“Ambrose?” Mara’s call was weak and came from the middle of the orchards, but the sound of it—the sweet, sweet angelic sound—made him stop in his tracks and sent his frozen blood pumping anew.
With purpose.
With power.
With protectiveness.
Mara washiswife, dammit. She belonged tohim. And no one—not some prancing dandy or a pack of feral hounds—was going to take her. To hell with lists of eligible bachelors. To hell with lessons in seduction. And to hell with thesefuckingdogs.
Attacking with brute savagery, he flung them out of his way left and right, plowing ahead toward the sound of Mara’s cry as they snapped at his heels and tore at his clothing. Sharp teeth sank into his calf, a brilliant, burning pain that he barely acknowledged before he kicked the dog off and kept running.
Thin branches whipped at his face and chest as he charged through the long rows of apple trees. His heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged fits and starts, he ran to Mara as if he were a knight charging up the hill of battle to save the princess from the dragon at the gates... except when he finally found her, she was doing a damned good job at saving herself.
“Get back!” she yelled at the three dogs that had her cornered. Wielding a long, pointy stick that whistled as it swung through the air, she struck one of the mutts in the head and caught the front legs of another. “I saidget back!”
The branch clipped the muzzle of the third dog. The leader, if its sheer size was any indication. Hackles raised and lips peeled back, it stood its ground for the longest second of Ambrose’s life... and then, without another sound, turned tail and slunk away into the underbrush. After a moment’s hesitation—as if they were stunned their alpha had been bested by a tiny slip of a woman with nothing more than a broken off branch to defend herself with—the rest of the pack followed.
“Mara.” Dropping his knife, Ambrose closed the distance between them in a single stride. He gripped her shoulders, his fingers tightening around her cloak when he saw the whites of her eyes. “Mara, it’s all right. They’ve gone. You’re safe.”
“Safe,” she repeated in a daze, her gaze unfocused and her body trembling.
“Yes. Yes, you’re safe. I’ve got you.” He pulled her against him, pulled herintohim, his arms wrapping her up as if she were the most precious gift on earth, and she was, that’s exactly what she was, and why the hell had it taken her almost being snatched away from him to realize it? “I’m sorry, Mara.” Dimly, he was aware of a growing numbness in his leg. A tingling that was spreading with pointy little pins from his calf to his knee to his thigh. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.”
“Ambrose?” As the shock began to fade and the fog cleared from her eyes, Mara blinked up at him in astonishment. “Ambrose... you... you came for me?”
“Always,” he returned gruffly. “From this day forth, I’ll always come for you. Mara, I...”
Her lips parted when he trailed off. “You what, Ambrose?”
“I...” Abruptly releasing his hold on her, he staggered sideways as the trees spun around him in a dizzying circle. “I... I don’t feel well.”
And with that, the mighty Duke of Southwick collapsed to the ground in a dead faint.
*
It took fourmen, and Mara cradling Ambrose’s head, to carry him all the way back to the castle and up to his private chamber.
“I’ll fetch the doctor,” said Agnes after taking one look at the duke’s ashen countenance. “He lives on the other side of the village and can be here within the hour. We’ll send our fastest horse and footman.” Patting Mara’s arm, she tried to gently coax her away from the bed. “Ye have had quite the ordeal yourself, my dear. Let’s get ye out of those clothes and a warm broth in your belly. Maybe even a hot bath.”
“No,” Mara said with a vehement shake of her head. “I won’t leave him. Not when I don’t even know what’s wrong!” Clutching Ambrose’s hand, she willed him to wake up. To open his eyes. To yell at her. To do anything but just lay there, as still and silent as a corpse. “He was fine. He was—he was about to tell me something. Something important. And then...” Tears threatened and she battled them back, willing herself to be as strong inside the house as she’d been outside of it. “Please,” she whispered, not taking her gaze off Ambrose’s face. “Please tell the footman to hurry.”
Agnes glanced at Humphrey, who had been charged with getting the duke from the orchards to his chambers. The butler’s expression of muted concern mirrored her own. It was frightful to see His Grace in such a state of debilitating weakness. He was well and thoroughly unconscious, with nary a movement of his little finger to be seen. He was also pale, and—in Agnes’s opinion, who wasn’t a doctor, but had tended plenty a scratch and cut amidst the maids—growing paler by the second. Never a good sign. But he was also a hale, hearty man in the prime of his life. What could have cut him down with the quickness of an axe felling an oak tree?
“The dogs,” she said suddenly, and both Humphrey and Mara swung their heads to look at her. She’d already ordered everyone else from the room. “Ye said ye weren’t bit, Your Grace, but was the duke?”
Mara looked at her husband.
Always.
From this day forth, I’ll always come for you.
I...
I...
How she wished he’d finished that sentence! Possibly the most important sentence of their entire marriage. He had to be all right. He just had to be. Because as difficult as it was to love Ambrose, it would be even harder to lose him.
“I’m not sure.” She squeezed his hand. “If he was, he didn’t mention it. But it all happened so fast. Do you think a bite would have done this?”
