One glance at Simon left no doubt that if he could have gotten his hands on her, he would have murdered her on the spot. “Annabelle,” he roared, between spasms of coughing, “get out of this building now!”

“Not without you.” She fumbled with a wooden block that had been placed at the end of a hydrostatic ram.

Twisting and tugging at his pinned leg, Simon showered her with threats and profanities while she lugged the wooden block over to him and shoved it against the crane.

“It’s too heavy!” he snarled, as she struggled with the connecting rod. “You can’t budge it! Get out of here. Damn you, Annabelle—”

Grunting with effort, she braced the rod on the wooden block and wedged the end of it beneath the crane. She pushed down, using all her weight. The crane remained solidly in place, indifferent to her efforts. With a gasp of frustration, she struggled with the lever, until the rod creaked in protest. It was no use—the crane would not move.

A loud crack went off, and iron shards flew through the air, causing her to duck and cover her head. She felt a blow against her arm, striking with enough force to send her to the ground. An aching burn penetrated her upper arm, and she glanced down to discover that a metal chip had lodged in her flesh, provoking a splash of brilliant red blood. Crawling to Simon, she felt him snatch her against his chest, shielding her until the shower of iron pellets had abated. “Simon,” she panted, drawing back to look into his fume-reddened eyes, “you always carry a knife. Where is it?”

Simon went still as the import of the question struck him. For a split-second she saw him weigh the possibility, then he shook his head. “No,” he rasped. “Even if you could manage to sever the leg, you couldn’t drag me out of here.” He shoved her away from him. “There’s no time left—you have to get out of the damned foundry.” As he saw the refusal on her face, his features twisted with hideous fear, not for himself but for her. “My God, Annabelle,” he grated, finally reduced to begging, “don’t do this. Please. If you care for me at all—” A shuddering cough tore through his body. “Go. Go.”

For an instant Annabelle wanted to obey him, as the desire to escape the hellish nightmare of the burning foundry nearly overwhelmed her. But as she staggered to her feet, and looked down at him, so large and yet so defenseless, she could not make herself walk away. Instead she picked up the connecting rod once more, and hoisted it back onto the wooden block, while pain shot through her injured shoulder. Blood thundered in her ears, making it impossible to distinguish Simon’s outburst from the din of the shuddering building around them. And that was likely a good thing, as he looked insane with fury. She pulled and hung on the lever, while her tortured lungs pulled in choking air and spasmed in response. The scene blurred around her, but she continued to exert her remaining strength on the iron bar, her slight weight straining to move it.

All of a sudden she felt something grasp the back of her dress. Had she any breath left to scream, she would have. Startled out of her wits, Annabelle went stiff as she was hauled backward, and her hands were pried from the bar. Choking and sobbing, she stared through smoke-blinded eyes at the lean, dark shape behind her. A cool voice reverberated in her ear. “I’ll lift the crane. Go pull his leg free at my command.”

She recognized his autocratic tone even before his face registered. Westcliff, she thought in amazement. It was indeed the earl, his white shirt torn and filthy, his features streaked with soot. Yet for all his dishevelment, he looked calm and capable as he motioned for her to go to Simon. Hefting the iron bar with ease, he deftly adjusted the lever beneath the crane shaft. Although he was only of medium height, his lean body was solid and superbly fit, conditioned by years of punishing physical exertion. As Westcliff pushed downward with a mighty shove, Annabelle heard the squeaks and groans of bending metal, and the massive crane eased upward a few crucial inches. The earl barked at Annabelle, who frantically tugged at Simon’s leg, ignoring his groan of agony as he rolled from beneath the crushing object.

Lowering the crane with a massive thud, Westcliff came to help Simon struggle to his feet, wedging a solid shoulder beneath his arm to support his injured side. Annabelle took the other side and winced as Simon seized her in a punishing grip. Smoke and heat overwhelmed her, making it impossible to see or breathe or think. Continuous coughing rattled her slender frame. Had she been left to her own devices, she would never have been able to find her way out of the foundry. She was hauled and pushed forward by Simon’s brutal grasp, occasionally lifted from her feet as they crossed the wreckage on the ground, her shins and ankles and knees battered painfully. The torturous journey seemed to last forever, their progress incremental, while the foundry shook and roared like a beast hovering over its injured prey. Annabelle’s mind swam. She fought to stay conscious, while her vision was filled with glittering sparks and an inviting darkness that loomed just beyond them.

She never remembered the moment they emerged from the foundry with smoking clothes and singed hair and heat-parched faces…all she could recall later was that there were countless pairs of hands reaching for her, and her aching legs were suddenly relieved of the burden of her own weight. Collapsing slowly into someone’s arms, she felt herself being lifted while her lungs worked greedily to collect clean air. A dripping, brackish cloth passed over her face, and unfamiliar hands reached inside her dress to unfasten her corset. She couldn’t even bring herself to care. Blanketed in an exhausted stupor, she surrendered to the rough ministrations and gulped the contents of a metal dipper that was pressed to her mouth.