Delaney’s gravely monotone voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Of course. The plan for our departure is in place?”
“Yes, my lord. Your carriage awaits, a mile through these woods.”
Sutherhorne handed the rifle to Delaney, who then slipped it in the saddle holster. “I will require you to take a quick sojourn to Standon and gather any information you can on the woman and the chit.”
“Of course, my lord. And what of the young heir?”
Sutherhorne narrowed his eyes. “The dissolute grandson, Aidan? Why, do you covet the man?”
Delaney’s expression turned stony and he did not reply. Recalling the events at the naughty party, Delaney had thrown himself into the carnal activity with a good deal of enthusiasm. He regarded his employee shrewdly. What did he know about this man? Next to nothing, though Sutherhorne did not care to delve into the man’s past. As long as he fulfilled a purpose and provided a service, Delaney could continue with his illegal boxing and other personal pursuits, illicit or not.
“I am about to spread the tale of Aidan Wollstonecraft’s decline throughout London. The salacious tidbit of gossip regarding selling himself for opium should destroy his family’s bloated and exaggerated good reputation quite thoroughly. I may even toss in his exotic sexual proclivities as an added bonus.”
“The talk in Sevenoaks is that the young heir has taken a sojourn to Italy for the winter months, to recover from a chest infection,” Delaney stated.
Sutherhorne laughed. Did the family truly believe they would get away with this fiction? There were at least two other peers in attendance at the wicked party who could corroborate. Then he sobered and cast a sidelong glance at Delaney. His employee was dangerous and unpredictable—he knew that much about him. Could he have developed an obsession with Aidan Wollstonecraft? Why else was he asking questions in Sevenoaks? “I do hope you were discreet in your inquires regarding the heir.” Delaney gave him a brisk nod. “The lie will not hold up once word starts to spread. Come. Let us depart before we are discovered.”
The two men rode silently through the thick cluster of oak and fir trees.
“Delaney, I want you to stay in the area. Not at the local inn, but elsewhere. Find out if the Scottish barbarian dies of his wound. Once you have an update, return to London with all haste. Then you will be free to carry out my other request.”
“Yes, my lord. Consider it done.”
Sutherhorne smiled and glanced at the blue, cloudless sky. A beautiful day. He breathed in the cool, crisp air, then exhaled.
By God, revenge was sweet indeed.
* * * *
Abbie looked about frantically. Since they were surrounded by woods, the shot could have come from anywhere, though it appeared the sound had come from north of where they stood. They were exposed here, on open ground.
Megan stood by, wringing her hands. “Mama, what should we do?” she cried.
Abbie laid her head against Garrett’s chest. His heart still thumped with a strong beat. Thank God. She tore off his wool muffler, bunched it up, and held it to his wound. Pressure would stem the bleeding. She’d learned this much from her physician husband. “Listen to me, Megan. Calm yourself. You must ride immediately to Wollstonecraft Hall. Inform Martin, the butler, about what has happened. We need a wagon and footmen, and the physician should be called.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “But—”
“Go, Megan,” she urged, “and tell them to bring weapons in case they are needed.”
Her daughter glanced worriedly at Garrett, then mounted her horse and set off at a brisk gallop. Please God, let her be safe. She was taking a chance asking Megan to do this, but if the person who fired upon them was still out there, Abbie would rather the perpetrators fire on her and Garrett. At least a moving target was harder to hit.
And they had been fired upon. Abbie had heard and felt the bullet dash past their heads, far too close to be accidental. When Garrett moved in front of them, he took the impact of the second bullet. Oh, my love. He’d done it to protect them.
There was too much blood. From a shoulder wound? The slug must have hit a major vein or artery. Abbie pressed harder as her frightened mind struggled to remember things that Elwyn had told her or something she’d read in one of his medical books. On the rare nights she could not sleep, she’d often read them.
Think, Abbie. The subclavian artery was in the shoulder, which fed to the main artery in the arm—she couldn’t recall the name. That could explain all the blood. Was bone shattered? The artery or veins destroyed? Nerves and tendons damaged beyond all repair?
Garrett groaned, his eyelids fluttered. “Abbie…” he croaked.
“Yes, I’m here. Stay with me. Help is on the way,” she soothed as she pressed harder on the wound.
“Safe…”
“We are safe. Do not worry.”
He clasped her hand. “Love…you.” His eyelids closed and his grip slackened.
“Garrett!” Again, she listened to his chest. Still beating. He was a strong man; he would fight this. Interminable moments passed. Silence surrounded them, except for the haunting, hoarse screech of a hawk circling overhead. Finally, the unmistakable sound of thundering horses’ hooves filled her hearing. Four men on horses galloped toward them, followed by a wagon with three others riding on it.
An older man pulled up on the reins, halting the horse before her. “MacAdam, ma’am. The head groom. What direction did the shots come from?”
As he spoke, the men from the wagon jumped down and rushed toward them.
Abbie pointed toward the cluster of trees. “There, I believe. My daughter?”
“Miss Hughes is well, and bravely explained in detail what occurred. Martin has sent for the physician in Sevenoaks, and sent word to the earl’s personal physician in London. He also sent a runner to Carrbury. The earl and viscount will want to be informed. As would Master Riordan.”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured.
It took five men to lift Garrett and carry him toward the wagon. Abbie followed behind and one of the men helped her up. She knelt beside Garrett and continued to hold pressure to the wound.
“Do you believe it was deliberate, Mrs. Hughes?” MacAdam asked. “Miss Hughes was not sure.”
“Yes. The first shot sailed over our heads, far too close for comfort. The second hit Garrett when he moved in front of us, to protect us.”
“Thank you. Lads, take the wagon to the hall. Quickly now. Inform Martin that Jacob, Samuel, and I will search the woods.” MacAdam pulled his rifle from the saddle. “Off with you!”
They had tied Patriot and the gelding to the rear of the wagon, and with a snap of the reins, they lurched forward, the pace growing quicker as the horses built up speed. Garrett mumbled as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Hot tears clustered on her lashes, but she blinked them away. She must stay in control—Garrett’s survival depended on it. The ride was rough, and Abbie almost lost her balance more than once as the wagon hit ruts in the semi-frozen ground.
Once they arrived at the front entrance of the hall, she was swept up into a beehive of activity, with Martin efficiently and confidently giving orders to all and sundry.
As she was being assisted from the wagon, Martin rushed to her side. “We shall place Master Garrett in the morning room, Mrs. Hughes, as it is on the main floor and there is a chaise large enough to accommodate him.”
“Yes.” She followed Martin and the footmen as they carried Garrett inside. He moaned twice, still wandering in and out of awareness. Abbie slipped out of her coat as the footmen did the same for Garrett. “Remove his shirt as well; tear it off, if you must.”
“Gordon, if you please,” Martin said.
The young footman unbuttoned the waistcoat and removed it, then did the same with the white shirt. Part of it stuck to the wound and Garrett moaned as it was pulled awa
y. They sat Garrett upright partway, and Abbie took the opportunity to inspect his back. An exit wound, which meant that the bullet had passed through. Thankfully, the blood escaping there was a mere trickle. But what damage had it wreaked in its journey? She moved in beside Garrett and placed further pressure on the wound, which had bled profusely while he was being situated.
“What can we do until the doctor arrives?” Martin asked, worry clear in his tone.
Heavens, what to do? “Fetch hot water, clean rolls of cloths to use as bandages, scissors, and—blast it! I have no idea what else.”
“Gordon, go to the kitchen directly. Mrs. Barnes is there and will collect what we need. Hurry now,” Martin instructed.
The young man sprinted from the room, and he’d no sooner departed when another footman announced, “Dr. Phillips from Sevenoaks.”
“Ah, Doctor. If you please. Master Garrett has been shot. If you would attend him posthaste?” Martin asked.
Abbie glanced up. An older man with a white beard came to her side and rudely bumped her out of the way. “This is no place for a lady. See she is removed.”
Fury colored her vision and her blood boiled. Regardless of what this man said, she would persist and hold her ground. “See here, Doctor. You may address me directly; in any case, I will not be leaving this room.”
He finally met her indignant stare with a sniff of disdain. “Suit yourself, but do stay well clear.” The doctor roughly lifted Garrett, causing him to groan in protest. “Ah, the bullet passed through. He is losing too much blood. All that remains is removal of the arm to stem any infection. At the shoulder should do it.”
Even the ever-dispassionate Martin could not keep the look of horror from his face at the doctor’s wild diagnosis.
“This is hardly the seventeenth century, Dr. Phillips. I suppose you’ll be bringing out the leeches next,” Abbie snapped.
“I will not be spoken to in such a tone from a woman,” he sniffed. “And leeches still have their place in today’s medicine. Besides, who are you to be giving such decided opinions?”
“I am the widow of a doctor; I know a little of the profession.”
Dr. Phillips laughed mockingly.
Abbie chose to ignore it and soldiered on. “There have been great strides in treating wounds such as these. Removing appendages is no longer the first option. You must do all you can to save the arm.” She bustled past him and applied further pressure to Garrett’s shoulder, which had started to bleed profusely once again.
“Ma’am—”
“The lady’s name is Mrs. Hughes, Doctor. I apologize for not introducing you,” Martin interjected.
“Mrs. Hughes, then. You see how the wound is seeping. He will bleed out if we do not remove the limb and cauterize the wound. Removing it will also lessen the chance of infection.”
My God, this man had stepped out of the medieval age. Abbie protectively stepped in front of Garrett. “Listen to me, all of you. We will not proceed with this butchery until the earl’s doctor arrives from London. I demand a second opinion.” Abbie pressed harder on the wound. “I will stand here and apply pressure until he does make an appearance. I am most determined, and nothing will shift me from Garrett’s side unless you drag me kicking and screaming from this room.” It took all her self-control to stem her anger. Abbie kept her tone respectful, but firm.
“There is no call to be dramatic,” Dr. Phillips replied in a clipped tone. “It could be another two hours before this London doctor arrives.”
“I will stand here all blasted night if that is what it takes!” she cried.
“Doctor,” Garrett coughed. “I…I would listen to her.”
“Is this what you want, Mr. Wollstonecraft?” the doctor asked.
“It…is.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “As you wish. We wait for this London doctor.”
Garrett gazed at her, pride and admiration reflected in his beautiful eyes. And love. Oh, always the love. “My angel.”
The overwhelming urge to cry nearly swamped her, but she would save the tears for later. When she was alone. Garrett needed her, and Abbie would not leave his side.
Fight, my Scottish warrior, fight.
Chapter 16
There were not many places in Riordan’s small townhouse where Oliver could steal a few private moments with Mary Tuttle, but he had managed it right after afternoon tea. The visit to Riordan and Sabrina’s home in Carrbury had been bittersweet. After informing Riordan of Aidan being found, and the circumstances surrounding it, there were plenty of recriminations to go around. Why hadn’t we seen the signs? Why hadn’t we done more? Considering they prided themselves on being a supportive family, they had failed miserably with regards to Aidan.
But the men soon moved past such self-indulgence and concluded that they would give Aidan time and space to heal. When he was ready, they would be there for him—in whatever capacity.
Oliver and Julian had decided they would return to Wollstonecraft Hall on Sunday. In the meantime, Oliver was enjoying the visit regardless of the situation. Yesterday afternoon he had sat in on Riordan’s class, completely caught up in the lesson, bursting with pride and admiration for his grandson’s skills.
Then there was Mary. Oliver had not believed that he would see her quite so soon after their emotional parting, but he welcomed her company and the diversion from worrying about Aidan. Alone in the small library-study, Oliver closed the door, then turned and faced Mary. His heart banged furiously in his chest. By God, to have such a rush of passion at his age proved that he still had plenty of living to do. And loving.
Their gazes caught, and Oliver strode toward her with a decided purpose. To hold her. To kiss her deeply. As if reading his mind, Mary started toward him and they met in the middle of the room and shared a kiss so devastating Oliver thought his heart would burst. She tasted sweet. Enticing. As he trailed his mouth across her cheek and down her soft neck, he murmured, “Is it terrible that I wish to forgo all propriety and make love to you here and now?”
Mary moaned. “Oliver, what are we to do? For I feel the same. It has been so long.”
Mary had informed him last night, when they managed to take a short walk, of her sailor fiancé and his tragic death on the same ship as her father. How she had not been with a man since. Hell, he was tempted to suggest they go away together, find some isolated cottage by the sea. Revel in each other’s company, make love whenever the mood struck them. It would be impetuous and scandalous, but certainly in line with being a man of Wollstonecraft Hall.
He cradled her face. “All my talk of a correspondence and deciding what we want…what damned nonsense. I know my mind. I know what is in my heart.”
Mary smiled. “And I know what is in mine as well. You are a sinfully handsome man who has aged well—like a fine wine. I want you, Earl of Carnstone. I want you to make love to me until we are completely spent and I—”
Oliver kissed her fiercely. How he adored this lovely woman and her plainspoken ways. Aching, he took the kiss deeper, then moaned when Mary trailed her fingers across his stiff prick. Bold as well. As he nibbled on her lush lower lip, he said, “I don’t want some brief dalliance, Mary Tuttle.”
“I am to be your mistress, then?” she teased as she squeezed him.
“No. Much more than that. My companion. My friend. My lover. Perhaps more, as—”
There was a sharp rap at the door and they sprang apart. Oliver buttoned his coat as he called out, “Come in.”
It was Julian, and he looked pale. “Gordon has arrived from Wollstonecraft Hall with disturbing news: Garrett has been shot.”
The news hit Oliver as a forceful blow to the solar plexus and he staggered from the shock. Mary immediately came to his side and held his arm. All at once, he felt like an old man.
“It happened when he was out riding with Megan and Mrs. Hughes. He
was shot in the shoulder—not deemed fatal, but serious nonetheless. The doctor from Sevenoaks has been summoned, along with Dr. Faraday from London. I suggest we depart with all haste.”
“Yes, of course,” Oliver murmured, still trying to process the news. Hell and damnation, what else was going to happen to this family?
“Riordan was there when Gordon relayed the news. He and Sabrina will be coming as well, as soon as he makes arrangements for his students.” Julian slid his worried gaze to Mary. “I believe, Miss Tuttle, that he will be asking you to stay and assist in his classroom.”
“Yes, I will do anything to help,” she replied.
“Are you all right, Da?” Julian asked.
Julian had not called him that since he was eighteen. Once Garrett was old enough to talk, he’d always called Oliver “Da,” and for a few years, Julian had followed suit. It touched him, hearing it again from his oldest son. At times, Julian could be too self-contained. But not here. “Yes, just give me a minute.”
“I will prepare for our departure.” Julian exited the room, closing the door behind him. Oliver groaned, and Mary assisted him to the settee, then sat beside him, holding him close.
“I cannot lose him, Mary. Garrett is precious to me. It will destroy me if…” His voice shook, his eyes grew moist.
She held him in her arms; her comforting warmth calmed him. “I understand. He is the living link to your lost love. I saw her portrait in your study. Moira was beautiful. You love her still.”
“I do, but not to exclusion of allowing love into my life once more. And I have allowed it, with you, Mary.”
They held each other tight. God, he needed and ached for this. As soon as Garrett was recovered, Oliver would not waste another damned minute. He was in love, as he predicted—for the last time in his life.
* * * *
Time passed far too slowly as Abbie, Dr. Phillips, and Martin took turns keeping pressure on the wound. She’d managed to coax Garrett into drinking cool water during the short periods he was lucid, but he’d remained unconscious for most of the two hours.
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