“Lord Gray didn’t escape unscathed, unfortunately. Giles Wakeford thinks the dagger glanced off the locket when Poole brought it down in the center of Lord Gray’s chest. The blade likely skidded sideways. It left his lordship with a nasty wound, but it prevented the knife from reaching his heart.”
Sophia stared at Lady Clifford, too stunned to speak.
Her locket…it was precious to her, special, yet she’d given it up to Mr. Hogg the day she and Tristan had gone to Newgate to see Jeremy. It had pained her to lose it, especially to someone so loathsome as Hogg, but she’d given it up forJeremy’s sake.
Then Tristan had got it back again, forhers.
That it should be the locket that saved Tristan’s life, when it had been Tristan who’d rescued it for her, that the kindness he’d shown her had been the means by which his life had been saved…dear God, evenshecouldn’t deny there was something mystical there, a sort of otherworldly balance.
Fate, or perhaps a perfect iteration of justice.
Lady Clifford’s dark blue eyes met Sophia’s. “If Lord Gray hadn’t been wearing the locket—if the blade had touched his heart—he’d be dead now. Your locket saved his heart, and thenyousaved his life, my dear, when you hit Poole with the cross before he could stab Lord Graya second time.”
“My goodness, Sophia.” Cecilia squeezed Sophia’s arm, nearly breathless with the romance of it. “A dagger-wielding villain in a dark graveyard, and a magical locket that saves the hero’s life? Why, it’s a Gothic romance come alive! Mrs. Radcliffe herself couldn’t have written a more perfect ending!”
Sophia gave a shaky laugh. Itdidsound like something out of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances. She was an unlikely enough heroine—so much so she could hardly credit such an ending could belong toher—but despite her many imperfections, she loved Tristan withall her heart.
Perhaps that was all it took fora happy ending?
Lady Clifford wrapped Sophia’s slack fingers around the locket. “Lord Gray had fallen into an uneasy sleep when I left his bedchamber just now, but he asked for you over and over again tonight—each time he regained consciousness. Indeed, when he was at his most agitated Daniel was obliged to hold him down. He’ll likely sleep for some time, but I think he’ll be quite pleased to see you when he wakes again.”
“Yes, you must be waiting by his bedside when his eyelids flutter open, Sophia.” Cecilia took Sophia’s hand and tugged her from the bed. “That’s what a proper heroine would do.”
Sophia closed the locket tightly in her fist and rose from the bed, leaving her dread behind her in the tangled sheets. She was more than ready to see her hero.
* * * *
Sophia’s courage nearly deserted her when she crept into Tristan’s bedchamber. She paused at the door, her heart swelling into her throat at how pale and still he was.
He was lying on his back in the center of the bed, his arms laid carefully at his sides. The coverlet was pulled down just enough so she could see his bare chest and torso were wrapped heavily in bandages. A bit of blood was already pooling over his breastbone, despite thefresh dressing.
Sophia edged closer and took his hand in hers. His skin was cool and dry, his fingers slack. He didn’t react when she touched him, not even a twitch of his eyes under his eyelids. Tears stung Sophia’s eyes as she thought of how close he’d come to never opening those gray eyes again. A few tears escaped down her cheeks, but she brushed them aside and settled herself into the chairbeside his bed.
Tristan was alive. She could see his chest moving up and down with each of his shallow breaths. This wasn’t a time for tears, but a timefor gratitude.
She stayed by his bed for the rest of the day and into the evening, leaving his side only when Giles Wakeford chased her from the room so he could assess his patient’s condition and change his dressing. Tristan slept through it all, oblivious to everything around him. Sophia had hoped he would wake, if only for a moment so he’d see her, and know she was there with him, but hour after hour passed and his eyes remained closed. Finally, worn out with watching and waiting, Sophia folded her arms on the edge of the bed, rested her head on them, and fell intoa fitful sleep.
When she woke, the bedchamber was dark, the fire having burned down to embers. She blinked groggily, uncertain why she’d woken until she felt the softest touch on her head, like fingers moving slowly through her hair.
She lifted her head and looked up. Tristan’s face was turned toward her, and he was gazing down at her with gray eyes so soft her heart melted like warm honey in her chest.
“I knew you were here, pixie. Even before I woke, I knew you were here.” His voice was thick and raspy, and though he tried to hide it, Sophia could see by the white lines around his lips that he was in a great deal of pain.
Sophia smiled and slid her hand into his. “Howdid you know?”
“Your scent. Honeysuckle. You smell like honeysuckle.” A faint smile drifted over his lips, but it faded as he searched her face. “You won’t leave me?”
“No. I won’t leave you.” She held his gaze as she raised his hand to her lips. “Never, Tristan.”
Chapter Twenty-four
It was five days before Tristan was alert enough to make sense of his surroundings. The time before that was hazy, just a series of images drifting through his head—drape-shrouded windows, soft voices, white-hot, burning pain in his chest, and a tall, dark-haired man with kind brown eyes and silver frosting his temples leaning over the bed.
There’d only been one constant, only one thing that made sense.
Sophia.
Each time he forced an eye open she was there beside his bed, her anxious gaze fixed on his face, her fingers tucked into his hand. He tried to talk to her, to swim to the surface, but the dizziness kept sucking him back down again. At one point he thought he’d spoken to her, had watched her lips moving in reply, but when he struggled to consciousness much later, he wondered ifhe’d dreamt it.
