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Bronwyn clenched her jaw at his tone. “This does not concern you, Your Grace.”
“She refuses to be treated,” Aunt Esther said with an enormous sniff. Bronwyn felt a stroke of guilt as she met her aunt’s red-rimmed eyes. No doubt she’d been traumatized by the incident, and here Bronwyn was, more intent on eavesdropping than reassuring her aunt that all was well.
Thornbury closed the distance just as Bronwyn had resigned herself to the examination, his windblown hatless form making her breath hitch for an instant. “May I?” he inquired in a deep voice.
She blinked at him. “May you what?”
“Check your injury.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that he wasn’t a physician, but the steely look in his eye stopped her short. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips and she nodded, tilting her head to the side. “Very well, see for yourself.”
Gentle fingers grazed her neck, pushing her hair out of the way, and she winced as the ends caught in some of the sticky, congealed blood. With a soft murmur, Thornbury blew on it, and she swore the entire area caught on fire. Bronwyn froze, her feet glued to the pile of the carpet as his fingers stroked the three-inch length of the laceration from her earlobe to her chin. She felt that touch in between her breasts and all the way down to her abdomen to her tightening core.
“It’s not too deep,” he said in a low rasp. “But we should clean it to prevent infection. Now we have matching scars.”
Bronwyn was too busy keeping her body from combusting into a heap of ash at his feet to do anything but give a weak nod. She didn’t miss the look her aunt sent her way either and focused on keeping herself together while the doctor exchanged places with the duke to dab the cut with a damp cloth and apply a thin salve. “Keep it clean,” the grump of a doctor told her, likely because she’d quite rudely refused him earlier. “It will likely scar.”
“Better than a bullet hole,” she replied, and the man’s eyes went wide.
Thornbury sent her a wry look as her aunt burst into tears. Bronwyn hurried over to her side and gathered her into her arms. She really had to watch her words. In a man’s world, no one would ever worry about a scar or being shot at, and yet have it happen in a woman’s world, and everyone went a bit mad. Her life was worth the same as the duke’s. If that man had been a worse shot, Thornbury could have been a casualty as well. Amber eyes pierced hers from where he still stood, his face hard and unreadable. Bronwyn was sure he wanted to encase her in wool and ensure her safety at all costs.
“You c-could have been k-killed,” her aunt blubbered.
“But I wasn’t,” Bronwyn said gently. “The police are saying it was an altercation gone askew. It was an accident. We’re all safe.”
Bronwyn didn’t see any need to worry her aunt with the truth, considering her current state, and thank God Thornbury had agreed. Her aunt had been much too terrified to notice that both shots had been in their direction and didn’t need confirmation that her niece had been the actual target. When the second shot had gone off, Aunt Esther had already been pulled to safety behind closed doors by Rawley.
After a while, Cora escorted her aunt upstairs for some rest, and Bronwyn poured herself a whisky from the nearby decanter and downed it, feeling the burn of the spirits tear a path to her stomach. She wasn’t much of a drinker, beyond the occasional glass of champagne, but it helped to calm her nerves.
“We should marry.”
The pronouncement echoed off the paneled bookcases of the library. Bronwyn set down her glass, resisting the immediate urge to tip back the whole bottle, and turned. Thornbury stood near the fireplace, watching her. Her gaze flicked to Rawley on the opposite side of the room. His face remained impassive, though he hadn’t disagreed. “You have nothing to say about this?” she demanded.
“He’s right,” Rawley said. “As the Duchess of Thornbury, whoever is behind this might think twice about their actions, given whoheis.”
Bronwyn bit out a bitter laugh and ignored the small thrill that the titleDuchess of Thornburyincited in the pit of her stomach. “Why is it that every Englishman feels that the power of his name will magically prevent all manner of terrible things from happening? I assure you, Your Grace, my enemies will still be there, even without binding myself to you in wedlock.”
“With my name, you will be under my protection,” he said.
Her brows rose. “Am I not under your protection now?”
“Bronwyn, don’t be stubborn.”
Laughter burst from her again. “You think I’m refusing your suit because I’m stubborn? Good Lord, Your Grace, you have a ridiculously high opinion of yourself.”
Rawley let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort and took that as his cue to leave.Good. Bronwyn didn’t want to make a production of the matter. She walked toward Thornbury and stopped, not trusting herself to be too close. Heaven knew what happened anytime she ventured into that man’s orbit.
“It is impractical, doesn’t make any logical sense, and I do not wish to wed any man, not even for the sake of protection or convenience.”
Those full lips pressed thin. “You’re not merely a convenience, my lady.”
“Oh, Your Grace, youdocare,” she said with a hand to her breast.
He strode toward her until they were nearly nose to nose. “This is not a joke, Bronwyn. That man was serious. Whatever you did in Philadelphia had repercussions.” She did not utter a word when he marched to the door, closed it, and returned a moment later, though she braced at the rather serious expression on his face. “I received a cable from Lisbeth that a plot to abduct President Lincoln from Ford’s Theatre in Washington nearly four weeks ago had been foiled. Coded messages urged him to be deliberately misleading about his movements, which might have saved his life.”
Bronwyn blinked, relief rushing through her. Shehadn’tfailed. At least that was good news. Wentworth would be pleased, if he ever got back to her. She frowned. Was that why these men were after her? They were angry and wanted someone to blame. She was as good a scapegoat as any, and that big brute from the tavern had seen her face. Men of his ilk took things personally, especially if they were bested by a woman. Political tensions and loyalties also turned the most rational of men into monsters.
Hell, she needed to get to Wentworth.
