He glanced between her and his brother, the tick in his jaw becoming so pronounced she counted ten beats. He loved her still, or at least he didn’t want her to die! Her heart squeezed with happiness at the same time fear rose up and nearly gagged her. If Grey didn’t make the trade, he would surely die trying to save his brother. And maybe his brother would die too. Maybe they’d all die anyway, unless she did something. She could save Grey and his brother if she was brave enough and cunning. She’d rather risk everything than nothing as she’d done her entire life.
Praying she didn’t end up shot in the back, she bolted across the room, her muscles tensing and her eyes seeking an opening.
BETRAYED YET AGAIN. GREY LOCKED gazes with Edward as Madelaine flew across the room. Edward leaned his chair far to the right. As it started to topple, Grey pulled the trigger of his pistol, blood roaring in his ears. Something sharp skimmed across his shoulder and caused his pistol to jerk to the right. Pain, like the quick slice of a knife, yet different, flared across the path of the wound and coursed down his arms. His finger numbed instantly. He dropped his pistol by his feet.
He stared in horror as the stranger aimed one of his pistols at the floor where Edward lay. Grey’s legs propelled him forward to charge the man. Madelaine’s scream tore through the hum in his head, but a deafening explosion drowned the sound of her fear and all else out.
Madelaine and the man crumpled like puppets whose strings had been abruptly cut. Grey reached them as her head hit the ground with a sickening thud, lolling back, her eyes fluttering shut. He focused on the man. He lay perfectly still, face up and eyes open wide with death. A dagger, jeweled at the hilt, protruded from the man’s neck. Good. The bastard.
Grey swayed on his feet, disbelief making the room swim. Madelaine hadn’t betrayed him. She’d saved him. He scrambled to his brother and jerked off the gag.
“Forget me,” Edward barked. “Help her. Help Lady Madelaine.”
Rushing back to Madelaine, Grey ripped off his cravat and pressed it to her side where he thought the blood was coming from. From outside the door, noise reached him―a tap followed by a drag. Someone approached. He laid Madelaine against the ground, lunged toward the dead man and yanked the dagger out of his neck.
Grey was on his feet when Gravenhurst appeared at the door, pistol aimed forward and dragging his right leg behind him. Gravenhurst stopped in the doorway, his pistol falling to his thigh and his mouth dropping open. “What happened?”
“Madelaine saved us. Do you know of a physician around here?” Grey demanded, releasing the dagger by his brother’s head and scooping Madelaine into his arms. Her head lulled back like one of his sister’s childhood dolls. A chill swept over him. She couldn’t die. He’d been wrong. So wrong.
He pressed her close as he strode toward the door. Her coldness made his chill feel like a fever. He stopped in front of Gravenhurst. “Is there a physician near?” he asked again.
“Milsford Street. One block over and turn right. He’s in the white house. Tell him Gravenhurst sent you. We’ll be there shortly.”
Grey wrapped his arms tighter around her body as he ran down the stairs and out into the night. “Don’t die on me, Madelaine.” But with each step, the coldness of her skin increased, making his throat tighten with fear of losing her.
He could see the white house at the end of the street, yet the harder he ran, the greater the distance to the house seemed. Driving himself forward like a man possessed, he reached the house, and kicked open the door instead of slowing down to knock.
A man, dressed in his retiring robe, barreled into the entranceway with a brass candleholder gripped in his hand. “Who the bloody hell are you?” the man demanded, his gaze sweeping over Grey but settling on Madelaine.
“Gravenhurst sent me.”
“Not again!” the man growled and set the candleholder on a side table. Grey didn’t have time to sort out what the man meant. He hoisted Madelaine up so the physician could see her blood-soaked side. “Will you help her? She’s been shot.”
“I can see that.” The man pushed Grey down the hall toward an open door. “My office,” he murmured to Grey’s raised eyebrows.
“Put her there.” The physician nodded toward a table. “And then move out of the way if you want me to work.”
Grey laid her gently down, his stomach clenching at her pasty skin and her blood covering his hands as he brought them away from her. He stared at her, unable to make his legs carry him away. He loved her. And he’d almost handed her over to death. She must have seen it. Known it. And had sacrificed herself to save him. Shame and disgust rolled in his belly.
“Get out of the way!” The physician shoved him aside.
He stumbled backward as the man frantically ripped her dress from her body. Grey trembled so violently he had to lean against the wall for support.
Soft fingers curling around his arm startled him. He looked down into the concerned face of a pretty brunette. Her blue eyes blinked at him. “The best way to help her is by allowing my husband to work,” the physician’s wife said.
Grey tried to comprehend where the woman might have come from, but his mind felt fuzzy as if he’d drank too much. God! He wished he were sloshed and this were a bad dream. Seeming to understand his shock, the woman took him by the arm and guided him out of the room, talking to him in low tones as she led him down the hall and into a study.
He fell, more so than sat, into the chair she offered, and when she poured a full glass of whiskey and pushed the glass toward him, he didn’t hesitate to drink. The woman hurried from the room, and he dropped his head into his hands. He loved Madelaine, probably since the day he’d met her in Golden Square. He was an idiot. He should have listened to her. She wasn’t conspiring to murder them. She’d saved them.
He rubbed his stinging eyes and sat back in the chair. He’d failed her. He should have married her the minute he’d found out her father was in trouble. He should have protected her. Was he to forever be wrong about those he loved, losing them one by one as punishment for being an idiot?
Without her, he was nothing. He turned the ring on his finger, duty warring against love, desire against honor. Without hesitation, he yanked the ring off his finger and threw it against the window. It smacked the glass then clattered to the ground. His father had probably just flipped over in his grave. Grey loathed himself for his betrayal, but he’d live with the guilt. What he could not live without was Madelaine. And now, he’d do everything in his power to protect her.
He sat that way, unable to move, unwilling to think about anything but willing her to stay alive, until the creak of the door alerted him to someone entering the room. Edward dragged into the room and slumped into the chair opposite Grey. With his lip cut and swollen, his eye blackened and a nasty gash on his forehead, it appeared he had put up a fight before being captured by the man in the warehouse. Edward’s eyebrows puckered together, a deep crease appearing between his eyes. He glanced around the room, got up and came back toward Grey holding a towel.
“Your shoulder is bleeding.”
Grey looked in surprise at his shoulder. He’d forgotten a bullet had skimmed him there. He slipped off his shirt and surveyed the wound. Not bad. Not nearly as dangerous as Madelaine’s wound. Pouring some of the whiskey from the crystal decanter onto the towel, he blotted the towel against his shoulder and clenched his teeth against the pain. Once he felt the wound numb, and decided it was clean enough, he shrugged his shirt back on and regarded Edward. “Did you know that man?”
“I used to.” Edward reached for the decanter with a trembling hand and sloshed whiskey into Grey’s glass. Edward pulled the glass toward him, picked it up and downed the liquid. “How is Lady Madelaine?”
Grey struggled to control his emotions. “The physician is working on her.”
“The physician is called Plumbe.”
Grey didn’t give a damn what the man’s name was as long as Madelaine lived. “Tell me about the man in the war
ehouse.”
Edward’s gaze fell to the desk. “His name was Sutton.”
“I thought he was dead?”
“Apparently not.” Edward leaned forward. “It seems Sutton didn’t appreciate being left for dead in France.”
“He told you that?”
Edward nodded. “That and more. He told me how he planned to kill me. I was to be burned. Since Father had been our leader, Sutton felt I deserved the most painful death as his heir.”
Grey couldn’t suppress the shudder that took hold of him. “And Madelaine?” Grey wanted to kill the man with his bare hands. It was too bad he was already dead. “What did he want Madelaine for?”
“He wanted to kill her in front of her father, so Stratmore would die twice as he deserved.” Edward shrugged. “Sutton’s words not mine. According to him, Stratmore would suffer watching his daughter die, suffer knowing his name was disgraced, and then get what he deserved by being hung.”
Grey gripped the desk, his knuckles turning white. “How the hell did he plan to get Madelaine into the tower, kill her, and then take her body back out so no one would know she was dead before Stratmore was killed?”
“I don’t know.” Edward scrubbed a hand across his face then winced when his fingers brushed his bruises. “Sutton was deranged. Broken mentally. And God help me, Grey, I can’t help but wonder if the king hadn’t commanded Father to pull Stratmore out of France if we could have saved Sutton, and Stratmore, and Pearson.”
“Pearson? Did Sutton kill Pearson?”
Edward reached into his coat and threw something on the desk. The gold ring rolled for a moment before it stilled. Grey didn’t have to pick it up to know it was Pearson’s. “Sutton set Stratmore up.” Grey’s mind whirred with the realization.
“Yes.”
“But how did he know what Stratmore had done in taking the king’s list? How did Sutton know his plan had a chance in hell of working?”
“That’s a good question. The obvious answer is he had someone on the inside of the castle working for him. Someone in a position to hear things. Any ideas?”
“Not a bloody one.” Grey rubbed his throbbing temples. “I’m having a hard time thinking on this right now.”
“It’s all right. I sent Gravenhurst back to Windsor to try to ferret out who Sutton had working for him.”
“What about Gravenhurst’s leg? And getting the bullet out?”
“There’s no bullet. He twisted his ankle when he dodged the bullet meant to kill him. He’ll be like new in a few days. What about you?”
“What about me?” Grey would never be the same again if Madelaine died. There would be no “like new.” He would rather be dead too.
“What are you going to do? What do you plan to tell the king about Lady Madelaine?”
Grey’s heart thudded so hard he had to resist the urge not to rub at his chest. “What did Gravenhurst say?”
Edward’s eyes narrowed into slits. “He said to ask you. That he had no knowledge of what Lady Madelaine did or did not know in regard to her father and his stealing of the king’s paper.”
Grey would kiss Gravenhurst the next time he saw him. Well, maybe not kiss him, but drinks and thanks were certainly in order. True, he’d not told Gravenhurst in words what Madelaine had tried to do to help her father, but surely his friend had judged her by Grey’s actions toward her. Yet, Gravenhurst was allowing Grey to decide for himself what should be done. It was akin to giving his blessing and promising silence.
“Lady Madelaine had no knowledge that her father stole the paper from the king. She’s innocent. And I plan to tell the king exactly that.”
Edward’s eyebrows rose. “You’re sure?”
Grey nodded.
Suddenly, Edward reached across the desk and clasped Grey by the hand. “Father would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
Grey pulled his hand free. “Father would not be proud. I misjudged Madelaine, and my error may yet mean her death.” He glanced toward the door, willing Plumbe or his wife to come with news.
“You love her.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“I do. And if she lives and will have me, I intend to marry her. Yet one more reason I would have given Father to be disappointed in me.”
“He wouldn’t have been disappointed.”
Grey scoffed with disbelief. “You said yourself Father thought wives were weakness for spies.”
“He did. But he also took a wife and loved Mother very much.” Edward smiled. “As I said before, the two of you are more alike than either of you ever saw. It’s why you didn’t rub along well.”
Grey stood and moved to the door to peer down the hall. Impatience clawed at him. If he didn’t have some news soon, he’d go mad. “I always thought you were more like Father.” He stared out the window into the street shining with the first rays of daylight.
Edward came up behind Grey and grasped him on the shoulder. “Not in matters of the heart. Where that’s concerned, I am practical where you two are romantic. If I ever take a wife, it will simply be because I must produce an heir. But only if you don’t produce one for me.”
It was on the tip of Grey’s tongue to reply, but Plumbe appeared in the hall, and Grey raced toward the man. “How is she?”
The man’s eyes cast downward and Grey’s heart plunged. The physician wiped his hands on his bloody apron before raising his gaze to Grey’s. “She’s alive for now. I can’t say what tomorrow will bring.”
Grey’s hand shook as he reached out to caress Madelaine’s cheek. Behind him, he heard footsteps and glanced back to see the physician.
Plumbe came to stand by Grey. “The bullet passed cleanly through her side.”
Grey nodded as he stared down at her and watched the rise and fall of her chest. The motion, though ragged, gave him hope. “What’s the danger?”
“Infection. I sewed her up as best as I could. Now we wait and hope fever doesn’t kill her. I’ll leave you alone for a bit. But I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”
Grey pulled a chair close, sat, and took her hand. It was clammy and warm. He lay his head on the edge of her bed and pressed his cheek into her palm, remembering what it felt like when she’d caressed him with tenderness. Emotion clogged his throat. Christ! If she died and left him, he’d never bloody well forgive himself, not that he was sure he could anyway.
He lay there for hours, listening to her breathe, glad to know she still was with him. Sometime after the shadows had shifted in the room, the door creaked open. Grey lifted his head to find Edward standing by the bed. “How is she?”
“No change.”
Edward shifted from foot to foot then cleared his throat. “I should probably depart for Kew, but if you need me to stay with you…”
“No.” Grey sat up fully. She’d live or die without Edward here, and if she died, Grey would rather not have an audience when he fell apart. “The king will want to hear a report. You should go. When she’s better, I’ll bring her to Windsor to marry her, if she’ll have me.”
Edward squeezed Grey’s shoulder. “I’ll pray for her.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God anymore.”
Edward shrugged. “I don’t. But I could be wrong, so just in case, I’ll pray for Madelaine.”
“Thank you,” Grey choked out.
As Edward slipped out the door, Plumbe’s wife slipped in carrying a tray laden with bread, cheese, wine and some cuts of meat. Grey’s stomach rolled in protest. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
She tisked. “Your woman will need your strength when she awakens. It won’t do for you to be too sick to care for her. You need food and sleep.”
“What’s your name, madame?”
“Rose. Call me Rose.”
Grey smiled. “Rose, I’ll eat, but I won’t sleep.”
She thrust the tray at him. “We shall see. You’ve dark circles under your blood-shot eyes. Once your belly is full, you’ll sleep.”
He’
d never be able to sleep until Madelaine was out of danger, but he didn’t bother to argue further with Rose. She was being kind, and he would not repay her kindness with ungraciousness. As he ate, he half-heartedly listened to Rose talk. Her voice grew low, and he was unable to keep up with her words. Her lips moved, but he heard no sound. His head bobbed to the side, and several times he jerked upright.
HE AWOKE CONFUSED. THE ROOM was dark, except for a splash of moonlight streaming through the window. The bed was soft enough, but small and he needed more blanket. He tugged on the scratchy wool tucked under his chin, and when he did, his shoulder screamed in protest and his awareness came back like a gut punch.
Jolting from the bed, he raced out the door and into the dark hall of the house. Which room was Madelaine’s? Everything appeared different at night. He threw open several doors before he found her room, almost stumbling in his eagerness to see her. She moaned, and he fell to her side and laid a hand on her brow, only to draw back in horror at the fiery heat of her skin. Fever! “Plumbe!”
Within seconds, Plumbe barreled through the door with Rose on his heels.
“She’s on fire,” Grey said as he stroked her forehead.
The physician placed his hand on Madelaine’s forehead, his lips pressing together. “Fever’s taken hold.”
“Please do something.”
“Rose, bring the water basin and sponge.”
His wife hurried out of the room and came back within moments with a basin sloshing with water. She dipped a sponge into the water.
“Let me,” Grey said, his voice a desperate thread-bare plea.
Rose handed the sponge to him. “Start at her head and work down.”
He nodded, rolled up his sleeves, and gently brought the sponge to her forehead. She moaned and thrashed about, making him have to grit his teeth together on a string of curses.
He wiped her face, then her long slender arms and legs. “Stay with me,” he whispered, not caring that Plumbe and his wife could hear him. Grey continued to sponge her until his arm burned from the motion. Pausing, he placed a hand against her forehead. “God damn it. It’s not working.”
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