Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (46 page)

In the dark, the pistols that both he and Major Winthrop concealed inside their coats were of little use. Instinctively, Elliot bolted into the thicket. He hurled himself in the general direction of the large man, who was already staggering to his feet. Ruthlessly, Elliot thudded into the wall of his chest, taking him back down. The attacker exhaled with a sharp wheeze, then began to thrash ineffectually. Too late, Elliot realized that the man had one hand in his coat pocket.

“
Rannoch . . . pistol!
” rasped Cranham weakly from somewhere in the darkness. Elliot felt the sickening chill of a gun pressed to his temple. Quickly, Elliot weighed his options. The assailant felt corpulent, unconditioned. Certainly, he was big, and gasping for breath. And his grip on the gun was tremulous. Smoothly, Elliot wrenched upward on the pistol, simultaneously rolling off into the thick grass. In the dark, the man cursed and came up onto his knees, somehow holding on to his weapon. Another dazzling burst of colored light, and this time Elliot was stunned to see more than just the identity of his assailant. He saw that the pistol was now wavering in Cranham’s direction.

“Oh, God! Don’t shoot!” the baron begged. He cowered beneath the shrubbery, still clutching his upper arm with the opposite hand. Elliot could hear Winthrop moving rapidly up the path.

“Put down the gun, my lord,” said Elliot softly. “Winthrop and Linden are behind us.”

“No!” the attacker hissed. The insanity in his tone chilled the darkness. “You should have stayed out of this, Rannoch. Damn you to hell! I mean only to kill him. But now I must kill you, too!”

Suddenly, the scuttling clouds slid away from the quarter moon. Elliot saw the gun barrel leveled squarely at Cranham’s face. Just as Major Winthrop burst into the thicket with his pistol at the ready, Elliot dove for the madman’s legs. They went down in a snarl of coats and limbs. The roar of a pistol thundered in Elliot’s ears. Not once but twice. How could that be? Hot, blinding pain cut through his body, and Elliot’s last lucid recollection was of Winthrop, dragging him from beneath the lifeless form of Cicely’s uncle, Lord Howell.

*   *   *

Despite Elliot’s command that she not wait up, Evangeline found herself rigidly upright in bed, anticipating her husband’s return from his evening’s diversions. Inwardly, she admitted that perhaps
command
was too strong a word, but Evangeline was disinclined to think well of her husband on this particular night. Ever the optimist, she had tried. Yet every tender sentiment, every measure of love, and every implausible excuse she could fathom for the pregnant servant upon their doorstep had long since paled by the time the clock struck three. Angrily, she tossed aside her book, jabbed a fist into her pillow, then blew out the candle with a determined huff.

Damn it, she
would
go to sleep. Moreover, she would resolve that in the future, where her husband slept would be no concern of hers. After all, Evangeline reminded herself, Elliot had remained dutifully by her side for almost a fortnight, far longer than she had expected. A warm bead of moisture trickled down her nose, dribbled sideways across her cheek, and landed on the taut linen pillowcase with a
plop!
Damn it, she
would not
cry. But despite all her stubborn vows, the tears rolled, and sleep eluded her. After all, she recalled with a sniff, Elliot had seemed so content. She had clung to that hope.

And could she have been mistaken about the woman and her bracelet? The questions and doubts began tumbling around in her head again. Evangeline drew a ragged sigh. She well understood that the ladies and gentlemen of the
ton,
loosely bound by marriages of convenience, usually led separate lives. Had she somehow deluded herself into believing that a marriage to London’s worst blackguard would miraculously be better than the norm? Yes, somehow, she had foolishly managed to do precisely that.

She had begun to slip back into that state of contented happiness that she and Elliot had once shared so effortlessly. Somewhere between her wedding vows and that afternoon’s encounter in the corridor, three words had crept insidiously into her heart.
I love you
. Elliot said it frequently, though she had said it only once. He rasped out the words often in the throes of lovemaking; he whispered them into her hair in the early-morning light when he thought her still asleep. And she had begun to believe it. How could she not? She wanted to so desperately.

Perhaps Elliot did love her; perhaps this was just the way of men. Her father had not acted thus, but then Evangeline was forced to admit that the love her parents had shared had been rare, the sort of devotion that transcended life and death. She punched the pillow again. It was now rather damp. Oh, she did not know! She felt so naïve, so blindly stupid. Perhaps the redhaired woman meant nothing to Elliot. Perhaps she was just a woman from his past, and the babe was another man’s child. Or perhaps she was just a stranger off the street, someone’s idea of a cruel prank—or worse.

Nonetheless, the ruby bracelet she had delivered was no prank. Evangeline was reasonably confident that just one of its stones could have put food in the mysterious Mary Pritchett’s cupboard for ages. If Elliot had indeed tried to buy her off with it, why, then, had she not simply sold it? Indeed, was that not the way such things worked? Evangeline wished that Winnie were near so she might ask for advice, then realized with a start that she would be too humiliated to do so. Rolling onto her back to stare up into the darkness, Evangeline struggled to think the best of her husband, and cursed the fates which seemed determined to thwart her. Eventually, she must have dozed into a fitful slumber, because she awakened abruptly as the clock struck four, her belly clenched tight with terror.

It was not the clock that had awakened her, of that she was unaccountably certain. Her first thought was for the babe she was almost sure she carried, but nothing seemed amiss. As she tossed back the bedcovers and came upright, she realized that she had been awakened by sounds, soft bumps and murmurings that echoed from Elliot’s adjoining bedchamber. And there was more. She heard rushing feet, thumping doors, and the incessant rumble of strange voices. Not Elliot’s. Many voices, all at once. Abruptly, she sprang from the bed and drew on her wrapper. Before she realized what she was about, she had pulled open the door and was walking in.

Five sets of eyes flicked simultaneously upward from the bed to catch her horrified gaze. Evangeline, however, was quickly drawn to Lord Linden’s stricken expression; it told her more than words ever could. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes darted frantically about the room, even as her mind struggled to assimilate what she saw into some sort of logic. Beside the viscount, a short, broad-chested man whom she did not know was bent low across her husband’s comatose body; his fingertips trailed expertly down Elliot’s neck and arms, pausing briefly here and there.

At the foot of the bed, MacLeod was ripping away what was left of Elliot’s trousers and stockings. Kemble was savagely dragging a table to the bedside. Linden was placing Elliot’s washbasin upon it. To her right, the door hinges groaned as a footman carried in a copper pot filled with steaming water. Already, Elliot’s chest was bare, and Evangeline could not miss the thick crimson compress that Matthew Winthrop held resolutely against Elliot’s thigh. Behind him, someone reached through the crowd to thrust another wad of cotton cloth into Winthrop’s outstretched hand.

Suddenly, the facts began to swim together in a grim picture. Evangeline thought perhaps that she had screamed, yet no sound came out. Instead, an ominous, hollow voice echoed from deep inside the room, which was now beginning to dim at the edges.

“If that, gentlemen, is her ladyship,” said the grim, faraway voice, “I suggest someone see her safely abed. She looks perilously close to swooning.”

From somewhere in the distance came a harsh buzzing sound which swelled into a drone, filling Evangeline’s ears like the rush of gossip sweeping through a crowded ballroom. But the drone became a roar, growing until it filled her head. A hand came up to touch her forehead. Her hand? Cold fingertips found the dampness of her brow, and then, suddenly, Lord Linden was behind her. One strong arm lashed tight about her waist, and Evangeline found herself dragged down onto a nearby sofa. She was dimly aware of the citrus smell of Linden’s soap as his cool hand urged her head forward onto her knees; then, slowly, the roaring darkness subsided.

“Lady Rannoch?” she heard Kemble ask softly. The valet dropped to his knees before her and smoothed the hair back from her forehead with a hand that was cool and comforting. “My lady? Can you hear me? Are you recovering?”

“I—I do not know,” Evangeline answered woodenly, her voice muffled into the heavy fabric of her wrapper. “Oh, God! What has happened to him? Just tell me what has happened!”

“Pray keep your head down a moment, my lady,” replied Kemble in a soothing voice. “You very nearly swooned.”

Beside her, Lord Linden bent forward to speak softly into her ear. “We shall fetch a cool cloth for your forehead, ma’am. I daresay the sight of so much blood is inappropriate for a lady of delicate sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities are not delicate,” she rasped, addressing her knees. Slowly, she tried to sit up. “Moreover, I have never swooned in my life.”

“No, my lady. I am sure you have not,” soothed Kemble, easing one firm hand around her upper arm. “But these are unusual circumstances. Come, can you stand?”

Dumbly, she nodded and came weakly to her feet, watching Linden’s blond hair return slowly into focus. Kemble rose with her, still holding her arm. Despite Lord Linden’s opposing pressure on her elbow, Evangeline turned to stare at her husband. MacLeod had somehow managed to remove most of his clothing. Beside Major Winthrop, the stranger—a surgeon, she now realized—was still bent low over the bed, his fingertips pressed to Elliot’s throat, an unsettled look fixed upon his face.

Against her will, the valet and the viscount almost carried her back into her bedchamber. As Linden urged her into bed, Kemble strode across the room and yanked the bell to summon her maid. Pressing her back into the pillows, Lord Linden gave her a crooked grin. “Not sure old Elliot would approve of my taking his wife to bed,” he mumbled weakly, “but one does what one must.”

“What has happened?” she demanded hollowly as a cool cloth was settled across her forehead. “Linden, you must tell me! How serious is it?”

“Shush,” soothed the viscount. “Promise me that you will lie still, and I will tell you all that I may.” Evangeline stilled her agitated motions, allowing Kemble to draw up her bedcovers, and Linden continued. “Elliot was shot, my lady.”

“Shot?” Her voice came out a disembodied whisper. “I do not understand. Where? Why?”

“At Vauxhall. And I regret that I must be the one to tell you, for it was almost certainly my doing—”

“How, my lord? I do not understand.”

“Hush, Evangeline,” he said softly. “Elliot will tell you all, I am sure, when he awakens. But I must tell you that he has lost a bit of blood and will lose a bit more this night if the surgeon is to remove the ball.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, and despite her best effort, the tears began to fall in earnest.

Lord Linden sat himself gingerly upon the far corner of her bed. “Ma’am, you mustn’t overset yourself. I can assure you that your husband is perfectly indefatigable, and he has been through just this sort of thing before.”

Coloring slightly, the viscount had the good grace to look away. “That is to say, he has been shot once or twice and always pulls through. Old Potter is the best of surgeons and has done the honors on Elliot before, so you need have no concern on that score.”

“Who shot him?” Evangeline cried. “Why?”

Linden shook his head and leaned forward to lay one hand gently across hers. “It was an accident, Evangeline, and even I do not fully understand what happened. It is all caught up in Elliot’s past, and I cannot know what he has told you, so I would rather he explained it, and in his own time. But I can tell you that he was in no way at fault and that he acted very bravely. Now, promise me that you will rest, so that I may go and lend a hand to Potter?”

“Yes, all right,” she whispered hoarsely, her mind already clawing toward its own conclusion. But with those same conclusions came a strange sense of calm. Already, her husband lay wounded, perhaps fatally. Evangeline had conjured up many ugly imaginings about what her marriage might be like, yet, regardless of how real her fears became, she had entered into the union of her own accord. She was now his wife.

The phrases
for better or for worse, in sickness and in health
began to echo in her mind. Yet Evangeline ruthlessly refused to consider the last of her vows, for it was unthinkable that Elliot might die. Almost unconsciously, her hands grasped the bed linens and pushed them away. She could not let him die. She had fallen imprudently in love with him, and she had surrendered to her physical desire for him. If fate now required her to pay for her weakness by means of a marriage that fell far short of her girlhood dreams, she must simply remind herself that it was a marriage nonetheless, and she was long past girlhood. For now, duty called, and she would see to it.

Indeed, she harshly reprimanded herself, a wife’s place was by her husband’s side. She should be ashamed of swooning, babe or no. Moreover, she, of all women, had no business languishing upon her bed like some delicate, overbred debutante. As soon as Lord Linden finished instructing her maid and quit the room, Evangeline slid out of the bed. She had responsibilities.