With every hiddennook Jasper searched that came up empty, the knots in his body drew tighter. They’d heard the gunfire, but mayhap it hadn’t been Francis. Or perhaps it was, but he was simply attempting—and succeeding—to cause more emotional pain. Whatever it was, Jasper’s heart could scarcely handle another moment of this.
The longer they searched, the worse his heart ached. He’d known that his feelings for Maria had grown, but he’d not realized how verymuch. What if he couldn’t tell her?—
“Jasper,” a faint, weak voice called from the floor above.
His pulse sped and he darted from the room, racing up the stairs to the third floor.
Thump, thump, thump… A rhythmic thumping accompanied by shuffling, rustling, and grunting echoed down the hall, and Jasper followed the sound to the fourth-floor stairs.
“Maria!” His chest swelled for a startled moment before he truly took in her state. “Sodding hell!” He turned to shout over his shoulder, “Fetch a doctor!”
She wavered on her feet, and he rushed forward. A crimson stain spanned nearly the entire length of her left arm, which was dragging?—
“Francis,” he spat.
He carefully disengaged Maria’s bloody hands from the counterpane and took her into his arms. She leaned against him with a sigh, her eyes rolling backward then sliding closed.
“Christ. Maria?”
Knees giving way beneath her, she slid down his person before he lifted her bodily in his arms.
“Livingston!Baxter!Thomas! Anyone within earshot!” he hollered over his shoulder.
Mr. Baxter darted from the third-floor staircase, his eyes widening. “You’ve found them!”
“Have someone summon a physician. I need another to watch Francis, and send the women to my bedchamber to help Maria out of her clothes. We haven’t the time to bring her home; she must be seen to here.”
“Right away.” Baxter disappeared down the stairs, and Jasper turned toward the ducal bedchamber.
He was dimly aware of others approaching and offering help, but Jasper’s thoughts were all but entirely occupied. Nerves wrapped themselves around his every muscle. There was far too much blood. Too much for an injury to her arm, damn it! She was too pale. Her skin was ashen and bore a sheen of perspiration from her efforts.
“Stay alive, my love,” he whispered into her hair. “Keep breathing. Stayalive.”
* * *
His entire bodytaut with tension, Jasper entered the parlour. The low hum of conversation stopped, and the eyes of every occupant turned on him expectantly.
“How is she?” Miss Morgan asked, standing from her position on the settee.
“The doctor is seeing to her wound now. He requested that I give them privacy. But she is still unconscious.” His gaze slid sideways to where his cousin sat, bound to a chair and moaning over his own wound. “I came to question Francis, however.”
Juliana nodded from her position near the bastard. “I refrained from speaking to him without you present.”
Unable to utter a word in response, Jasper dragged an armchair toward the man and sat, facing him. Fury raged beneath his skin, curdling his blood. This loathsome parasite had dogged him and his for far too damned long.
“Why, damn you?” he burst out.
A slow, cruel smile spread over Francis’ lips. “You know why.”
He did, but he wanted the villain to say it, wanted to hear the delusions. “The title? Jean? Hell, Francis, you know very well that?—”
“I donotknow!” he hissed, his features mottling, despite his loss of blood. “When the truth comes to be known about your father’s theft of the title and the barbarous murder of my dearest Jean, everyone will revile you. The title is rightfully mine, and Ishallhave it.”
“My father did not murder Jean. We?—”
“Yes he did! We saw her body; we know what he did!”
His emotions in turmoil, Jasper stood and strode from the room.
