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With a shout of alarm, Alessandro flung himself aside at the same instant Herrington shifted his aim and squeezed. Even as the fire in his enemy’s eyes died, a high, sharp cry sounded from behind Alessandro and something heavy fell against him, sliding down his back. His heart contracted in terror as he turned to see Mélisande sprawled on the grass. Crimson bloomed from her right shoulder, rapidly spreading across her bodice and down the sleeve of her gown. “Amora!” he whispered, peering down at her bewildered face. Dio, no! Please...
“Alessandro?”
Before he could answer the weak inquiry, Mélisande shuddered, her eyes rolling as her body went slack.
A wordless bellow burst from his throat as sudden tears blinded him. Dashing them away, he shouted for Pelham. He must work quickly.
The moment Pelham arrived, Alessandro grabbed the satchel out of his hands, thrusting it at Bittle, who stood close by. “Make yourself useful and find the bandages!” he barked. As Pelham knelt down, Alessandro gently transferred Mélisande’s limp body into his grasp. Turning her on her side, he produced a small knife and used it to cut the cloth at her shoulder, peeling back wet silk to expose pale, bloodied flesh. The bullet had ripped through her right shoulder just below the collarbone and passed out the other side.
“Come and stanch the wound,” he commanded Bittle. When the little man did not move, Alessandro reached up and tore the sack from his limp hands. At last he found a wad of clean cloth. He used it to sop up the blood welling from the wound, and then bade Pelham press down on it while he again looked in the satchel.
Drawing forth a small glass bottle filled with a dark liquid, he tipped some of the fluid into the wound.
Mélisande moaned, her dark brows drawing together. Before she could rouse completely, Alessandro had Pelham press a fresh bandage to the wound while he turned her over to repeat his ministrations on the side from which the bullet had emerged.
Mélisande again groaned before slipping back into oblivion.
“Help me wrap it—tightly,” Alessandro ordered.
Together, they swaddled her shoulder and upper arm. It was appalling how quickly those immaculate white cloths turned red.
Alessandro looked down at the blood drying on his hands and swallowed, suddenly ill. He’d seen far more horrific wounds, witnessed firsthand the stinking fields of war, waded through knee-deep bodies, bathed in mud mixed with the blood of dying men. He’d been covered from head to foot in blood, but this was somehow different. This was the lifeblood of his beloved drying on his hands.
“It looks a lot worse than it is,” Pelham muttered. “The bullet passed through cleanly and the bleeding is not as bad as it appears. We must get her to a doctor immediately. Help me lift her and move her to the carriage.”
Alessandro tried and winced at the sudden burning in his arm. Glancing down, he saw his sleeve was drenched in blood—his own.
Pelham looked up and swore.
Alessandro gritted his teeth against the pain as he let the man pour the remaining fluid from the bottle over his arm and bandage him up. It would have to do until he could get proper treatment.
With Bittle’s help, he and Pelham carried Mélisande to the carriage. Alessandro got in and they laid her across the seat with her head cushioned on his lap.
“Go to my house,” Pelham advised. “It is the closest. I will be there as soon as we take care of Herrington’s body.” His jaw tightened. “I would leave the refuse for the thieves and crows, but that would only do you ill when the king heard of it.”
Bittle finally broke his silence. “Take one of Herrington’s horses,” he told Pelham. “I’ll follow behind with the body. You’ll go much faster on horseback. I think it far better for the dead man to arrive late rather than the doctor, do you not?”
Pelham agreed. Closing the door, he shouted instructions to the driver. A moment later, the conveyance jolted forward and began its slow journey.
Not too long after, Alessandro heard the approach of rapid hoofbeats from behind. Peering out the window, he saw a flash as Pelham thundered past at an all-out gallop. The man rode as if the devil were at his heels.
He peered down at Mélisande’s ashen face. How he wished they could make such speed! But without a saddle, it would have been impossible to stay astride with her before him, even uninjured. There was nothing for it but to wait—and pray.
The doctor, a small, bespectacled gentleman named Burroughs, emerged from the bedroom, his expression grave.
“Will she recover?” Alessandro asked.
“She’ll be fine, provided there is no infection,” Burroughs responded. “The bullet passed through the tissue cleanly, just missing the bone, so there were no fragments to contend with. Be sure she gets plenty of rest. She should not be moved from this room until she’s able to stand on her own and walk.”
The doctor peered at him over the rims of his spectacles. “My compliments to you, Your Grace, for your excellent battlefield care. Your immediate cleansing and binding of the wound may very well have saved her life. Now, if you will come with me, I’ll have a look at your arm.”
“I want to see her. At once,” demanded Alessandro.
“Very well. My instruments are already in the room with her. You may see her while I treat your wound.”
Entering the chamber, Alessandro saw Mélisande’s pale form propped up against a pile of pillows. A sheet was draped across her chest and held in place beneath her arms, exposing both shoulders. One was hidden by the dark tangle of her hair, the other was swathed in bandages. Upon close inspection, he saw her chest rising and falling beneath the sheet, though only shallowly.
“I’ve given her laudanum to help with the pain and allow her to rest,” Burroughs said, leading him over to a chair. Carefully, he removed the layers of blood-soaked bandages. “The bullet only pierced the outer flesh, a minor wound that will heal well, as long as it is kept clean. It has already stopped bleeding. May I assume the same treatment given the lady was also given to you?”
