“Pardon?!” Uncle Leith set down his teacup with aclink.
Sitting back, Ethan related the series of events, from Kendall’s unexpected arrival to Fabrizio’s firing of Ethan’s revolver.
“Ye have had quite the day,” Malcolm said. “And Kendall . . . ?” He drifted off into a question.
“I believe His Grace should make a full recovery. The bullet wound appeared superficial, thankfully.”
Uncle Leith frowned into his teacup.
“If anything, this turn of events strengthens my resolve to return to Aberdeen. You will be coming with me, lad.” He pointed a finger at Ethan. “I will not be refused in this. Now that Kendall is wounded and recuperating, he will be in no position to receive visitors or make decisions about shipping. It is imperative that I pursue other opportunities. We leave at first light.”
“And if I refuse?” Ethan had to ask it.
Uncle Leith narrowed his eyes. “Then you will regret your choice.”
24
It was well past midnight before Allie found herself standing at her brother’s bedside.
The doctor had come and gone, tending to Tristan’s wound and leaving instructions for his care.
Now clad in a clean linen shirt and trousers, her twin lay in the middle of the bed, his chest rising and falling in deep breaths. Whiskers stubbled his jaw and his gray hair was akin to a haystack, poking out every which way.
He appeared so . . . young. His eyelashes fanned across his cheeks and his nose twitched just as it had when he was a boy.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Allie pressed a hand to his forehead.
Did he feel feverish? Infection was the greatest danger now, the doctor had warned.
“Stop touching me.” Tristan pushed her hand away without opening his eyes. “You’re hovering, and it’s insufferable.”
“For a few moments, I thought you had died, Tristan.” Allie purposefully put her palm back on his forehead. “You shaved a solid decade off my life. I’m permitted to hover.”
The image of Tristan bloodied and lying so still would haunt her to her own deathbed.
Over the intervening hours since his injury, her resolve to reconcile matters between them had settled into a hardened sense ofrightness.
She would coax and wheedle and provoke her twin until he found the boy he used to be. Theywouldlove one another again and celebrate their belonging in each other’s lives.
But first, Tristan needed to stop being such a curmudgeon.
“I’m scarcely wounded.” He shoved her hand off again, his dark eyes flaring open. “The bullet did little more than scrape my skin. I shall be right as rain by tomorrow.”
“Scrape?!” She pulled back to gape at him. “Your shoulder bled like a gutted pig and required twelve stitches! It is so like you to be testy over a wound.”
She stood up and leaned to fluff the pillow behind his head.
He grabbed for her hands. “Lady Allegra, you must cease. Do not make me summon a footman and have you removed!”
Allie froze, aghast. “Tristan! You wouldn’t!”
“I would!” he shot back, eyes bloodshot and threatening.
“You can try, I suppose.” She stared down at him, hands on her hips. “Hadley’s footmen—and quite frankly Hadley himself—prefer me over your surly carcass, so your chances of winning their assistance are slim.”
Tristan scowled at her.
She ignored him and returned to fluffing his pillow.
