“Me? But I thought—” He glanced at Sophie.
“You,” she insisted, and his eyes swung back to her.
“Oh,” he said. “Me.”
“I’ll accompany you,” William Mears said, and rose.
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Devorguilla purred. “Brodie knows the land, where to look.”
“Then Speed and I shall accompany him. ’Tis nearly dark, and there may be wolves out there,” Lord Mandeville said. “I insist.”
“May I—” Megan asked, but Devorguilla sent her a quelling look.
Devorguilla smiled. “This is man’s work. You will stay here.”
“I shall scold Alec when he returns, for making us worry,” Sophie said. “I suppose we shall have to wait dinner for him.”
“Truly?” Countess Charlotte asked. She snatched the last cream bun off the plate and popped it into her mouth to stave off starvation. “Are there more buns?” she asked hopefully. Devorguilla smiled at her, and pictured her face when Alec’s body was carried into the hall and laid on the long table, another Laird of Glenlorne, dead. She’d give him a glorious funeral. She’d even fake a few tears. She smiled at the thought as she looked at the clock.
She could hardly wait.
CHAPTERFORTY-ONE
Caroline helped Alec into the cool dim sanctuary of the Grange. He slid to the floor as soon as they were in the door. “Hold still,” she said, kneeling beside him and tugging on his coat. He gritted his teeth, but didn’t complain.
“I’m sure it looks worse than it actually is,” he said, and she sent him a dubious look.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, knowing it did, if only from the pallor of his face, the beads of sweat on his brow.
“Of course it does, but allow me some masculine pride.”
She ignored that and unbuttoned his shirt, aware of the warmth of his skin, the beating of his heart under her fingers. His pulse was strong, and that, surely, was a good sign. She peeled the bloody linen away from his shoulder and began to search for the bullet wound.
“Ah!” she cried when she found it.
“Is it bad?”
“Depends,” she murmured. “It’s in your upper arm.” She tugged on him to roll him, and his breath hissed through his teeth as he bit back an oath. “I need to see if the bullet went through, or if it’s still inside,” she said crisply.
He forced his body forward so her probing hands could search. The room swam before his eyes.
“Ah!” she said again.
“Is that good?”
“Yes. Wherever the bullet went, it passed straight through. Have you a flask of whisky?” she asked.
“In my coat,” he said, watching her. She retrieved the silver flask and opened it. The peat-strong fragrance of the whisky overcame the musty damp smell of the Grange. He held out his good hand for the flask, but she shook her head. “Here first.”
He cursed as she poured it over the wound, setting it on fire. “Haven’t you ever been shot before?” she asked.
“Of course not!” he said. “No one’s ever tried to kill me before this, not even when I lived in London. I have been stabbed—well, nicked—with a knife, had my share of cuts and bruises, but never once ...”
His breath caught in his throat as stood up and lifted her skirt, exposing the silken length of her shapely calf. He grabbed the flask and took a long swallow.
Caroline was aware that he was staring at her legs, but it couldn’t be helped. Still, her cheeks flamed as she fumbled with the ties to her petticoat. She drew it off and let her skirt drop, aware of the bright light in his eyes.
She tore the linen and made a thick pad to press to the wound. The bleeding was already slowing. She picked up his left hand and put it over the bandage. “Press,” she said, and tore another strip to bind the wound. “We need to get you back to Muira—”
