He hated himself.
He would never forgive what he had done. And he knew without a doubt that there was only one way he could do penance for leading her into danger and so recklessly putting her at risk. For nearly costing Eleanora her life.
He’d been an unabashed rake for years, undisciplined and wild, selfish and greedy. Flitting from distraction to distraction without the weight of responsibility, without a care for anything or anyone but himself.
Now, Nando would be selfless for the first time. Because he loved Eleanora enough to recognize he was not worthy of her, loved her enough to realize he needed to putherhappiness before his own. She had married him because she’d been a woman of few means forced to earn her supper by being a glorified servant, and he had offered her a life of comfort and ease. Whilst he knew that she had found pleasure in his arms, he didn’t fool himself that she returned his love. How could she love a scapegrace like him?
Nando knew what he had to do.
He would leave her.
“It isnothing short of a miracle that the bullet did not do more damage,” Dr. Crisfield announced as he emerged from the room what seemed an eternity later.
Nando’s eyes slid closed, his knees trembling so violently that he almost went tumbling to his arse. The bullet had passed miraculously through, not embedding itself in her body, splintering bone and piercing vital organs as he had feared when he had seen all that blood.
Thank God.
He said a silent prayer of gratitude before opening his eyes and taking a deep breath. “She will live, then?”
The physician nodded. “I was able to stitch her wound and stay the bleeding. She will need to rest and remain abed. Her Royal Highness lost a great deal of blood. I’ve given her laudanum for the pain and bandaged the wound. As long as infection does not set in, she will recover fully.”
The chance of infection was strong, he knew, and the outcome grim. But Nando wouldn’t think of that now. Eleanora was alive. The wound had not been as devastating as he had thought. Bruno had taken a terrible knock to the head, but he would recover as well. And Levering, that despicable madman, had been taken away by the watch. Nando didn’t give a damn about his own miserable hide, but Eleanora was safe from Levering, and that was all that mattered.
“Thank you, Dr. Crisfield,” he said, needing to see her for himself. “May I go to her now?”
The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile. “The laudanum did its job, and she is sleeping, but there is no reason to stay away, Your Royal Highness. You may see your wife now.”
Nando was moving before Dr. Crisfield finished speaking. He crossed the threshold to the chamber where he’d carried her limp body earlier in a frenzied rush of fear. It wasn’t her bedroom, but it had been the closest and most convenient. She lay quiet and still, her face ashen, looking so small and fragile and unlike her customary vibrant self.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. He sank into the chair at her bedside, clasped his hands together, and prayed some more.
CHAPTER 20
Eleanora had been trampled by a horse. There was no other explanation, she decided as she came awake, to feel as she did. Her left shoulder ached, her skin felt as if it had been drawn too tight, and there was no way she could move that did not produce a sudden stab of pain. Her eyes fluttered open to find herself in an unfamiliar bed, the light snores of her husband ringing rhythmically through the stillness of the room.
He was slumped in a chair, his long legs stretched before him, crossed at his booted ankles, head lolling to the side. His position looked dreadfully uncomfortable, and for a moment, confusion crowded her mind. She couldn’t think of why he was here, asleep in a chair. Or what the cause of her agony was and how she had managed to find herself in this mostly undecorated guest room.
“Nando?” she managed, her voice a rusty rasp, her tone desperately dry.
He jolted awake, stunning blue eyes searing hers with their customary intensity. “My love. What is it?”
It was everything. She tried to speak, but her voice didn’t want to oblige this second time.
“I’ll fetch you some water,” he said, shooting to his feet.
She wanted to protest, for there was some instinct deep within her that said she needed him close. But her raspy words either failed to reach him, or he ignored them. He crossed the room to where a pitcher, cup, and other small bottles sat atop a table. The sound of water filling the cup reached her, and then he turned, striding back, his countenance hewn in granite.
Instead of handing her the cup, he held it to her lips. “Drink.”
It was just as well that he performed the action for her, because even her uninjured arm felt as if it had been weighed down by lead. It would seem that her entire body was weak, not just her voice. She took a hesitant sip, the water sluicing down her throat.
Instantly, she wanted more—the whole cup.
But Nando withdrew it before she could drain the entire contents. She made a sound of protest.
“You need to drink slowly,” he explained. “I don’t want you to make yourself ill. If you vomit your water, you’ll pull the stitches and be in terrible pain.”
His voice was low, soothing. Vague flashes of memory returned to her, that voice at her side in the darkness that had swirled around her, patient, loving hands stroking her hair, a cool cloth at her brow, words of encouragement. Whatever had happened to her, Nando had been here with her, a steadfast presence.
