“I’m fine.” Her words faltered as Lady Corbett suddenly bent at the waist. “A pistol, she has a pistol.”
Lady Corbett lifted her head and smiled slyly at Nick. She was still smiling as Nick's fist made contact with the side of her head. Her plump frame lifted up for a moment, then collapsed into a heap on the floor.
Nick stepped over Lady Corbett as if she were a bit of trash and came to Jemma’s side. “Jem. Thank God." He turned to free her from the chair, growling at the sight of her bloodied wrists. A large hand cupped her face as he pulled her to stand next to him. “Jem.”
“I found you to be an insolent houseguest, Mr. Shepherd. You neverdidwrite that introduction for Dorthea to the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne,” Lady Corbett spat. “And I so wanted to have tea with her.” She shoved herself against the bed for support as she came to her feet. Her hand shook as she pointed the pistol at Nick.
“Nick.” Jemma said softly in warning.
He calmly turned towards Lady Corbett with not a shred of fear. “Do you really think you can shootme?”
“I shall.” Lady Corbett shook her head back and forth, swatting at her cheek as if a fly tormented her. “I will. You deserve it,” she cried as Nick reached for the gun. “But maybe I'll just shoot her instead.” She turned the weapon towards Jemma.
The pistol went off, sounding like a thunderclap in the small room
“No!” Nick cried out as a burst of pure fire licked against Jemma’s shoulder and she fell, the rough wood of the floor scrapping against her cheek. The pain was intense, as if someone had pushed a hot poker into her shoulder. The room swam about her and she grabbed at her shoulder, staring at amazement at her bloodied fingers.
An unearthly growl erupted beside her along with the sound of kindling being broken. Rowan’s shouts reached her ears as Nick's worried face swam before her eyes.
“Jem.”
28
Jemma opened her eyes and recognized the top of her canopied bed. She was in her own room at the Marsh home. Snatches of a terrible dream filled her head. Lady Corbett and Augie had kidnapped her and were going to take her back to Bermuda. She took a deep breath and tried to sit up, falling back against the pillow at the burst of pain emanating from her shoulder.
“Stop moving, Jem. You'll open the wound and it will start to bleed anew.” Nick lounged on a chair next to the bed, his shirt unbuttoned, and his clothing rumpled. The chair creaked under his large form, and Jemma doubted the piece would ever be the same. Nick’s cheeks were dark with stubble. More so than usual.
“You,” her mouth was dry, “need to shave.”
“Indeed.” He stood and came over to the bed, taking her hand in his.
Jemma licked her lips, wincing as her tongue ran over the split at the corner of her mouth. “You should not be in my bedchamber,” she choked. “My aunt—”
“Has come to terms with my lack of propriety. I insisted that I be here when you woke, not patiently sitting at home, waiting for Lady Marsh to send word to me of your recovery. Ridiculous after what has occurred. Nor was I content to wait in a guest room.” He pressed her hand to his lips. “Your aunt strenuously objected, of course, but I ignored her. I believe the last thing she did was to scream for the smelling salts.” The full lips twisted into a wry smile. “I've ordered them all away, including the doctor, who has promised me absolute discretion. How do you feel?"
“My shoulder hurts.” Carefully she leaned forward as Nick pushed another pillow behind her.
“It should. That bitch shot you.” Nick sounded worried and annoyed at the same time. He ran a finger lightly down her face, carefully avoiding the bruise on her cheek. “You need to rest. We're to be married as soon as you can stand, and your face has healed. Thank goodness your nose isn’t broken.” His very tone implied there could be no objection.
“What happened?” She looked behind him to the small table next to her bed where a pitcher of water sat.
“Thirsty?” He stood at her nod and poured a glass of water. He held the glass to her lips. As the cool liquid slid down her throat, panic filled her. Her hand flew down to cup her stomach.
“Jem, everything is fine. You are both fine.” He took the glass from her lips. “Thankfully the doctor did not makethatproclamation until after your aunt had left the room.” The mismatched eyes twinkled with mirth. “Dr. Martin wasn't sure whether to tell me or not. I assured him of the child's paternity.”
She closed her eyes and said a grateful prayer. “Lady Corbett killed my father, Nick. She poisoned him. And my mother.” She opened her eyes and tried to blink back the tears threatening to fall. “Teacakes. She poisoned the teacakes.” Her hands clutched the coverlet. “She said she loved him and he should have married her,” the words came out in a rush, “and that it was she, and not Lord Corbett, who told my father about your grandfather's papers.”
“You need not ever worry about Lady Corbett again, my love. She slipped on the stairs as she tried to flee. Broke her neck.” Nick spoke lightly. “A shame. I would have liked her to stand trial for her crimes.” He waited, watching her to see if she would question him further.
Remembering the strange popping sound she'd heard after the pistol discharged, Jemma had serious doubts that Lady Corbett fell down the stairs on her own. She'd been in London long enough to hear the rumors even before she knew Nick and the Duke of Dunbar were one and the same. Loving Nick meant accepting who he was. Instead of pondering her future husband’s less savory activities she said, “How would she have known about those documents?”
Nick kissed the tip of her nose, appearing relieved she would not question him further about the means of Lady Corbett's death.
“She was an acquaintance of my mother's, prior to her marriage to Corbett. I found out several months ago.” Nick pursed his lips in thought. “Mother was more of a drunkard than my father, oddly enough. She just hid it much better than he. She must have stumbled on her knowledge of those papers by accident, probably while going through grandfather’s desk looking for spare coin. My parents were deeply in debt, and when my grandfather cut them off, I suppose she became desperate. She must have told Lady Corbett at some point, possibly thinking to enlist her aid in stealing them, but the Corbetts outsmarted her.” He slid further onto the bed, ignoring Jemma's protests. “Not difficult. My mother was a bit of a dimwit.”
“I'm wounded,” she said pointedly as Nick stretched out his legs on the bed next to her. “You could delay my recovery.”
He leaned his head against hers and took her hand, careful not to jostle her wounded shoulder. “Shush. You do not really wish to get away,” the husky voice whispered against her temple.
