“Shot him?” Henrietta echoed. Whereas she assumed she herself must look positively ashen, Percy looked jauntier than he had in years.
“He’s splayed out on the gravel, my lady, the bastard—excuse the language, my lady.”
“You carry a pistol, Percy?”
“Ay, my lady, you can’t think I’d take the likes of you to Dorset without it.”
She had never considered that Percy would carry a pistol. In light of these events, however, she couldn’t help but think it was quite prudent of him.
“Shall we just leave him, my lady?”
Henrietta bit her lip. This man had just tried to rob them. But leaving him for dead seemed a bit vindicative, even for her taste.
“Let me see him,” she said and made to leave the carriage. Percy puffed out his chest, as if proud to show off his handiwork, and handed her down.
The man was, indeed, sprawled in the road, moaning softly. He appeared semi-unconscious. The poor bastard is probably stunned, she thought, and took a step closer. His horse stood beside him, almost uncomfortably, as if the animal didn’t know what to do with himself.
And then the moonlight illuminated his features and her stomach dropped into her boots. Because he had sly, beautiful features and skin that looked like a luxurious fabric sold in Mrs. Warburton’s shop. His countenance caught the moonlight and the beautiful umber hair that curved over his high forehead did, too.
“Trem!” she shouted and ran to him, putting her hands on his chest. “Did he hit you? Oh my God!” Terror, liquid and viscous, pounded into her lungs and heart at a new pace.
She felt around him for a wound and he groaned in response. After a minute, she realized that her fingers came away from his right arm, the one closest to her, coated in blood.
“He shot you in the arm,” she said, in half-question, half-statement, looking at the blood on her fingers and feeling faint.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her.
“What in the bloody hell,” he said, sitting up, and then immediately blanching. He brought his other hand to his arm and pulled away bloody fingers. “Did you shoot me?”
“No! Percy did.”
“Who in the devil is Percy?” he demanded.
She rolled her eyes. “Our coachman.”
“Oh, yes, Percy,” he said, wincing again as he moved. “Capital fellow. Not sure why he would shoot me, however.”
“Do you know this gentleman, Lady Henrietta?” Percy had stepped forward. “He was attacking us!”
“He wasn’t attacking us.” Henrietta whirled around on the old man. “You shot my fiancé!”
The old man recoiled at her words. “I thought he was a highwayman!”
She turned back to Trem. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“In the middle of the night? I reckon not. No, we need to get me to the nearest inn and bottle of whiskey. Here, take this—” he removed his jacket “—and wrap it around the wound.”
She followed his instructions, feeling how hot his body was as she did so, and she felt him trembling despite the calm of his voice.
“Very well,” she said, not at all sure that they were handling this situation correctly and feeling ready to throttle Percy. “And then a doctor in the morning. Percy,” she called, “we need to get Lord Tremberley into the carriage. You need to help me carry him.”
“Jesus, I wasn’t shot in the leg,” Trem objected. “I can walk.” He made to stand up and let out a fierce groan. “We’ll need to hitch my horse to your carriage.”
“Aye, my lord,” Percy said. “My apologies for the—I don’t know what to say, my lord. Thought you was a highwayman, you see.”
“Understood, Percy,” Trem said through gritted teeth.
“Here, I’ll help you.” She lent him her arm. With her help, he stood, and leaning on her, he made his way to the carriage.
