The plan was simple: create noise to lure out the knaves, then ambush them when they investigated.

Fiona crept alongside Edward through the third-floor corridor, both of them moving on the balls of their feet to minimize sound.

The carpet muffled their steps, but every creak of the old floorboards beneath them echoed like gunshots in the oppressive silence.

She resisted the urge to try any of the doors they passed to avoid unnecessary noise.

Whatever they needed for their trap would have to come from this hallway alone.

Edward stripped the heavy curtain cords from the tall windows while Fiona lifted an ornate brass candelabra from the side table, testing its weight. Her gaze lingered on the Christmas wreath made of evergreen boughs and punctuated by a red ribbon, but she couldn't see any immediate use for it.

Edward positioned himself near the stairwell, crouching low with his head tilted, listening for any sounds from below. The house had grown eerily quiet since the fire incident, but she could still smell smoke lingering in the air.

After a long moment, he glanced back at her, his gray eyes gleaming in the darkness, and gave her a sharp nod.

Now.

Fiona's mouth went dry, but she forced herself to move. Creeping to the balustrade, she hefted the heavy candelabra and let it drop into the stairwell below.

Brass striking marble steps created a violent clang that seemed to shake the entire house. The candelabra bounced once, twice, before finally coming to rest on the lower landing with one final, ringing clink.

Fiona stumbled backward, pressing herself against the wall, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain it could be heard three floors away.

"What the bloody hell?" a voice cursed from somewhere below. Heavy boots struck the stairs, growing louder with each step.

Every nerve in Fiona felt exposed and raw as she watched the stairwell, waiting. Edward had melted back into the shadows, invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.

The bandit appeared at the top of the stairs, breathing hard from his rapid ascent. He was a thick-set man with greasy hair and clothes that reeked of gin and unwashed flesh. He bent to retrieve the fallen candelabra, muttering complaints under his breath.

When he straightened and lifted his head toward the corridor, Edward pounced.

Emerging from the shadows swiftly and silently like a cat, he clamped one hand over the bandit's mouth before the man could cry out.

His other arm snaked around the brigand's torso, wrenching him backward into the corridor.

They crashed against the opposite wall, the candelabra clattering to the floor once more. Fiona froze, watching in fascination as the two men struggled.

She had always thought she would act as decisively as Edward in such dangerous situations, but she was utterly, shamefully wrong. Her mind had gone blank, and her body refused to move.

Edward, meanwhile, drove his knee into the bandit's ribs, doubling the man over, then brought his elbow down hard on the back of his skull. The brigand's knees buckled.

"Now!" Edward hissed.

The sharp order finally jolted Fiona into action. She lunged forward, shoving her silk handkerchief between the bandit's teeth and forcing it deep to muffle any cries.

"Curtain cord," Edward commanded, and she pressed the heavy rope into his hands. He made quick work of binding the bandit's wrists behind his back.

His gaze swept the corridor and landed on the Christmas wreath.

With a slight shrug, as if deciding that some holiday cheer was in order, he lifted it from the balustrade and worked it down over the bandit's shoulders.

The evergreen boughs pinned the man's arms awkwardly to his sides, creating an additional layer of restraint that was both effective and absurdly festive.

The bandit sagged against the wall, wheezing through his nose, his face flushed with exertion and outrage.

Edward hauled their captive into the nearest empty chamber—a small sitting room furnished with dust-covered furniture—and deposited him unceremoniously behind a settee where he wouldn't be immediately visible to anyone passing by.

They both froze in the doorway, listening intently.

No alarm bells. No pounding feet. No shouts of discovery. The house remained wrapped in its unnatural quiet.

We did it. We actually did it.

Fiona's hands trembled violently, her teeth chattering. She had never been in such mortal danger, had never felt her heart thunder with this intoxicating combination of terror and—God help her—pure exhilaration.

Her gaze found Edward in the dim light filtering through the windows. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath his sweat-dampened shirt. His forearms, where he'd rolled up his sleeves for the fight, were corded with muscle and slick with perspiration.

He looked dangerous. Raw. Magnificently alive.

Desire hit her with the same overwhelming force as the fear had moments before, stealing her breath and making her knees weak.

This lethal, ruthless man was her husband.

He was hers.

She had forgotten how quickly he could move, how devastatingly competent he was in a crisis, how his careful ducal composure could transform into something wild and primal when circumstances demanded it.

Her body responded before her rational mind could intervene, heat pooling low in her belly and spreading outward in waves.

Edward glanced at her then, and for one burning heartbeat, she was certain he could see everything written plainly across her face.

Something shifted in his expression, his eyes darkening as they swept over her flushed cheeks and parted lips.

Before she could second-guess the impulse, Fiona closed the distance between them in three quick steps and threw herself into his arms. Her mouth found his, all the terror and wild joy of their success pouring into the kiss.

He caught her against him instinctively, one arm banding around her waist while his free hand buried itself in her hair. For a moment, he kissed her back with matching fervor, his lips hot and demanding against hers.

When she finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard. He stared at her with genuine bewilderment, as if she were some fascinating puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, echoing the question she had posed after his earlier kiss.

Fiona tilted her head back, and her gaze landed on a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the doorframe above them.

A laugh bubbled up from her chest. "Tradition," she whispered, nodding toward the festive decoration.

Their clever tactic worked only once more before the bandits began acting more cautiously.

Fiona heard their leader shout profanities, forbidding them from stepping into the corridor.

Still, they attempted to lure out the least intelligent of the bandits and almost got caught.

Fiona waited for the bandit to appear from the corridor below; instead, they used the servants’ stairs and nearly ambushed them from both sides.

Edward grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the shadows just as the bandits appeared, both with pistols drawn.

They barely made it to the secret passage before boots thundered past their hiding place.

Now they huddled, pressed against the cold stone walls, listening to the bandits search the house. The brigands seemed to have wised up, traveling only in pairs and keeping their pistols ready.

Edward led Fiona deeper into the passage until they reached a tiny nook located between two floors.

They could not hear any sounds coming from outside the passageway, which hopefully meant that nobody could hear them, either.

The passage was narrow, barely wide enough for both of them, so they stood side by side, their backs pressed against the cold stone wall.

“What are we going to do next?” Fiona asked after a brief silence.

“We need to rest,” he whispered. “Wait them out. If we stay here quietly for a few hours, perhaps they will give up on their search for us. If Thornbury reveals the location of the secret doors, we’re dead.”

Fiona found his hand in the darkness and squeezed it. He squeezed back.

"You should have left when I told you to," he murmured. "You should have gotten out while you could."

"Are we really doing this again?" Despite everything, she felt a flicker of annoyance. "I told ye, I'm not leaving ye."

He shook his head. “You should.”

There was a beat of silence.

She turned toward him in the cramped space. "Edward, why are ye even here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did ye come tonight? Ye hate country parties. Ye hate winter travel. Ye especially hate snow."

"I do hate all those things." His pause stretched long. "I wasn't chasing social obligations. I was chasing you."

“What?”

His thumb traced across her knuckles, reigniting desire within her. "I missed you, Fiona. More than I thought possible."

Her throat tightened. She missed him too—missed him so much that she cried herself to sleep at night and found it difficult to get up in the morning. She often listened for footsteps that would never come.

"Please, Fiona." He pressed his forehead against hers, his palms framing her face in a hold so tender it made her chest ache. "Please, don't ever leave me again."

This had to be some kind of fevered dream brought on by terror and wishful thinking. Her heart caught in her throat. "What did ye say?"

"I was an idiot, Fiona." Her name on his lips sounded like a prayer, an endearment, everything she'd ever wanted to hear.

"When you said you wanted to honor our separation agreement and live apart from me, I was too stubborn and angry to think clearly.

My pride was wounded, and I couldn't see past my own bruised ego. "

Fiona shook her head, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "I only said that because I hoped ye would ask me to stay." The whispered confession tumbled out before she could stop it.

He went completely still. "You did?"