"What in blazes is going on?" Pendleton came toward them, his voice imperious.
"A man has been shot," Marianne said through her cinched throat. "We need a room and a physician summoned immediately."
Pendleton flicked a glance over Ambrose, who lay slung over Lugo's shoulders. "The devil you say. Why should I concern myself with—"
"He was shot on your property. By Gerald Coyner—an acquaintance of yours, I believe?" she said in a quiet yet steely voice.
Color ebbed from the earl's face. He recovered the next instant, barking to one of his waiting footmen, "Get the man to a room. And send for the village doctor."
The physician arrived soon thereafter, and Marianne kept vigil by the bedside as the old man dug around Ambrose's wounded arm like a zealous miner searching for ore. She gripped Ambrose's good hand, feeling the silent shudders that wracked his body and wishing helplessly that she could somehow absorb his pain. After removing the shot and dousing the wound with spirits, the doctor produced a needle and thread. In the end, Ambrose lost consciousness—which, the medical man assured her, was a good thing.
Now, in the dark hours before dawn, Marianne didn't share the man's confidence. The candle's glow revealed the clammy cast of Ambrose's skin, and the moan that left his lips made her eyes well with heat. Not knowing what else to do, she whispered soothingly to him and reached to change the damp washcloth on his forehead. She bit her lip: the linen steamed, burning to the touch.
"Why isn't he getting any better?" she said, her voice cracking.
"The doctor said to expect a bit of fever," Tilda said from the other side of the bed. "God was watching over Mr. Kent, I reckon. The bullet would've done a good deal more damage if it'd hit anything other than flesh."
Guilt permeated every fiber of Marianne's being. As she reapplied a cooling compress, her fingers lingered against Ambrose's bristly cheek.
This was her fault. He lay there injured and in pain because of her. Once again, he'd protected her—oh God, he'd taken abulletmeant for her. Why hadn't she given him a chance to explain the business with Bow Street? Why had she run away rather than face the truth of her emotions? She'd feared opening her heart; now, with that organ torn wide open, she could see what lay inside. A sob hitched in her throat.
Forgive me, my love. Forgive me for being the biggest fool. You pull through this, you pull through or else—
"Why don't you take a break, my lady?" Tilda said softly. "You've been by Mr. Kent's side day and night now."
Marianne shook her head. "I'm not leaving him."Never again.
Tilda sighed. "I hope Lugo returns soon."
After seeing Ambrose settled, Lugo had departed for London. Marianne had sent him to gather reinforcements in the form of the Kents and Hartefords; she didn't trust Pendleton or that his reluctant hosting would last. Her fear for Ambrose led her to do what she'd never done before: she'd written Helena, begging for help. In her note, she'd exposed her secrets—her affair with Thomas, Rosie, everything. She prayed her friend would understand the urgency of the situation and not let her down.
Hearing Ambrose mumble, she leaned over anxiously.
"Yes, darling? I'm here," she said, squeezing his hand.
His thick lashes lifted, his gaze unfocused. "Coyner... Coyner has Primrose... must find him..."
"Shh, my love, rest easy." Even in this state, Ambrose was worried for her daughter's safety. God, how could she have doubted him? Her throat thick with remorse, she said, "We'll find Coyner. The bastard won't get far." She pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "But for now, I want you to rest. You must get well, darling."
Lines bracketed his mouth in a harsh grimace. His enlarged pupils dimmed the brightness of his gaze, and she couldn't be sure that he saw her at all.
"Idiot for lying," he said in a thick, guttural voice. "Afraid you'd shut me out… wanted to protect you, find your girl…"
She'd thought she couldn't feel any more remorse than she did already. Her vision misting, she said, "Shh, love. It's alright. I understand."
"Quit… five days. After first time together." His lashes shut, a grimace passing over his face. "Losteverything. Can't take care of you, my family. Sorry—"
She pressed a finger to his lips. "You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm the one who has made a mess of things. But we'll talk later, when you're well. And you must get well. Your family isn't the only one who needs you, you know,"—her voice broke a little—"I need you too."
His head made an agitated movement against the pillow, and she knew he was lost to the effects of the laudanum and pain.
"Rest, darling," she whispered, "don't strain yourself any longer."
His lashes formed dark crescents against his pale skin. Though raspy, his breathing seemed to ease a little. Still clutching his hand, Marianne continued to watch over him. To watch and to pray.
* * *
"London and make haste!" the gentleman barked as he ascended his carriage.
