“I wouldn’t have been out so early if you hadn’t fled from my home like some sort of spooked rabbit.” His words were heated and for a moment she thought she saw fear in his eyes. “If the shooting was an accident, then I’m only grateful that it was me who was injured and not you.”
His worry for her, even when she was completely fine, echoed in her heart like a hammer striking a horseshoe. Perhaps it was her fault. Oh, why had she fallen asleep so quickly last night? She should have stayed awake, crawled out of his warm, tender arms, and destroyed the painting once and for all. Then he wouldn’t have felt the need to chase after her—and wouldn’t have ended up on the road, in a bullet’s path. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to destroy the portrait any more than she’d been able to resist the urge to fall asleep next to him.
Going to Harris House had been a wasted venture. Though she would cherish the memory of their experience for the rest of her life, she feared the consequences that might come of it. All the more so since she had lost her lucky amber during her rush out that morning. She might not fully believe in the idea of the stone being lucky, but it had been comforting to have something to hold on to. Now that comfort was gone.
And now, Logan was bleeding in her aunt’s study, distracting her once more from what she wanted to say.
“What’s all this now?” Grace asked as she entered the room, her eyes widening at the sight before her. “Oh dear. Mr. Harris, you’re bleeding.”
“He’s been shot,” Faith said, standing up as she motioned her hands toward his leg. “Fix him, will you?”
“I suppose I should try, shouldn’t I?” Grace said, seemingly bemused by Faith’s reaction.
A maid hurriedly moved Aunt Belle’s chair over, and Grace sat to inspect Logan’s leg.
“It’s nothing,” he said, his tone annoyed. “I barely even realized it before Faith noticed it.”
“That’s to be expected,” Grace said calmly as Faith peered over her sister’s shoulder. “Adrenaline can cause muscle extension and a temporary loss of feeling pain.” Grace leaned closer to inspect it. “Yes. You wouldn’t have noticed, particularly if you were on the run.”
“How did you know that?”
“Graham told us,” Hope said from the doorway, causing everyone to look in her direction. “He came to see me just before he left for Glencoe.”
“Great,” Logan said sarcastically, but Faith was suddenly panicky.
“What do you mean, you were on the run?” she asked. “Who was shooting at you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know,” she insisted.
“I don’t.”
“But you must have seen something.”
“I just said—”
“Um, pardon me,” Grace said, lifting a hand. “I’m afraid I’m going to need to interrupt this squabble. Una?” she said, calling to the maid.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Would you fetch me my sutures? They’re in a brown leather bag I have on top of my desk in my room.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Faith’s heart sank at her sister’s words.
“Sutures? He needs stiches?”
“Oh, just a few,” Grace said, gently cleaning the wound as Faith glanced down.
A crab apple-sized bloody indent showed just at the swell of his calf. It was blistering around the edges, and Faith wince upon seeing it. Logan cleared his throat, bringing her attention to him.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly.
“Of course, it is,” Grace said, seeming unaware of the tender back and forth playing out over her head. “It’s a clean wound. No bullet lodged in here. We’ll just have it cleaned and tied up as soon as possible.”
“Does he…” She began before redirecting herself to Logan. “Do you need anything?”
