He was going die, to bleed to death right in front of her eyes—
But then suddenly in the next breath she was there, behind Poole, her own arms raised in the air, the stone cross clutched between her hands. He turned just as she swung it at his head, and she saw the knowledge of what was about to happen flash in his eyes before she brought it down in a vicious strike against his temple. She struck him as hard as she could, with every bit of her strength behind the blow.
When Poole fell, he was never going to getback up again.
She winced at the dull crack of stone against flesh and bone. Poole made a faint sound, a gurgle of surprise more than pain before he listed over, blood pouring from an enormous gash in his head.
Sophia didn’t spare him another glance. She shoved him hard to the side and he slumped into the dirt. “Tristan? Tristan, look at me.” She bent over him, her shaking hands hovering helplessly over his chest. There was so much blood…dear God, he was soaked with it, and she couldn’t think, didn’t know what to do to stop it, where to even begin. She couldn’t see the wound, just great clouts of blood spurting from Tristan’s chest, but she pressed both hands against him where the blood seemed to be flowing the heaviest.
It wasn’t enough. All she could do wasn’t enough to save him. She stared down at his blood spurting between her fingers. She could feel his heart beating weakly under her palms, but she knew it was no use, that there was no way he could survive such a wound, but broken pleas continued to tear loose from her throat, as if she thought she could save him with her words alone. “Tristan, please.Please—”
“Sophia!”
She heard her name echo across the graveyard, but Sophia didn’t look up. She kept her gaze locked on Tristan’s still, pale face, hope struggling inside her even as she was tumbling over the edge of despair. She pushed Tristan’s hair away from his eyes, leaving a smear of blood on his forehead. “Tristan, can you hear me?”
This time, her voice seemed to get through to him. He didn’t open his eyes, but she was certain she saw them flutter under his eyelids. “Tristan?” She leaned closer, but before she could reassure herself there was some part of him still alert enough to respond to her voice, a pair of large, masculine hands closed overher shoulders.
“No! Don’t touch me!” Sophia thrashed against the man’s hold, panic making her strong. She heard a muttered curse when her fingernails raked down a muscular forearm. That voice, low and deep and with a pronounced Celtic lilt, it sounded familiar…
“Sophia, look at me.” This second voice was firm, calm, and the hands that came up to hold her face were gentle. “Let Daniel move you away from Lord Gray so we can tend to him.”
It was Lady Clifford. Sophia stared into that comforting face, a face as dear to her as her own mother’s had been, and all at once all the fight went out of her. She sagged as her limbs went liquid, and would have collapsed in the dirt if Daniel hadn’t lifted her gently away from Tristan and placed her securely in Lady Clifford’s waiting arms.
Sophia buried her face in Lady Clifford’s shoulder, her entire body now shaking with the sobs she’d been fighting to hold off since she’d tripped over PeterSharpe’s body.
But the sobs weren’t for her. “Tristan. His chest. He’s…he’s dying.”
They were for Tristan.
Lady Clifford, who had yet to meet a crisis that could crack the steel in her spine, soothed Sophia with pats and murmurs. “We don’t know that, Sophia. We don’t know anything yet. Lord Gray is a strong, hearty gentleman. You won’t give up on him quiteyet, will you?”
Sophia shook her head, and Lady Clifford patted her cheek with a smile. “That’s a good girl. Daniel?” She met Daniel’s gaze over Sophia’s shoulder and her expression shifted subtly, a slight tightening in her lips that hadn’t been there before.
Daniel had been kneeling beside Tristan, assessing his injuries with swift, sure hands, but now he rose to his feet and met Lady Clifford’s gaze. “Bad, but not as bad as I thought.” Daniel glanced at Sophia, an odd look on his face. “The blade didn’t touch his heart.”
Sophia stared dumbly at him. She’d seen Poole plunge the dagger directly into Tristan’s chest. How could it not have pierced his heart?
She didn’t have time to ask, because Lady Clifford was talking quickly, issuing instructions. “Do what you can to stop the bleeding, if you’d be so good, Daniel—just enough so we can get him into the carriage and back toMaddox Street.”
Daniel unwound his cravat, folded it neatly, and pressed it to Tristan’s chest. “Hold that there, Miss Sophia, and don’t be afraid to press down hard. That’s it, lass.”
Sophia did as she was told, stifling her gasp as Daniel lifted Tristan into his arms as if he weighed no more than a child, and carried him to Lady Clifford’s carriage. Sophia scrambled in, and Daniel laid Tristan across the seat, his head in Sophia’s lap.
“Thank you, Daniel.” Lady Clifford dropped into her own seat on the opposite side. “I believe I saw Lord Gray’s horse wandering nearby. Take it, and call on Giles Wakeford. Tell him we need him at No. 26 Maddox at once, and that it’s urgent.”
Daniel’s lips thinned.
Giles Wakeford was the doctor, surgeon, and all things medical for the Clifford School. Wakeford was handsome, amusing, and discreet. All of them loved him—everyone, that is, but Daniel Brixton. No one knew what Wakeford had done to offend Daniel, but over the years Daniel’s distaste for the man had remained implacable.
“Once you’ve fetched Wakeford, call on Kit Benjamin. Explain the circumstances, and ask him to see to it that unpleasant gentleman with the cracked skullis dealt with.”
“Peter Sharpe, too.” Sophia met Lady Clifford’s eyes. “He’s in the graveyard. Mr. Poole slit his throat.”
Daniel nodded and closed the carriage door, and then Sophia and Lady Clifford were on their way to No. 26 Maddox Street with Tristan. Sophia said nothing as they rattled through the dark streets of London toward the Clifford School, but sat silently on her side of the carriage, pressing the cravat firmly against the wound in Tristan’s chest.
Lady Clifford watched her for a moment, then retrieved her reticule, rummaged around inside it, and leaned across the seat to dab at Sophia’s nose with a dainty linen handkerchief. “Your nose is bleeding, dearest.”
Sophia looked down at herself. Her hands and gown were covered with Tristan’s blood. “I think it’s too late forthat, my lady.”
