Page 10

She swallowed reflexively.

When she’d seen that evil man, the gun’s barrel pointed straight at Broden. When the shock and terror had rendered her immobile.

“Broden,” she breathed, scraping her frantic gaze over him, noting his strained, white-as-chalk-face. “Are ye…?” She wet her lower lip, willing the waves of nausea to subside. Forcing her tongue to form the hated words. “Are ye shot?”

Rigid lines scored the hard planes of his face. He pressed one palm to his chest, just to the right of his left collarbone. A dark substance oozed between the black leather of his gloves.

Blood.

Jesus, help me.

Broden’s blood.

Dizzying faintness assailed Kendra, and she blinked rapidly, fighting to stay conscious. Clenching the pommel, she gulped in long, ragged breaths. She couldn’t abide the sight of blood. For as long as she could recall, it had always made her lightheaded and queasy.

She could not faint.

She could not.

I shall no’.

He needed her to be strong, not a swooning numpty.

With gritty resolve, she rallied her composure and dug in her pocket for a handkerchief. She thrust it at Broden. “Here. Ye need to staunch the flow. Press hard.”

She didn’t know where she’d acquired that knowledge, but now wasn’t the time to ponder the source. Neither could she look at the widening circle for fear she’d dissolve into vapors before she saw him to safety.

For she must do so.

There was no one else close enough to lend him a hand, and he bled badly.

His mouth quirked the merest bit at the delicate lace-edged accessory before accepting it. Along with his own, he folded the cloth into a neat square and pressed them inside his cloak.

“Broden, we must see ye back to Eytone Hall. ’Tis closer than yer house.”

His face a ghastly shade of white, he grimaced as he pulled an eight-inch ballock dagger from a leather sheath within his boot. “Ye might need this, lass. Do ye ken how to use it?”

“Aye,” she choked out, emotion blossoming behind her breastbone.

Here he slumped, blood gushing from his wound, and he worried about her safety?

Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t quite the evil ogre she’d imagined him to be.

“Who would want to shoot ye?” She swallowed a gulp, gazing at the steel hilt, glinting faintly in the filtered light. She yanked up her gown and used the blade to help tear a long strip of a petticoat as she puzzled over who could want him dead.

Everyone adored Broden. Revered him even. Men and women alike. Especially the women. Townsfolk, clansmen, old crones, and toddlers adored the man.

Even in Edinburgh, amongst the toplofty nobles and snooty aristocrats, his keen intellect and warrior’s skills drew the appreciation of the males. As usual, the females fairly drooled over him.

Rich and poor. Servant and lord. Every blasted person worshipped Broden McGregor.

Everyone except Kendra MacKay, that was.

“I dinna ken,” he muttered, reminding her she’d asked him a question.

He wavered in the saddle, and in a blink, she made a decision.

She couldn’t risk him toppling from his horse, and there was no way in all of Christendom she would leave him and ride for help. Not with the would-be killer possibly lurking nearby ready to finish him off.