Not Olivia.
His breath caught. For one irrational second, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.
Miss Bourne stared up at him, ghostly pale, her wig askew, revealing the familiar golden hair beneath.
Gentry crouched beside him, parting her cloak, his skilled fingers finding the wound. “It’s her shoulder. Clean shot, I think. But we must get her inside before the shock takes hold.”
Miss Bourne’s weak fingers found Gabriel’s. “Run. Run before he shoots again. I … I was meant to lure you to the trees, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt you again, Gabriel.”
His grip tightened around her ice-cold hand.
None of it made sense. Her presence. The cloak. The warning. The sacrifice.
He wanted to askwhy. To ask how far this betrayal went, how long it had festered under their noses. But Olivia was out there. And every second’s delay was a gamble with her life.
“Where is she? Where have they taken my wife?”
Another shot rang out, missing them but shattering a windowpane behind, shards spraying the flagstones.
“Take this.” She pressed a folded note into his hand. “You’ll find her there. With Justin. She’s alive. He’ll do what he can to keep her safe. Hurry. Take the valise. They may agree to a bargain.”
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Gentry pressed his fingers to her throat. “She’s losing consciousness. I need to get her somewhere warm.” He cast aglance at the trees. “But doubtless that bastard’s already reloading.”
Shouts rang out beyond the copse, muffled, frantic, followed by the sharp snap of undergrowth and a sudden crack of gunfire. A man’s groan followed, pained and guttural, chased by a stream of curses in a rich Scottish brogue.
Kincaid emerged, ruffling Alfie’s hair and grinning like his horse had just won the Derby. “The lad hit the beggar with the first shot,” he called. “I wouldn’t believe it had I nae seen it myself.”
“That boy was wasted at the seminary.” Gentry hauled Miss Bourne into his arms, the strain etched into his features. “If you’re planning a rescue attempt, should you not wait until Daventry arrives?”
One of Daventry’s men had returned to Mrs Hodge’s cottage, breathless and bloodied. He’d found her wounded and chased the devil, but lost him near the Thames bend.
He should wait.
Wait for reinforcements. Wait for a plan.
But love made fools of sensible men.
Gabriel stood. He opened the note, now damp in his hand, and read the address, one he knew all too well. “Give this to Daventry.” He shoved the paper into Gentry’s pocket. “Tell him to follow with his men. And have Rutland look for that damned swallow wallpaper.”
The rectory stood tucked back from the road, half-swallowed by trees, its weathered gables just visible through a screen of tangled branches and ivy. Carts and carriages rattled past,unaware a woman had been seized from her home and held prisoner within.
Gabriel cursed his own stupidity. He’d searched this house hours ago. Every room. Every cupboard. And come away with nothing but the rector’s stunned grief and the nagging sense he’d missed something.
Dalton scanned their surroundings as they crouched low behind the hedgerow. “You’re sure you trust Miss Bourne? That we’re not walking into a trap?”
He wasn’t sure of anything. Except the love that burned in his chest. And the fear of what awaited him inside this godforsaken place.
“It’s undoubtedly a trap.” They’d sent Miss Bourne to Studland Park to kill him in the woods or force him here at gunpoint. To make him hand over the evidence while they tortured his wife. “But we have the advantage.”
“We should wait for Daventry.”
“And have them silence her when they see the cavalry amassing?”
That had always been the fraternity’s plan. Bury the truth and dispose of the witnesses.
Still, Dalton erred on the side of caution for once. “If they’re expecting you, you can be sure we’re not just dealing with the rector.”
