“I am cold,” she admitted, weakly.
The fight was steadily draining from her. And perhaps, with it, the life.
Would she die? She supposed it possible. She had been shot after all. Where was the bullet? Lodged somewhere? Was that what this interminable pressure was, this heaviness in her arm?
“Stay with me,cariad,” he crooned. “We are almost to my mount, and she will carry us back to the main house swiftly.”
“Tired,” she said, her tongue feeling sluggish. Too large for her mouth. The sky above her was flashes of light but mostly darkness. The mist had turned into an unrelenting drizzle, and her gown was dampening. “I’m tired, Zachary. And cold. So c-cold.”
She should not have called himZachary. Some dim, rebellious part of her mind warned her of that. He had proven himself untrustworthy. He had betrayed her. And she must not allow him back into her heart ever again. Which meant she ought to call him by his title. By something impersonal. Unfamiliar.
But she could not seem to summon the desire to keep him at bay, because she felt so weak. Physically now, not emotionally. It was as if the loss of blood was taking its toll upon every part of her, draining her dry until there was nothing remaining.
“I will warm you when we get to the house,” he said, his voice low and warm and reassuring. Mellifluous.
She wanted to believe that voice, those words.
Wanted to believe inhim.
Should she?
Could she?
Oh, she was a confused, wretched mess. Her aching arm was doing her no favors. Nor was the loss of blood, which, if the thoroughly soaked handkerchief was any indication, was growing steadily by the moment. Her teeth clacked together as another shudder went through her. She did not recall ever feeling this bone-chilling sense of cold. As if she were already dead.
“Here we are,cariad,” he said, a note of triumph in his ragged voice. His breaths were coming harshly. “I am going to put you on the saddle first and then swing up behind you. Do you think you have the strength to hold on with your uninjured arm?”
Strength?
Her unafflicted arm felt limp as a noodle.
“Yes,” she lied.
What choice did she have, anyway? She could do anything if she had to, could she not?
“On the count of three,” Anglesey said calmly. “One, two, three.”
On the last number, he hoisted her upward. In her almost trance-like state, it was all she could do to clutch the saddle with her good arm and keep herself steady. But he was there, a calming presence, his hands on her knees, making sure she did not slide to the ground.
“Steady?” he asked.
As steady as she was going to be. She clung to the saddle desperately. “Yes.”
In the blink of an eye, he was behind her, a steely arm banded around her waist, holding her to his chest. And then, the horse was flying into motion, hurtling them over the damp earth.
Toward home.
Strange that it should feel that way. Likely, it was the delirium from the blood loss and the shock of what had happened affecting her. She shivered and leaned into the comforting, familiar warmth of Anglesey.
* * *
After what seemed a lifetime,Izzy’s mother entered the salon, wearing a reserved smile. “I have news at last. The doctor assures me she is doing well. The wound was a graze only, and required a few stitches. She is resting now.”
A chorus ofthank heavensrose from the family members gathered, Zachary included. Izzy’s father and siblings had all been keeping a tense vigil with him. Even Greymoor had come.To hold your hand in your time of need, the marquess had said in attempt to force Zachary from the funereal pall that had fallen over him in the wake of Izzy’s wounding. But no amount of calming words or levity could lessen the frenzied worry that had been holding his heart in a claw-like grip from the moment he had realized she had been hurt.
Relief hit him in the chest now, but he still possessed so much pent-up worry that he could not keep himself from pacing the length of the salon where he had been made to wait while an unknown country doctor attended his wife.
Hiswife?Christ.
