The terror turned to anger.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she struggled more, willing to do anything to free herself from his hand. She squirmed and pushed, and still he held her, his free hand tearing her coat apart, sending buttons flying before he grasped at her skirts, pulling them up, letting the frigid air curl around her ankles, her calves, her knees.
“Hold ’er,” the first man said, reaching for the fall of his trousers as breath returned, miraculously, and her fear turned from death to something else. Something worse.
She clawed at her captor, hands punching and hitting at his arms, but she was no match for him. She changed tack, feeling for the knife in the lining of her cloak, trying to stay calm. Trying to focus.
She found it as she felt the other man’s hands grab harshly at the skin above her knee, and she closed her eyes, unable to shake the vision of his filthy hand on her skin there. Slid the knife from its mooring.
But her captor saw it before she could use it. Caught her.
Was too strong for her.
He wrenched it from her hands and pressed it to her throat. “Silly girl. Weapons like this are too dangerous for the likes of you.”
Fear gave way to horror.
And then he was gone, her blade clattering to the cobblestones, the loss of his weight accompanied by a deafening roar that should have increased her fear, but instead brought relief like none she’d ever known.
Temple.
She was free, her captor releasing her the moment the duke arrived, at first attempting to rescue his friend, but now standing back, unable to tear his gaze from the fight. She scurried backward, clutching her knees to her chest, and watched as well.
Temple pummeled her attacker, now pressed against the wall just as she had been, and no doubt feeling a fear similar to hers as England’s winningest bare-knuckle boxer used every ounce of his skill and force to mete out justice.
But this was not a professional fighter who fought with rules and regulations, somehow finding a space for sport in the fight.
This Temple was out for blood. The movements were precise and economical, no doubt the product of years of training and practice, but every blow carried the heavy weight of his anger, hitting again and again until it was the momentum of his fists that kept her attacker upright, and nothing else.
He was stronger than gravity.
The second man in the alleyway seemed to have a similar realization, and decided that rescuing his friend was far less important than rescuing himself. He pushed past Temple, headed for escape.
But luck was not on the man’s side.
Temple dropped his current foe into an unconscious heap at his feet and reached out to catch the second man by the neck, pulling him off balance and throwing him to the ground. Mara saw the glint of silver in the villain’s hand. Her knife. He’d found it in the darkness.
“Blade!” she called out. She came to a crouch, ready to enter the fight. To protect him as he’d protected her. Before she could, however, Temple took a knee next to the man and resumed his battle. As though weaponry could not hurt him. As though he were immune to threat.
The knife flew through the air, finding its mark before Temple knocked it away, sending it skittering across the cobblestones, coming to a stop mere inches from her boots. She lifted it, held it tight in her hands, and did not stop watching Temple.
This time, he spoke, his blows punctuating the words that came through clenched teeth. “You. Will. Never. Hurt. Another. Woman.”
The man whimpered.
Temple leaned in close. “What did you say?”
The man whimpered again.
Temple lifted him from the ground by the lapels, then dropped him, allowing his head to fall back on the cobblestones. “I cannot hear you.”
The man shook his head, eyes closed. “I—I won’t.”
Temple landed another blow, then leaned in. “Won’t what?”
“Hurt another.”
“Another what?”
“Another woman.”
Temple leaned back on his haunches then, his massive thighs firm and wide, his breath coming hard and fast. “Get up.”
The man did as he was told, scrambling to his feet.
“Take your bastard friend with you if you wish him to live.”
The man did as he was told, pulling Mara’s groaning attacker to his feet and beating a path from the alleyway with as much haste as possible.
She watched them go, and it took her several long moments before she looked to Temple, who was staring at her from his place, several feet away, still as stone.
Once he met her eyes, everything changed. He swore once, under his breath, and came toward her, on his hands and knees, slowly. “Mara?”