“Lord Strathairn!” She choked the words out. He reached her as her legs crumpled.
She gripped his arm. “Just as well I didn’t shoot you,” she said with relief. “I thought you were Crowthorne.”
“I’m glad to hear it wasn’t something I’d done to upset you,” he said. “Allow me to assist you up the ladder.”
It should’ve been Flynn. “Where is Lord Montsimon?”
“He has been injured, but he lives, my lady.”
“What happened!”
“He was shot. We have sent for a surgeon.”
Althea gasped. “Take me to him,please.”
Strathairn’s strong hands pulled her out through the hatch. When he led her out the dungeon door, Althea stumbled. A crumpled body lay against a blood-spattered wall. Crowthorne’s head had sunk onto his chest, his eyes blank.
“Flynn shot him,” Lord Strathairn said in a brisk tone. “Made a dashed good job of it in the circumstances. It appears Crowthorne took him by surprise.” He hurried her past Crowthorne’s body.
They reached the stone stairs leading upward. “How badly hurt is he? Tell me the truth, please.”
“I have every confidence he will rally. Hard to keep a man like Flynn down. He’s been taken to his chamber,” Lord Strathairn said in a calm voice.
Was he merely placating her? Gasping, she hurried ahead of him.
In his chamber, Flynn lay still in the four-poster bed, his face far too pale. Althea was relieved to find his hand warm when she held his palm to her cheek.
“I’ve bandaged him the best I could until the doctor comes.” Lord Fortescue drew a chair up beside the bed for her. “Fortunately, there’s no need to dig for the ball. It passed right through his shoulder.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“We gather that Crowthorne forced his way in. Flynn will tell you everything when he wakes.”
She studied the neat strapping binding Flynn’s shoulder and chest. “You have some expertise, I see, Lord Fortescue.”
“I had much practice during the war.”
“You’ve had a trying time, Lady Brookwood. Can I order tea for you, or something stronger?” Strathairn asked.
“Thank you, but I’m all right. Where is Quinn? Are the servants safe?”
“Quinn was injured when they broke in, but he’ll recover,” Strathairn said.
Althea’s eyes filled with tears. Quinn had tried to protect her. “But hewillrecover?”
“He will. Just a bad headache.” The baron placed a light hand on her shoulder. “And try not to worry about Flynn.”
She bit the inside of her lip so hard she tasted blood. Flynn’s dark eyelashes fluttered on his cheek. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. She placed her hand on his forehead. “You are sure?”
“As I say, I’ve tended many wounded. For you to be here when he wakes will be the best medicine.”
“He is fortunate indeed to have such friends by his side.” Althea gazed up at Strathairn. How grave he looked. Was the baron merely trying to ease her worry? “I shall take care of Flynn,” she said. “I’m sure you both could do with a drink. There’s Irish whisky in the drawing room.”
Strathairn bowed. “An excellent idea. I’ll endeavor to get tea sent up. The servants are rushing around like headless chickens, I’m afraid. Lord Fortescue and I will await the surgeon downstairs.”
Still holding Flynn’s limp hand in hers, Althea sat in the quiet room, her eyes remaining on his face. He couldn’t die. She loved him. God would not be so cruel.
A flustered maid brought in the tea tray. Althea sipped the brew to moisten her dry throat. Barely tasting it, she put the cup in its saucer.
