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“All right.” Courtney stretched, her muscles cramped and achy.
Frowning, Slayde traced the circles beneath her eyes. “You’re exhausted.”
“I have no reason to be. I dozed throughout the entire carriage ride.”
“Exhaustion isn’t always cured by sleep, nor caused by lack thereof.” Slayde’s knuckles brushed her cheek.
The tenderness in his voice, his touch made Courtney’s chest tighten, as did the realization of why Slayde was making this trip—and for whom.
For the first time since leaving Pembourne, her thoughts returned to the truth she’d been about to share with him when Siebert’s knock had intruded, shattering the intimacy of their mood, a mood that had been further eclipsed by Oridge’s message, then forgotten during the long, tense carriage ride to Somerset.
’Twas time to recapture it.
Pensively, Courtney gazed into Slayde’s handsome face. She needed him to understand her true motivation for going to Morland, to realize that what she’d done was inspired by love, not lack of faith. Her faith was unconditional; she knew he’d succeed in bringing Morland, or whoever Armon’s accomplice was, to justice.
For her.
But the person for whom Courtney was pursuing Morland was Slayde. ’Twas his past she sought to resolve, his future she longed to ensure, his heart she was determined to grant peace.
And, danger or not, she would.
Abruptly, her fatigue vanished.
“What is it?” Slayde was studying her quizzically.
“Nothing. I’m just glad we’re stopping for the night. I want to finish the conversation we were having earlier.”
“So do I.” Slayde looked like he wanted to say more, then checked himself. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. I won’t be more than a few minutes.” He opened the carriage door and swung down. “You rest.”
Rest? Hardly.
As Slayde headed off, Courtney alit as well, stretching her limbs and wondering how Slayde would react when she told him that barging in on Lawrence Bencroft was but one of the steps she’d taken to silence the echoes of the past.
Then there was the other step.
She grinned, savoring the fact that by tomorrow, Cutterton’s man would reach London, turn the letter and notes over to the Times and see that they were copied, then reclaimed and returned to Pembourne. Within days, the entire world would be buzzing with the news that the black diamond was no longer in Huntley hands.
And Slayde’s future would be his.
Shaking out her skirts, Courtney strolled away from the carriage, too restless to remain confined a moment longer. She inhaled deeply, infused with hope and excitement, a prescience that something life-altering was about to occur. The night was misty, a light wind playing through the trees, and she wandered along the roadside, letting the cool air waft across her face and breeze through her hair.
She never heard her assailant.
One minute she was meandering about the road, daydreaming, the next, Slayde was shouting her name, the pounding of his footsteps alerting her to the oncoming danger.
Her head jerked around, a scream freezing on her lips as, out of nowhere, a masked rider bore down on her, the glint of a pistol leaving no doubt as to his intentions.
The shot rang out, whizzing past Courtney’s face just as a powerful force struck her body, knocking her breath from her lungs as it catapulted her sideways, tumbling her to the cold, hard ground.
The hoofbeats thundered by and disappeared.
“Courtney?” Slayde eased away from her, his face stark with fear. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
She raised her head, numb with shock, and nodded, unsure what had happened, not quite able to catch her breath. She glanced at Slayde, then down at herself, realizing on some obscure level that he had managed to take the brunt of the fall, cushioning her weight with his.
“Answer me,” he commanded, cupping her face, scanning her body for visible signs of blood. “You weren’t hit, were you?”
The bullet. He meant the bullet. Someone had tried to shoot her.
