“Silence, Your Grace,” Miss Palliser ordered Edward. “I must take the boy with me, but he will be returned.”
Leo prepared his aim. His hands were steady. His heart was ready. He could do this. He could save his nephew. He bloody well had to, for if he did not, Leo could not bear it. His life had been lived, his mind was tainted, and he had already accomplished what he wished.
Why could the wench not have chosen him as her victim instead?
The undeniable rustling of someone racing through the dense forest behind Clay broke the silence. Leo tensed, wondering if it was another Fenian, but then he saw the swirl of skirts and flaming hair, and knew it was his sister-in-law Ara instead. He took advantage of the commotion.
Held his breath.
Pulled the trigger.
His lone shot rang out.
The bullet struck its target, hitting Miss Palliser, cutting through her gray frock. A dark-red stain instantly spread as her body jerked forward. Her pistol fell from her slack hand. Blood ran down her arm in a rush.
Goddamn it!
He must have hit a vein, and while he had wished to injure her, he still needed the vile female alive so he could interrogate her. She crumpled to the ground.
Edward broke free of her and ran toward Clay and Ara, shouting. “Papa! Mama!”
Leo rushed forward, wasting no time in binding Miss Palliser’s hands and ankles before withdrawing his knife and cutting a strip from her petticoat. He tied it above her wound tightly, fashioning a tourniquet to stay the blood pouring from her body. He retrieved her weapon and checked it, and that was when he made a most curious discovery: the gun bore no bullets.
She had been holding Edward hostage with nothing but an empty pistol and her own bravado. He pocketed her gun and stared down at her ashen face, wondering who in the hell she was.
He looked up at the happy reunion of Clay, Ara, and Edward—hugs, kisses, tears, proclamations of love—and vowed he would strip her, whoever she was, of every speck of information she possessed concerning the Fenians.
And when he had finished, he would destroy her.
Chapter Six
Bridget woke toaching arms, sore wrists, and a searing pain in her right upper arm and shoulder. She blinked, disoriented for a moment. Confused. Why was she not in her chamber? Where was the young duke?
This chamber, while nonetheless well appointed, was not her apartment with the three large windows, early morning sun, and charmed view of the verdant Harlton Hall park. The bed linens did not smell sweetly of lavender, but instead of stale sweat and the murk of sickness she recalled so well from her youth. She was bound to the bed, and she had been stripped down to her chemise.
That was when she remembered.
Someone had shot her. There had been the suddenness of the pain, tearing through her upper arm. The warm, wet trickle of blood—so much blood. It had been on her hand, red and dripping down her arm. And then the shock had set in, her teeth had rattled and her mouth had gone dry.
She recalled the leafy green trees overhead as she fell to her back, the shouts, the anxious voices of the young duke’s mother and stepfather, sun piercing through the boughs, glinting like the promise of a far-off land. A land without suffering, pain, or fear. Then the dark abyss of nothingness had claimed her.
Now, she was a prisoner, being kept in a strange place, attended to by a servant who refused to answer her questions aside from the necessary. She had been injured, the woman tending her—Annie—had said, and then had suffered an infection. Aside from those bare facts, she knew nothing.
For three days, she had been fed nothing but broth and gruel, wallowing in her own filth. No one heard her when she screamed. Or if they did, they were not inclined to answer.
She could recognize nothing. The window dressings had remained closed, with only thin strains of sunlight on the periphery to tell her whether it was night or day. Her female captor was pretty, but cruel. She seemed to take pleasure in Bridget’s every discomfort. Two times a day, she appeared to aid Bridget in the use of the chamber pot and delivered her broth and gruel. In the evening, she brought her tea.
As lucidity slowly returned to her, and she had begun to regain her ability to comprehend, she had dared to ask questions.
Where am I?
Who is responsible for this?
Why am I being held here?
Each time, the woman remained silent. Each time, Bridget grew more frustrated. The tea the woman brought her was sweet. Laced with laudanum, she suspected, and she would have foregone it had she been given anything else to drink. When she slept, she returned to the darkness. She saw Cullen there, waiting for her. She forgot who she was, what she had done, and it was easier.
But this was the first time she had been bound.
