There was a rattle at the door. Caroline gasped. Muffled voices spoke, and fists pounded.
Caroline gasped and tried to rise, but Alec grabbed her hand. “Don’t move,” he whispered.
Her heart pounded in her throat. “The door isn’t locked. I don’t remember closing it.”
“Seems locked to me,” he said, and she flinched as the thick panel shook against the bolt as a heavy body crashed against it.
He pulled her close to his side, put his good arm around her shoulders. Caroline put a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming as a face appeared in the window, an ugly splayed cheek pressed to the glass, dirty hands cupped around a glittering eye.
“Your Viscount Speed,” I believe,” Alec murmured. “Surely Mandeville can’t be far behind.” The door rattled again, but did not open.
“Hardly my Viscount Sped,” she muttered.
Another face appeared next to Speed’s. “Brodie,” Alec said softly, and swore. “I wouldn’t have thought he had the sense. I’m not surprised he missed.”
“Brodie shot you? Your cousin?”
“My heir,” he said dryly. “I doubt he thought of this himself.”
Caroline watched the door shake, but it held fast, as if it had been locked and barred—but not by her hand. She’d left it open, she was certain, more concerned for Alec. She held her breath as years of dirt and bits of rotten plaster fell to the floor, making a fearsome clatter on the dry boards of the old floor, like hundreds of tiny feet rushing at her. She found herself curling closer to Alec, afraid of rodents and men, and everything else. He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her forehead, and she felt safer.
As suddenly as they’d come, the men left, and there was silence. It was getting dark, the last vestiges of light fading, leaving the draped furniture ghostly and white against the blackness. She shivered, and turned to Alec. He hadn’t moved, and she wondered if ... She reached up to feel for his pulse, and his hand came up to cover hers.
“I’m fine, Caroline,” he muttered thickly. “We’ll go once it’s dark.” He pulled her back against his side, kept her warm.
She fussed, feeling the bandage, checking for signs of fresh blood that she couldn’t see.
“Where did you learn to bandage a gunshot wound?” he asked, his voice warm, whisky-scented, near her ear.
“My mother was sick a lot. Between governesses, I spent my days in the kitchen with the servants. One day, one of the gamekeepers tripped on his gun, and shot himself in the leg. They forgot I was there, but I never forgot what I saw. Cook rolled up her sleeves, got out the brandy, took a tot herself, then poured some over the wound. She used proper bandages, of course ...”
“Did he live?” Alec asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then there’s hope for me, I suppose. Unless she tries again.”
“She?” Caroline asked. “What do you mean?”
“Devorguilla. I have no doubt she put Brodie up to this. Probably promised him the riches of Glenlorne if he did as she said. He’s going to be disappointed,” he murmured. “But no matter. You’re leaving all this behind, and there are other things we should discuss.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like what do if you’re with child.”
She felt the shock of that rush through her. A dozen emotions followed, a whole herd of runaway horses. Dread, fear, shame, even delight. “I assure you I’m not—” She raised her chin. It was too soon to tell, of course. She resisted the urge to caress her flat stomach. “What if I am? It would hardly change anything.”
“Of course it would. I will protect you, see you have money, a place to live ...”
She laughed, and he stopped. She could feel his eyes on her. “No, Alec,” she said, sobering. “I will not come back, won’t interfere. My time here is done, no matter what.” She was aware that her head on his shoulder belied her independence.
Alec sighed. “How I wish I’d met you in London,” he said.
“You would not have given me a second glance.”
“I would not have been able to look away from the first.”
Caroline felt her breath catch in her throat. “Perhaps it is better not to imagine what might have been.”
