For a moment that stretched into an eternity, Harry did nothing but cradle Miranda’s body in his arms, convinced she was dead, and Sir Julian did nothing but stare, his mouth hanging open in what had to be shock at what he’d done. Then he took a step towards Harry and Miranda, and, as he did so, from nowhere young Dick careered into him, knocking him to the ground and pummelling him with his fists. He must have heard the shot, but instead of riding for help, he’d come racing in. Disobedient, brave boy.
From his position sitting astride the prone and bleeding Sir Julian, Dick now twisted his foe’s arm round behind his back, as he stared up at Harry and Miranda. “Her ladyship,” he gasped. Sir Julian made no attempt to struggle but, with one powerful hand, Dick shoved the lunatic’s face into the rug. Smothered grunting noises emerged as though the man couldn’t breathe properly. “Is her ladyship killed?”
Coming to himself with a vengeance, Harry laid Miranda, her eyes closed, flat on the ground and leaned over her. A panic that had never seized him before had to be pushed aside. He had to be all experienced battle doctor now, not terrified lover. The bullet had struck her on her left, below her ribs, and her blue gown had darkened with blood. Thank the Lord. He could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She wasn’t dead. He swiped a hand across his eyes as relief brought tears to them again. “She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive.”
For answer Dick gave another fierce tug to the arm he was twisting and further muffled grunts of pain emerged from his prisoner. “No thanks to this bastard, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Harry ran his fingers over the wound. Stays. The bullet had struck her stays. And they were akin to armor. Her pulse was strong. Hopes rising, he gathered her into his arms and laid her on the pink bed as gently as he could. She wasn’t bleeding heavily, and she was breathing well. He had a moment to deal with Dick’s prisoner. The curtains possessed ropes to tie them back. He flung them at Dick. “Hog tie the man. I don’t want him getting away. And get him out of here. I don’t want to have to look at him. Then ride back to Rampton and fetch Betsey. I’m going to need her help.” He paused. “And thank you, Dick. You shall have a reward for your bravery.”
Dick, grinning from ear to ear, had made short work of tying up Sir Julian, adding a gag to keep him quiet, before dragging him unceremoniously out of the room. The sound of him being bumped along the corridor died away.
Harry looked back at his patient. He’d never been so glad he was a doctor trained on the battlefield, used to bullet wounds and their consequences. He was also used to undressing people in order to examine the extent of their wounds, although he’d rarely had to do it for a woman before. When he’d worked in the London hospital, orderlies had done that job.
He soon had the wound exposed and it was a matter of moments before he had the bullet out as the stays had diffused the impact so much it hadn’t entered far into her body. Superficial damage only. By the time Betsey arrived in the carriage nearly two hours later, bringing a nightgown with her, Miranda was lying sleeping soundly after being stitched up and having been given an initial draught of laudanum.
He’d been glad when she finally regained proper consciousness, but a further dose had been required. And now, darkness having fallen at last, she lay sleeping and looking very peaceful. And very beautiful.
To look at her, no one would guess she was in her late thirties and the mother of three grown girls. She looked nothing but a girl herself, with her golden hair spilling over the pillow and her fresh, dewycomplexion. A little paler than he would have liked, but she had her personal physician to take care of her.
To be charitable, he had to admit he could understand why Sir Julian had become so obsessed with her. His neighbor and friend, who’d lost his own first wife, had remarried to the most beautiful young lady in England. No, in the world. Sir Julian must have looked at his neighbor’s good luck with building jealousy, and when his friend had died, he’d been part way to building up the fantasy that had taken over his life.
Luckily he was now in the custody of a rather horrified and embarrassed magistrate from Market Harborough, which was a good few miles to the north. However, Harry doubted he’d be charged with anything for kidnapping and then shooting Miranda. The landed gentry tended to stick together over perceived crimes, so the magistrate would be one of his cronies, but he’d sown the seeds for having the man committed to a mental institution. It pained him to do so, as he knew what they were like, but he didn’t want such a madman anywhere near Miranda ever again, and if this was the only way to achieve this, then he’d do it. He’d leave telling Miranda until she was feeling stronger.
The candlelight flickered, throwing shadows dancing over the walls. The very pink walls. Thank goodness none of the rooms at the Hall were decorated like this. And tomorrow, when she was feeling a little restored, he could take her back there and look after her properly. He could reunite her with her daughters, to whom he’d had to send a hurried note telling them of her injury and imploring them not to worry. To his surprise, they hadn’t all come rushing over to find out what was going on. Perhaps young Dick had been able to forestall them. He was beginning to feel very impressed by that young man. He deserved a better future than gardening could give him.
Miranda stirred on the bed and stretched her hand out towards him. “Harry?”
He took hold of it in both of his. How small and delicate it was. He leaned closer. “I’m here.”
She smiled now, her face a pale oval in the gloom, the deep blue of her eyes swamped by the size of her pupils. “I had such a bad dream.” Her voice was soft and wondering and oh, so sweet to his ears. Like music. His heart did a leap and his stomach turned over as he gazed at her.
It was all he could do to speak a few short words, so deep was the sea of love mixed with relief that was cascading over him. “It’s over now. You’re safe, my darling.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He shifted in his seat, and lowered his gaze. “For what? I only did what any man would have done.”
She shook her head. “For everything. For being you and loving me. For coming so swiftly to rescue me. For saving me from Sir Julian, whose intentions I fear were anything but honorable.”
He looked up at her again. “On the contrary, it was you who saved me.” He swallowed. “You have the heart of a lion disguised within such a delicate frame that no one would guess it was there.”
She chuckled. “And you would make a very bad poet.” She gave his hand a tug. “Come. Lie beside me. There’s room, and I’d like to feel you here, close by me.”
He hesitated.
She gave his hand another tug. “Humor me. I am a poor invalid, and I fear I cannot sleep unless I have the man I love beside me.”
He stood up, suddenly unsure of himself. He’d taken his coat off a long time ago so all he had to do now was kick off his boots. For a moment, he perched on the side of the bed, gazing down at her, wondering at how life had been so kind as to engineer their fated meeting.
Then he lay down on his side, his head on the pillow only inches from her face. A little involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
She smiled again. “Have I told you how much I love you?” Now they were so close, her voice hardly rose above a whisper. Her breath was his breath and a wisp of her beautiful hair tickled his nose.
“Actually,” he whispered back in the darkness of a night lit only by one candle. “You haven’t.”
A small chuckle. “Then let me tell you now.”
“I’d like you to.”
