“I love you,” she mouthed.
The words struck him harder than any blow.
He glanced down—
And saw the dowager duchess’s pale visage. “Argyll!”
He followed her stare. Several paces behind Daria’s left shoulder, a figure emerged from the shadows.
Argyll froze.
A flash of silver cut through the dark.
“Daria!” he thundered, shoving the dowager at his servant.
Daria turned—searching.
The wrong direction.
His chest screamed as he launched forward, legs burning, the distance unbearable.
Too far.
Too slow.
“Daria!”
The word tore from him.
I am too late.
Her lips parted in a small, startled O.
NoNoNoNoNo
He collided with her, driving her to the ground.
Relief struck him first—violent and staggering. Shoving himself onto his hands, Argyll framed Daria’s body with his. He went to reach for her. To search her for wounds.
“I’m all right,” she assured. “I am safe.” She brushed trembling fingers over his cheeks.
His eyes heavy with relief fell shut. She was alive, in his arms. Unhurt.
His body sagged.
It was knowledge landed too late.
Pain followed, sharp and insistent, blooming through his side as his strength deserted him. His legs faltered, the ground tilting strangely, as though the earth had lost its hold.
“Christ,” he hissed. Argyll drew a breath and failed to finish it.
Under him, Daria tensed. “Gregory?” she said, a panicky thread wound through her voice. “Gregory?” She pressed her hands over him. Her doleful wail shattered the night sky.
His vision began to recede.
He faintly registered his wife turning him over. A cool rush of air and he was surrounded in the warmth of her cloak.Roses.
“Sing to me that so—” he exhaled, his breathing slowing.
