And she did not have time to contemplate it further, for Mr.Ames burst in the front door, pistol drawn.
One shot fired.
Then another.
The cracks echoed from the archaic stones and wooden beams.
Charlotte cried out with the shock of it, then stumbled forward as Mr.Walstead’s tight grip on her suddenly released. She fought for balance, and Mr.Walstead dropped to the ground behind her.
She gasped for air.
But there had been two shots, and she had not been hit.
She lifted her gaze.
Anthony was on his feet, but he was stumbling backward. Blood seeped through the white fabric of his neckcloth and his gray coat. He fell to the ground.
Horror froze her to her spot. Suddenly men seemed to be everywhere—shouting, running. She regained control of her limbs and rushed toward Anthony and dropped by his side. “Anthony!”
She touched his face, forcing him to look at her. His vibranteyes were wide. But he said nothing. He gasped for air and looked down to his chest.
Her panicked words tumbled forth. “It’s going to be alright, Anthony. Breathe, my love, breathe.”
Mr.Ames pushed her away and she fell back. He ripped off his own coat and tore a sleeve free.
Anthony exhaled and leaned his head back against the stone floor. Every second seemed an eternity as Mr.Ames assessed the wound. She felt sick at the gory sights around her, and the acrid scent of gunfire and death turned her stomach. She reached for Anthony’s hand and held it as if both their lives depended on it.
She could not look at the wound as Mr.Ames cut away the fabric of Anthony’s coat or at the man who came to assist him. Instead, she leaned close to his face and spoke firmly. “Don’t close your eyes, Anthony, don’t you dare.”
Mr.Ames nudged her, jolting her from her shock. “Go find wine, whiskey. Ale. Anything. Now.”
She flew to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle, barely noticing one of the other men standing over Mr.Walstead’s body. She returned and knelt by Anthony.
“Get as much in him as you can,” instructed Mr.Ames. “He’ll be glad you did.”
She adjusted Anthony’s head just enough to get the bottle to his lips. He coughed and sputtered as she assisted him.
After several moments, Mr.Ames looked up. “The bullet went through his shoulder, close shot like that.”
She turned back to Anthony, whose eyes were beginning toflutter closed. He seemed weak, and yet he reached his other hand to her just enough to touch the fabric of her gown.
As Mr.Ames continued his work, she leaned down and kissed Anthony’s forehead. “I love you, Anthony Welbourne. Please do not leave me.”
Chapter43
As Charlotte sat next to Anthony’s bed in the upstairs chamber, she lost track of time. The sky outside the window was black. Not even a small star dared to make an appearance. The day’s events played before her in vivid detail—the elation of saving Henry. The fear of encountering Mr.Walstead. The horror of Anthony getting shot.
Her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she would not sleep.
Shecouldnot sleep. Not until there was evidence that he was alright.
Anthony, on the other hand, had not woken since the incident. Perhaps it was the spirits poured into him, the laudanum that the surgeon had given him, the shock of the bullet to his body, or the loss of blood.
Whatever the reason, she would not leave his side. Not until she saw the blue of his eyes. Not until she told him again that she loved him.
At present Henry was asleep in the bedchamber with Sutcliffe. Mr. Ames, the magistrate, Mr. Greenwood, and the other menMr. Ames had assembled had since removed Mr. Walstead’s body and departed to collect Timmons and Rebecca.
All was finally growing quiet, growing still, and yet anxiety wound through her, squeezing and choking. Thoughts about what might have happened plagued her, and every time she closed her eyes, the sights from earlier in the day were as detailed as they had ever been.
