“Look at me.”
He looked at his boots.
She ventured a step closer and then another until they were toe to toe, and she rested her palm against his chest and peered up at him, pleading. “Look at me, Keats.”
Finally, his chin tipped down and his eyes met hers, and they were swimming. “I won’t die.” And then he leaned low and whispered in her ear, “Not if you promise me an armful ofyouif I survive.”
She clutched at his collar and pulled him even closer and said hot against his ear, “All the armfuls.” Fear shuddered through her, and she melted against his chest. His arms came around her. “Don’t do this.”
He released her. “I have to.” The boundary of trees surrounding the village thinned, gave way to tall, wind-ruffled grass dotted with small yellow blooms.
A coach rumbled by. It bore the Palmerson crest. As it passed them, raised voices emanated from inside. The viscount apparently was not happy that his only son and heir had decided to risk his life.
Lucy, Alex, and Griff followed Keats in single file, a funeral march. Such horrid thoughts, but Lucy could not shoo them away. They gathered like flies on a dead carcass.
Everything seemed to happen much too quickly and yet agonizingly slow at the same time. The coach waited like a spider, and as they approached, Hutchens and his father climbed out. The morning sun was hot on the grass, but a breeze rippled through, creating an ocean wave of green, the yellowflowers fallen stars. The men checked their weapons, then met one another, their bodies bisected by the horizon. Lucy clutched her hands at her heart, and Alex melted into Griff’s side.
He put an arm around her waist to hold her up. “Don’t look, Alex,” he said against her hair. “Don’t look.”
But Alex kept her gaze steady on her brother.
The men began their march of death one pace at a time away from one another, pistols lifted, and then they whirled, and then they aimed, and then bullets cracked across the sky.
Hutchens crumpled with a grunt that funneled into a long, low wail. He curled up on his side, the high grass outlining his body. Palmerson ran, hitting his knees next to his son.
Keats stood with his arm raised, a dark figure of retribution against the bright blue sky. “Come near my family again, either of you, and I’ll put the next bullet someplace much more vital.” He shrugged. “Whether that’s the heart or between the legs, I’ve not yet decided. Both if I hear one whispered word against them.”
Lucy’s heart thumped. Her body gave way. Only force of will kept her standing as Alex broke free of Griff’s hold and barreled toward her brother. Griff loped after her.
To her other side, Palmerson and his coachman lifted Hutchens and secured him in the coach. They rumbled off without a word.
And Keats sank to his knees.
No more strength. No more composure. Lucy made it to his side between one breath and the next. Griff was lowering Keats to the ground, and Alex shrieking, her hands fluttering about his abdomen, pulling back the greatcoat. A dark spot bloomed like spilt tea across his side.
“Well,” Keats mumbled. His blue eyes grew hazy, seemed capable of focusing on one thing only—Lucy. “Hope I haven’truined your brother’s coat. He might want to put a second bullet through me.”
“Stop,” Lucy said, “stop. It’s not funny.”
“I agree.” Keats’s mouth a thin line, his face draining of color.
Griff stripped off his jacket and pressed it hard to Keats wound.
Lucy jumped to her feet. “Hades. I must get Hades.” She stood over Keats for just one moment, pressing a fist to her heart. “Do not die. Do you understand?”
Keats nodded, whispered, “Yes, countess.”
Then, her cheeks wet and her heart thumping wild with pain, she ran. Ran to find her brother. And ran to save the life of the man she loved.
Twelve
Keats woke up to soft sheets and cloudy pillows instead of green grass stained red. He felt like he’d been ripped in two. Oh yes, that’s right. He had been. By Hutchens’s bloody bullet. Bloody now. Ha ha. Oh damn, hurt to laugh.
Better to go back to sleep. Brain was foggy, listed toward sleep anyway. The bandage itchy around his chest revealed he’d been treated. By the Devil Doctor, likely. Fog caused by laudanum, then. Yes, sleep better than this. But the pain sank its teeth in and wouldn’t let him go. No matter how long he kept his eyes closed, no matter how still he lay, his brain whirred in wakefulness to the tune of too many questions. Had Palmerson and his son left Dorking? Once in London would they leave Alex alone? Would it be better for Alex to stay out of sight? Would Hutchens try to put another bullet in him?
Soft warm fingers fluttering about his forehead offered another question—who was that? The fingers brushed hair away from his brow and placed a cool cloth there. And then the faint scent of heather swept through him on a shaky inhale.
Lucy.
