The Duke of Kendall lay on the floor, a bright red stain spreading across the white of his neckcloth and pooling beside his gray head.
Allie’s soul left her body.
“Tristan!!!” she shrieked.
On a sob, she lurched to her feet and staggered the few steps to him, collapsing beside his head.
“No! Tristan! NO!!”
She couldn’t lose him. Not like this.
Not angry and fighting.
Not unreconciled and hateful.
“No, no, no, no!” she wailed, fingers frantically untying his cravat and wrenching at his shirt buttons.
Where was the wound? Was he breathing? Was she too late—
Tristan moaned and pushed her hands away.
“Stop,” he muttered.
Coughing, he rolled to his left side.
OH!
He wasn’t dead.
Tristan was alive.
He’s alive!The words stampeded through Allie’s brain.Alive, alive, alive.
Her twin looked at his right shoulder and then let loose an impressive string of curses.
Alive and swearing!
How much better than merely alive!
Her mind clearing, Allie finally noted the hole in the right shoulder of his coat where the bullet had grazed him.
Her brother wasn’t lethally wounded.
Sobbing in relief, she scooted forward on her knees and began patting down his torso, trying to ascertain if the second bullet had struck him anywhere.
“I said stop,” he growled, pushing her hands away and flopping onto his back again. “I shall be fine.”
Uffa!
Her stubborn, obstinate, overbearing brother.
It scoured her heart—
She loved him.
She had loved the quiet, kind boy he had been.
And, despite everything, she still loved the irritable, arrogant, overprotective man he had become.
