seventeen
If Tristan stayed in the hospital without any news on Rowan for two more minutes, he would go mad. He sat, stood up, paced, and sat again in the bright white corridor of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
Rowan had been in the operating theatre for over an hour, and no one had told Tristan anything. A nurse had attended to the bump on his head and bandaged it, but boxing routinely in The Octagon had strengthened his body. His head ached, but he would survive.
The coming and going of nurses and doctors into the theatre had stopped a while ago, and the part of the hospital where he stood was quiet.
He had no idea how many people had been injured in the blast. Hell, he hadn’t seen Effie either after he’d found Rowan unconscious on the platform. He’d sent his footman to search for her, but even that front hadn’t brought any news so far.
Debris covered his clothes and filled his nostrils with the smell of smoke and fear. They would stay with him forever. He leant against the wall and sucked in a deep breath, cursing himself for having agreed to take Rowan with him, only because he’d wanted to build a good relationship with his brother.
He’d done such a great job.
“Tristan.”
His heart stopped as he heard Effie’s voice. She was running towards him. Her cheeks were pale, and white dust covered her Prussian blue gown, making her look as if she were wrapped in a starry sky. No cuts or blood marred her.
Acting on pure instinct, he met her midway in the corridor and pulled her into his arms to make sure she was safe. Selfishly, he needed more than ever the sense of peace only she could give him. He released her immediately, lest she feel uncomfortable.
“How are you? I’m sorry I had to leave.” He fought the impulse to touch her face. “After the doctors arrived to take Rowan, I couldn’t find you. I was sick with worry.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I went home briefly. Then your footman told me you were here, and I came immediately.” She searched his face. “Your head.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Rowan?”
He cleared his throat past the swell of emotions blocking it. “They’re operating on him.”
She clamped her hands over her mouth.
“He’s mostly fine,” he hurried to say. “Or so I thought. When I found him, his ankle was broken, but other than that, he didn’t appear to have any major injuries. But he’s been in the theatre for too long, and nobody tells me anything.”
“The surgeons are overwhelmed. Injured people keep arriving. Maybe they’re busy with other patients as well.”
He glanced at the set of double doors opening to the theatre. “I can’t lose him. I shouldn’t have let him close to that damn machine.”
“You didn’t know what would happen.” She brushed a curl of hair from her cheek. “I thought the boiler exploded, but while Isearched for you on the pavement, people started to talk about a bomb.”
“A bomb.” He wasn’t sure how that made him feel. Right now, only worry for Rowan dominated his emotions.
If it’d been a bomb, then either the Fenians or the Russians were responsible.
“It was a miracle that Rowan was far from the locomotive when it exploded,” he said. “He’d been about to get onboard when he spotted a friend in the crowd and walked away from the engine.”
Rage swelled. If he’d been at The Octagon, he would have boxed until he dropped on the floor.
“If it was a bomb, what a vile thing to do.” Her shoulders shook. “And for what?”
Seeing her so distraught, he couldn’t contain himself. “You’re fine, aren’t you?” He cupped her cheek and studied her lovely face.
A dark bruise offended her cheek, but the shadows in her eyes bothered him the most; they weren’t as bright as usual.
“I’m fine. But I was scared…” Her bottom lip quivered, and he hated seeing her crying.
He held her, and she rested her head on his chest. “I was scared, too. Mostly for Rowan.”
“When the explosion hit, I thought the worst. I thought I’d lost you.”
