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If he died, she would be as guilty as the highwayman who had shot him.

Highwayman! Henchmen sent from Hartwell. How had they discovered the loss of the documents so quickly—and pinned it to her?

She remembered her encounter with de la Roche.

Of course. He could have sent out some of his servants. With good horses and traveling across country, they could have overtaken the coach.

Rees moaned softly.

Unable to stand it any longer, she knelt beside him, touching one of his hands with hers. “We’re almost there.”

“I . . . beg . . . your pardon. Don’t . . . mean to be . . . such . . . trouble.”

She drew off her glove and touched his forehead, which felt clammy, the edges of his hair damp. His eyelids flickered open, the gray irises laced with pain. “Nonsense,” she said with a briskness she did not feel. “Trouble it’ll be if you dare to die on me.”

He grimaced. “No chance of that. Not as long as I’m to be your guardian angel—”

Her gaze dropped to the faint scar on his chin, and she remembered how he had warned her the previous night. She looked upward to his lips tightened with pain. Would she ever feel them upon hers again? Her cheeks flushed at how much she desired it.

How could she be thinking such things when his life was held in the balance?

“I didn’t . . . do a very good job of protecting you . . . back there.”

She laid a finger across his lips. “Shh. Don’t try to talk.”

Despite the well-sprung coach, it bounced and jostled along the rutted road. But she’d told Jacob not to spare the horses but to return with all haste to London.

She leaned out the window. Would they never arrive? They were going through St. John’s Wood. Soon they’d be at Tyburn, the last tollgate before entering London.

MacKinnon moaned more loudly this time. Immediately she was at his side again. “We’ll be in London soon,” she murmured.

“Did they . . . did they—” He swallowed as if every word caused him effort. “Hurt you?” He reopened his eyes, his gray eyes searching hers.

So caught up in her concern for him, it took her a moment to understand his meaning. She flushed, remembering the men who had groped and pawed at her, searching for the documents. She shook her head. “No. They did nothing—nothing too unpleasant. Please, don’t trouble yourself about that.”

He groped for her hand, and she gave it to him. His hold was surprisingly strong. “Blackguards! If they did anything—”

She covered his hand with her other. “Shh! They did nothing but have me remove my pelisse and pat my gown a bit. They seemed embarrassed to do more.” All the more reason they were not ordinary highwaymen.

His grip loosened and his eyes closed, as if the effort had spent his remaining strength. Digging into her reticule, she extracted her bottle of Hungary water. Moistening her handkerchief with it, she used it to dab his temples.

Jacob had removed his jacket and waistcoat and cut away his shirt. Céline tucked the blanket farther up around him when she noticed him shivering.

“Th . . . thank you.”

Once again, the coach slowed. She glanced out the window.

“Where . . . are we?”

“The Tyburn Gate toll.”
Thank God.
She squeezed his hand gently.

“You . . . don’t have to kneel there . . . soil your gown . . .”

“Hush.” She bit her lip at the blood beginning to soak through the blanket. By the time they reached Mayfair, his wound would be dripping on the floor. She flipped up her skirt and began tearing more strips from her petticoat.

“What’re . . . you . . . doing?” His voice sounded slurred.

“Don’t talk, save your strength.” She folded the strips and laid the squares against his shoulder.

His face seemed drained of all blood. How much could a person lose and . . . and . . .

Stéphane had bled to death on the battlefield.

No, she wouldn’t think about that! Oh—when would they arrive? Finally the coach began to move again.

She continued kneeling, holding the cloths against the wound though her knees grew numb, and prayed for his life.

Rees murmured something she couldn’t distinguish.

“. . . fought the good fight . . .” His words were growing weaker.

“You have done no such thing. You haven’t even begun to fight!”

“Been fighting . . . all my . . . life.”

What did he mean? How she wanted to know who he was and where he’d come from.

How could a stranger, an enemy, have grown so dear to her?
Please Lord, don’t take him! You took Papa and Stéphane. I know this man can never be mine, but please don’t let him die because of me.

She covered his hand once more with hers.

He stirred and tried to speak.

She squeezed his hand. “Shh.”

“I . . . didn’t . . . protect . . . you . . .”

“You protected me very well. You were a fine guardian angel. Now, we’re almost home and you shall have the best surgeon in London.”

Finally they were turning down her street. The additional wadding was once again soaked through, and MacKinnon had lost consciousness. His pulse felt feeble, but he was still alive. For that she was grateful.

Before the carriage had come to a complete halt, she was at the door, pushing it open. “We need a surgeon immediately,” she said as soon as William reached the door. “MacKinnon has been shot.”

Her footman’s mouth gaped open.

“Fetch Mr. Simmons,” she told him, naming the most eminent surgeon of Mayfair. “Hurry!”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll go at once.”

As he hurried off, Jacob came to her side. “I’ll carry him in.”

“Bring him to his room,” she shouted over her shoulder, already running toward the basement entrance.

Spotting a kitchen maid at the end of the corridor, she called out to her, “Bring basins of hot water and clean towels and bandaging. Hurry!”

Once inside MacKinnon’s room, she hurried to his narrow cot and turned down the blankets. Jacob came behind her, huffing with the
weight of MacKinnon in his arms. She motioned for him to lay the butler down. “Careful, he’s lost so much blood.”

“Aye, my lady,” Jacob said.

“Don’t move him any more than is necessary.”

“Best get him a swallow of brandy in case he wakes up again,” he said.

By this time, other servants were peering in the doorway of the small bedroom. Céline motioned to Gaspard. “Some cognac.”

“
Oui
, madame.” He ducked out.

A moment later he returned with a tumbler.

Jacob proceeded to remove MacKinnon’s boots. Thankfully, her butler didn’t stir. Then Céline panicked, thinking he was dead. “Is . . . is he breathing?”

Jacob leaned down and put his ear to his mouth. “Yes, shallow, but he’s still with us. Why don’t you wait upstairs for Mr. Simmons, my lady? We’ll take good care of MacKinnon here.”

Unwilling to leave her butler’s side but wanting to be on the lookout for the surgeon, Céline reluctantly agreed.

Once upstairs, she paced the entry hall, glancing out the narrow window every few minutes. When the surgeon finally arrived with his bag, Céline led him immediately down the stairs, explaining as they went.

Mr. Simmons clucked his tongue. “A holdup in broad daylight? There hasn’t been a highwayman at Bushey Heath since the one was hanged more than a decade ago. It’s this confounded war. Hard times bring out the worst in men.”

MacKinnon stirred when they approached his bed. Mrs. Finlay, who had been sitting at his side, rose from her chair.

“How is he?” Céline whispered.

“The same, my lady.”

Mr. Simmons cut away the soaked bandaging and examined the wound, probing it with his fingertip. Finally, he straightened and turned to them. “The ball shall have to come out.”

Céline gripped her hands, as if feeling the cut of the knife herself. “But he’ll be all right?”

“I can’t say, my lady. But he seems fit enough. He’s fortunate it hit no vital organs.”

Fear paralyzed her limbs. Mrs. Finlay patted her arm. “I’m sure Mr. Simmons will do all in his power, my lady. Why don’t we leave him to his work?”

The surgeon was opening his bag. He motioned to William. “You can hold him, young man. Get on his other side.”

Mr. Simmons looked around at those still in the room. “If you will excuse me, Lady Wexham.”

“Perhaps I can assist you.”

The surgeon shook his head. “It won’t be pretty. I’m sure he won’t appreciate a lady in the room.”

Céline took a deep breath, feeling a new strength now that MacKinnon was receiving the attention he needed. Not wanting to delay things, she nodded. “Very well. Let me know as soon as it’s over.”

She decided to wait in Mrs. Finlay’s parlor, which was in the basement, closer to MacKinnon.

“Here, my lady, have a nice cup of tea. It should settle your nerves.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Finlay.”

“We didn’t expect you so soon. It’s a good thing I was here. I gave some of the girls a holiday since there was so little to do. But if I’d known you were returning today, I’d have—”

Céline struggled to focus on what her housekeeper was saying. “Never mind that. It—it was a sudden decision on my part. I’m sure everything has been well looked after.”

“How did Mr. MacKinnon come to be shot?” Mrs. Finlay shuddered. “I heard something of highwaymen.”

Taking a sip of the hot tea, Céline braced herself to go over the story again. At least Mrs. Finlay could then convey it to the other servants.

The housekeeper clucked and tsked as Céline relayed the events.
“I always say traveling is dangerous. Better to stay close to home. At least we have the watch here in London.”

Finishing her tea, Céline stood, too restless to remain sitting. She glanced out the door toward MacKinnon’s room, but all was silent, the door still shut.

Had the surgeon found the ball? She knew Simmons was the best. He’d patched up Rumford when he’d fallen on the ice a year ago; and stitched up Tom when he’d been hit by a dray a few years back.

Her thoughts returned to the attack. She hadn’t recognized either the voices or faces of the men behind the stocking masks, but there were so many servants at Hartwell. As she’d told MacKinnon, the one who’d searched her had seemed ashamed so had not done a thorough job. The men had also searched every inch of the traveling coach, dumping out everything in her reticule and valise, but had not found where she’d hidden the coded documents.

Someone at Hartwell had discovered she was spying for the Republicans. And MacKinnon was working for the British. She was no longer safe from either side. She shivered. What was to become of her?

She had never thought it through when she’d agreed to keep her ears open for information. It had almost been a lark, a way to give meaning to a life that had become a dreary round of parties and social obligations.

And now, she might hang for it.

That or go into exile.

The prospect she’d avoided until now stared her full in the face. Did she want to return to France for good?

Her thoughts came back to MacKinnon. Would she ever see him again? Did it matter?

She stopped in the middle of the small parlor, filled with an overwhelming sadness, as if denied an opportunity before it had ever had a chance to be explored.

She’d have to consult with Roland and the others and decide what to do.

The door opened, and she jumped. William poked his head into the room. “Pardon me, my lady, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She rushed to the door. “Is it over?”

“Doctor’s all finished up. He says you may come in if you’d like.”

“Is—is he all right?”

William smiled. “Sleeping like a babe.”

She brought a fist up to her mouth to hold back the tears. “Thank God,” she whispered.

MacKinnon lay on his back, his bare chest swathed thickly in bandages. He appeared to be resting quietly and no blood was staining the white strips. She turned to the doctor, speaking in a low voice. “How is he?”

“Weak. But I got the ball out, and it appeared a clean entry.”

“What must we do for his care?”

The surgeon wiped off his last instrument and put it away. “Just keep the wound clean and change the dressing every day. I’ve left some basilicum powder to sprinkle on it. You can give him laudanum or willow bark tea if he is too uncomfortable.” Mr. Simmons closed up his bag and lifted it off the chair.

“Make sure the patient gets plenty of rest to recover from the loss of so much blood. He’ll be awhile mending. He’d best stay put for a fortnight. No resuming his duties till he’s regained his strength.”

“No, of course not.” She moved closer to the bedside. Mrs. Finlay bustled about removing the basin and dirty linens.

MacKinnon still looked unnaturally pale.

“I’ve given him some laudanum so he should sleep for some time,” the surgeon said behind her. “It’s better for him. When he wakes, perhaps some broth and a little brandy.”

“Yes, we’ll look after him well.”

“Very good, my lady. I shall be on my way. I’ll call tomorrow to inspect the wound and see how he’s progressing.” He drew in a breath. “The biggest danger is fever, but if your servants heed my instructions, the patient should make a full recovery.”

Céline’s heart recoiled at the word
fever
. With his weakened condition, could MacKinnon survive an infection?

After the surgeon left, Céline looked once more at MacKinnon. He continued sleeping, William sitting by the bed. Céline wanted to stay but knew it wasn’t wise. It was not seemly for the lady of the house to be nursing a servant—not even her butler.

She tarried a moment longer, unwilling to let him out of her sight. As she stared at his sleeping features, she prayed silently.
Dear Lord, thank You for not taking him. I don’t understand You and why You take some and leave others, but I thank You for sparing MacKinnon’s life.

Reluctantly, she moved away from the bed. “Let me know if he awakens or if there is any other change,” she told her footman.

“Yes, my lady.”

She closed the door softly behind her.

As soon as Rees awoke he wished he could fall asleep again. His entire body ached from head to foot, but as his senses sharpened he realized the most acute pain was in his right shoulder.