“I’m not a nitwit.” Lucy grabbed Sally by the hair and whacked her head against the wheel of the carriage. Hard. Her stepmother had conspired to have Lucy put away, not once buttwice. Would have become Dufton’s mistress had Lucy wed him, which, frankly, was disgusting. Meant to murder Harry. “Nor would I ever allow Colm to console me.”
Sally slumped to the ground, mouth open.
Lucy leaned over her stepmother, feeling for her breath. “Only unconscious. Deserves far worse.”
“Lucy,” Harry rasped from the ground. “Untie me. Before Colm returns.” He made a pained sound. “How could you possibly think she wouldn’t lie to you about being with child?”
“That’s the first thing you think to say? If we are to have a contest in stupidity, Harry, you would win for thinking me capable of conspiring with Dufton.” Lucy bent to untie him. “I’m in the midst of rescuing you, so it would be wise to not question me at present. Can you stand?”
“So hostile.” Harry wobbled but got to his feet. “We need to move. Colm has a pistol, and I can see two of you, which under the right circumstances, I’d appreciate.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “We are not that far from the house. At least, I don’t think we are. But I don’t want to leave you to get Bartle or Mr. Hammond.”
“A good idea. I don’t care to be shot.” He looped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, you know. I realized how wrong I was by the time I arrived in London.”
“I can’t believe it took you that long.” Lucy half dragged Harry through the trees, pausing only when he stumbled and fell. He was having trouble staying upright, and she worried Colm would come looking.
“It was the scotch.” Harry fell over. “Wait. Stop. I think I’m going to be ill. My head is swimming.” He took several shallow breaths and leaned over. After a moment he straightened. “Better now.”
Lucy pulled him forward through the trees, panting with his weight until she finally saw their monstrosity of a house peeking through the trees. She hadn’t gone nearly as far as she thought. Dragging Harry a few more feet to the edge of the lawn, she lowered him carefully to the ground. “I must get help.” She dared to glance back at the trees but there was no sign of Colm.
“Tell Bartle,” Harry breathed, “to be armed.” He smiled crookedly at her before his eyes rolled back and he passed out.
Lucy sprinted for the house.
31
Harry stirred. Wiggled his toes. Felt the soft mattress beneath him and the scent of clean sheets. A hint of lemon and verbena hovered in the air, which meant his Lucy was close. One eye cracked open to see a fire roaring away on the other side of the room.
“Harry.” A slender hand touched his cheek. “Don’t move about.” She leaned forward, her breasts pushing against his mouth as she tried to settle the pillows behind him so he could sit. “I’ll help you.”
“I already feel better.” He opened his mouth and sucked in a bit of the fabric of her bodice, gently nipping at her skin.
“That’s quite enough,” Lucy stated tartly. “The doctor says you must rest. Not become overly excited. The wound on your head is quite terrible and might make you out of sorts for a while.” Her lovely blue eyes—like cornflowers—were clouded with concern.
“How long?” His fingers wrapped around Lucy’s wrist, not wanting to let her go. Ever. Not his lovely girl. So brave. So strong. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Two days. You’ve woken up several times and spoken to me. Do you recall?”
He had vague memories of soft hands and lemon-scented skin. Sips of broth. But nothing else. “Colm?—”
“Bartle and two of the staff found him. He deserted Sally, which is unsurprising, given she’s terrible. Left her in the middle of the road—quite what she deserved,” she informed Harry without a hint of sympathy. “The constable has him.”
“Good,” Harry breathed, wishing Lucy would crawl into the bed with him. Maybe push those magnificent breasts of hers near his mouth again. He didn’t really have the strength to do anything about it, of course. But he was certain it would speed his healing.
“You weren’t lying when you said Constable Martin wasn’t your friend. When Bartle informed him that Colm had tried to kill you, Martin said, and I quote, ‘Well, I wish someone would.’”
“Prick. Is Sally?—”
“She’s alive and well,” Lucy’s voice was firm. Prim. Mildly hostile. Absolutely no hint of a lisp. “Under house arrest. A bit bruised. I think her nose is broken.”
“Well, you hit her. With a rock. Then you slammed her into the carriage wheel.” The memory was fuzzy, but he definitely recalled his fragile, reserved wife behaving like a Valkyrie. “I’d no idea you were so…violent, Mrs. Estwood.”
“She tried to kill you, Harry.” Lucy raised a brow. “Anddeclared me to be unintelligent, which I am not.”
Not in the least.
“Was my father part of this?” She lifted her chin, prepared to hear the worst. “Seems like something he’d approve of. Kidnapping. Murder for Marsden. Marrying me off to Colm.”
