“Of course, Your Grace.” She bobbed a harassed curtsy and waddled down the corridor, calling for her husband in a loud, brash voice.
Theo slipped back into the library and closed the door behind her. “She’s sending for a doctor,” she said, her voice not quite sounding like her own.
Nathanial glanced up and nodded. “Help me remove his coat.” He paused as he withdrew a knife from Montague’s pocket and held it up to the light. A frown caught the corner of his mouth. “This is familiar.”
“That’s because I took it,” she said, coming to kneel beside him.
“I see.” In a quick, easy motion, he sliced through Sir Montague’s coat, followed by his shirt. “Help me hold him up so I can remove these.”
The last thing she wanted to do was lift up a man twice her size, who thanks to her might soon be a corpse, but there was no one else to help, and Nathanial had given her the instruction in the steady understanding she could obey.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and raised Montague’s shoulders, allowing Nathanial to peel his clothes away. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I never intended . . . I’m so sorry.”
Sir Montague’s lips twitched into a ghastly facsimile of his languid smile. “An excellent shot, Duchess.”
A muscle in Nathanial’s jaw ticked, but all he said was, “Hold these strips, Theo.”
They worked in silence, wrapping Montague’s ripped shirt around his stomach, the binding tight and quickly stained with blood. There was so much of it, coating Theo’s hands, hanging pungent and coppery in the air until she wanted to vomit.
Montague didn’t wake. She wasn’t sure if he ever would again.
Finally, Nathanial rocked back on his heels, and Theo slumped against the ground. Her hands were shaking. If Montague died, she would be responsible. She would be a murderer.
She rose, stumbling from the library, away from the body and the proof of what she had done.
“Stay with him,” Nathanial commanded behind her, but tears were blurring her eyes, and she couldn’t see who he was addressing.
It didn’t matter.
Her shoulder knocked against a wall and her knees gave out. Sobs, ugly and raw, burst from her throat, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
“Theo,” Nathanial murmured, wrapping his fingers around her wrists and pulling them from her face. “My sweet, foolish darling.” He eased her against him, his arms settling around her back, and with a gasp, she submitted to his embrace. He smelt like home.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shh. Shh.” With one hand, he stroked her hair; the other locked around her waist, holding her more securely against him. They were on the floor, the marble cold against her legs and Nathanial’s legs on either side of her. His arms cradled her. And for the first time since Sir Montague had caught her, she released the fear that had been building in her chest. She cried, not caring Nathanial’s shirt was wet under her face, or that the rough material made her skin itch. She cried until there wereno tears left and all she was left with was an aching hollowness that devoured her heart.
This was her fault.
Nathanial shifted under her, and she tried to draw back in alarm. “Am I hurting you?”
His arms tightened, holding her in place. “Don’t think of it.”
“Nate—”
“Let me hold you. It’s all I thought of doing since I discovered you were missing.” His lips brushed her hair, and his voice broke. “You stupid, stupid girl.”
She pressed her face more deeply into his uninjured shoulder and choked back another sob. “I know.”
“I thought I would never see you again. I thought—” His breath caught and he drew back so he could tip her face up to his. His thumb swiped tears from her face as he kissed her, seeking and giving assurance with every movement of his mouth. When he pulled away, hers was not the only face that was wet. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Theo closed her eyes.
“I can’t be without you,” he said, his voice raw and ragged, each word ripped from him. “I thought about it, Theo. I thought about what my life would be without you in it, and I couldn’t. You had my heart before I knew I’d given it, and you have it still. You might—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “You might not love me in return, but—”
“I do,” she said, taking his face in her hands. His eyes widened and met hers, wonder and adoration in them like the rising sun. “You married me to rescue me, Nate, and everything since . . . How could I not love you? How could I ever love someone else?”
There was blood on his face from her hands. Sir Montague’s blood. And she was certain there was blood on her dress. But when Nathanial reached up to brush her cheek with hisfingertips, so lightly and gently she might have imagined it, she forgot to care.
