“Aunt Gertie! Are you mad?”
Her aunt thrust out her chin and glared across the distance, her look mutinous. “It weren’t my fault! A sudden wind blew me off course. I can’t help it if he’s such a large target. Did I kill him?” Aunt Gertie demanded, her voice petulant and resentful, as if his dying would be an affront to her.
Heat washed over Evie’s face, a mix of shame and horror. Shaking, she stepped around Mr. Lockhart to inspect the damage. She swallowed a cry and bit her lip at the sight of the arrow embedded in the back of his shoulder.
In a tight voice, he demanded, “How bad is it?”
“It’s—” A bloody arrow in your back! “Not too bad.”
Striving for a calm she did not feel, she took him by the arm and led him toward the house, marveling at his composure, at his sure strides beside her own. “We’ll settle you inside and send for the doctor.”
He gave the barest nod, as though she did nothing more than suggest they adjourn inside for tea. Only the paleness of his face and the deep grooves on either side of his mouth indicated he felt any discomfort.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lockhart,” she whispered fervently. “Aunt Gertie’s never hurt a soul before.”
As they passed the garden, Aunt Gertie called out again, “Did I kill him?”
“He’s walking, isn’t he?” Evie hissed, wishing her aunt would cease talking altogether.
“Years in the Crimea and scarcely a scratch,” he bit out. “One fortnight home and I’m felled by an old woman’s arrow.” Then, astoundingly, the firm line of his mouth twitched. “I suppose that’s irony.”
She stared in astonishment at his profile, imagining most men would react with anything but humor in such a situation. Uncertain how to respond, she patted his arm awkwardly and assured him, “You’ll be fine.”
Slipping one arm around his waist, she reached for the latch to the balcony door, trying not to let the firm press of his body distract her. She’d never been so close to a man before—willingly, at any rate—and never such a virile male form. Her throat tightened.
He captured her gaze, holding himself still before the doors. “I’m glad it wasn’t you. Glad you are safe.”
Then she recalled that he had pulled her clear and taken that arrow. For her, dear heavens! She had been the one standing in the arrow’s path. He had saved her life.
Her stomach heaved. She pressed a hand to her belly and turned to stare at her reflection in the glass doors. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would you do that?”
In the glass, she could see he watched her; felt his stare on her face. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She could think of a number of reasons—the most obvious being the arrow embedded in his shoulder. With a shake of her head, she said crisply, “I can think of no reason why you would risk yourself for me.”
“Can you not?” Angling his head, he studied her as if she were the oddity. “You’re Ian’s Linnie. That alone is reason enough.”
The words fell so matter-of-factly, so simply. She turned, stared at him bleakly. Sick at heart, only one thought raced through her head: No, I’m not. I’m not Linnie. Not her.
Only he could never know that.
Still fighting the churning in her stomach, she led him up the stairs to her bedchamber, the best room in the house. He would have it, of course. Anything to add to his comfort, to speed his recovery and hasten his departure.
Mrs. Murdoch soon arrived and took over, fussing over him as she eased him down on the bed, propping several pillows around him, careful not to jar the arrow until Peter arrived.
Evie stood back and watched, inhaling slowly through her lips, vowing to see him restored to his proper self.
Later, she would ask herself whether he would have saved her if he’d known the truth. If he’d known she was a liar—an imposter and not his cousin’s lover. Not Nicholas’s true mother at all.
In effect, no one to him.
Resting on his stomach, Spencer felt a warm trickle of blood course its way down his back. He hissed as Mrs. Murdoch pressed another cloth around the arrow, catching the flow of blood. His shoulder burned like hellfire. He shook his head. A bloody arrow. That old woman was a menace. The shot headed for Mrs. Cross would likely have struck her. Killed her. He shivered. Clearly, his presence was needed here. What if Nicholas had been in that arrow’s path?
“There you are, sir,” Mrs. Murdoch clucked as she stuffed another pillow beneath his chest. “Mrs. Cross will be right up with Dr. Sheffield, and he’ll remove that arrow for you. We’ll have you comfortable yet.”
Ah, Dr. Sheffield. The suitor. Even in his pain-muddled state, he tensed, anxious to meet Ian’s replacement, if the maid from the inn was to be believed.
“Poor Miss Gertie,” the housekeeper clucked. “I hope you don’t blame the ol’ dear too much.”
Poor Miss Gertie?
Mrs. Murdoch continued, “Shame about your fine clothes. I’ll launder and stitch them the best I can.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” he murmured.
His clothing lay in tatters beside the bed. With the housekeeper’s help, Mrs. Cross had cut away his garments, her cheeks flaming all throughout the task.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
“Ah, here’s Mrs. Cross with the doctor now.”
Spencer didn’t know what to expect of Linnie’s suitor. Perhaps someone with a resemblance to his cousin?
I resemble Ian. He blinked hard, banishing the thought, not daring to consider that might make a difference to her . . . and make a difference to him.
The man who entered the room in no way resembled Ian. While tall, he was pale and fair-haired with muttonchop sideburns. “Mr. Lockhart, is it? Quite an injury we have here.”
Stiffly proper, older-looking than his likely age, he smelled of musty books and rancid garlic.
The notion of her with this man filled him with distaste. “Doctor,” he greeted as he discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
Mrs. Cross paced beside the bed, her blue eyes brimming with regret. “I am so sorry—”
“You’ve already apologized, madam,” he interrupted.
At his censure, she stopped pacing and dropped her luminous gaze, her long lashes casting alluring shadows on her cheeks.
He cursed himself for his snapped words. It wasn’t her fault her choice of suitor struck him as uninspiring. For all he knew, the fellow breathed and bled honor.
He hissed as Sheffield’s ice-cold hands prodded the tender flesh around the arrow; grasping the rod, the doctor jiggled with decided vigor. For a moment, spots filled Spencer’s vision. A quick glance over his shoulder, and he knew such vigor was wholly intended. The good doctor’s watery gaze revealed a decided amount of satisfaction.
“I hear you are quite the hero.”
“Not at all,” Spencer spat past clenched teeth, centering his attention on Mrs. Cross beside the bed. Her hands were on level with his gaze, the slender fingers entwined tightly, bloodless-white before her waist. Not the smooth, unblemished hands of a lady, but elegant nonetheless, sensual—hands that, he suspected, would know how to caress a man. At least in his imaginings they would.
“Fought with the Light Brigade, huh?” Sheffield paused long and looked at Mrs. Cross as he asked this, staring hard at her before returning his attention to Spencer. “That seems to mark you a hero. At least according to the papers.” He prodded the arrow with jarring suddenness. Agony pulsed from the spot, vibrating throughout Spencer’s back.
A cry strangled in Spencer’s throat, and he heard Mrs. Cross whimper . . . as if she felt the pain herself. His gaze blurred gray at the edges. No question. For whatever reason, Sheffield was determined to cause him pain.
“Just widening the path so I can pull it out . . .”
Blood rushed warmly down his back.
Mrs. Cross gasped. “Please, be done with it,” she pleaded over the roaring in his ears. Her hand grasped his on the bed.
Sheffield dropped a blood-sopped cloth on the bedside table with no thought to the lacy doily. “Very well.”
Spencer lay gasping, his fingers clinging to hers, a random thought spiraling through his head: Her hands are softer than they look.
The doctor rummaged through his bag, muttering, “You’re fortunate it didn’t penetrate your shoulder blade. We would have to push it out through the front. That would have been most unpleasant.”
Spencer winced, grateful for that. The doctor would likely have killed him with that maneuver.
“Just end it,” he growled, bracing himself for the man’s next move, locking his jaw and focusing on the soft, trembling hand joined with his.
Her gentle voice washed over him like a balm. “Can we give him something for the pain?”
Sheffield sighed as he brandished a knife. “I suppose. I have laudanum, but we can’t wait for it to take effect. This arrow has been in long enough—”
“Never mind the laudanum,” Spencer snapped. “Just get the damned thing out.”
Sheffield tsked.
Mrs. Cross’s hand shuddered in his.
With a curse, he tossed her hand from him. “And get her out of here.”
“Mr. Lockhart! No—”
“Go,” he ordered as the doctor sawed at the flesh around the arrow’s shaft.
“Just need to widen this a bit more,” Sheffield murmured. “He’s right—you don’t need to be here for this. Best leave.”
As much as Spencer disliked the man, he was glad for his agreement.
“Come along,” Mrs. Murdoch seconded, leading her away—but not before casting him a reproving look.
He snorted. He was the one with an arrow in his back.
The door clicked shut behind them, and he exhaled, relieved. True, he didn’t want her to see him vulnerable like this—her beau carving him like a fish. But he also didn’t want to distress her, and she appeared softhearted enough that the sight of him injured would distress her.
Thoughts of her vanished as the blade cut deeper into his ravaged skin. He held his breath until the torment ended and the arrow slid free. Blood gushed a warm stream down his side. Sheffield pressed something against the wound to staunch the flow. After some moments, he set to work cleaning the wound with deep swipes. Spencer clenched his teeth in a hiss.
“I thought of joining, you know.”
Spencer blinked, his pain-muddled head slow to comprehend the comment.
“I simply concluded I was in better service here. Not fighting a senseless war on foreign soil. The next closest doctor is hours away.”
Spencer’s mouth twisted wryly. For some reason the good doctor sought his validation.
He droned on. “The Sheffields have lived in Little Billings since the reign of Elizabeth. My grandfather was the Squire Appleby.”
“Remarkable.” Spencer could not prevent the ring of mockery to his voice. Did the man think to impress him with a mediocre pedigree?
At that moment, a needle sank into his flesh. He held his breath as the tip wove in and out of his skin.
“And then there was Evelyn,” Sheffield continued, his voice close as he bent over Spencer’s back. Evelyn. Spencer had always wondered what Linnie was short for. Ian never mentioned it. “We’ve an understanding. Of sorts. I couldn’t leave her on her own. In case you failed to note, she’s in grave need of a man.”
And Sheffield clearly considered himself that man. A strange tightness coiled through Spencer. “She appears to manage.”
“Yes, well. She needn’t manage at all.” Sheffield’s voice swelled with self-import. “Not with me about. I’ve invested a good deal of care and time into my relationship with Mrs. Cross. Naturally, a strange gentleman caller rouses my protective instincts.”