His limbs grew leaden, the life draining from them as relief replaced the heart-rending fear that had gripped him moments ago. The pain from the wound hadn’t reached him yet, but the blood, hot and thick, seeped through his fingers, staining his shirt.
“Talbot,” Oliver began before frowning. The world tilted around him, and his knees buckled. They hit the floor a second later.
Damn it.
Why the hell was he so dizzy from a mere flesh wound?
“Oliver!” He caught the blur of Louisa’s skirts as she dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands were on him, frantic and trembling, he thought, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. “Send for a doctor!”
Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
The last thing he saw before the world faded to black was Louisa’s face, pale and stricken, her eyes wide with fear and something else—something that looked a lot like heartbreak.
He should have worn a black shirt.
A loud crash sounded in the distance.
I love you, angel.
And then, there was nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fear gripped Louisa’sheart.
Her hands covered his, pressing down hard.
She had never felt like this, never known this kind of desperate, raw terror. Not even when she’d been abducted. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, each one harder to draw as the blood seeped through both their hands. Each drop seemed to drag her deeper into the dread that threatened to consume her. It was as though she were bleeding out alongside him.
You better not die tonight, Oliver Cavanagh!
“You fool!” she scolded the unconscious man. She pressed harder on his arm. “How could you not know you’ve been shot?”
She glanced over at the duchess, who had lost consciousness after Oliver snapped her wrist. At least they did not have to worry that she might run away. Louisa had half a mind to shoot the woman for good measure. But that would mean letting go of Oliver, and there was no way she could do that—not for anything. The world would have to crumble before she... no, not even then.
“Leo,” her father said, “go wake the butler, if he hasn’t been woken already by the noise. Have him send for the doctor.”
Leo cast her a worried look but nodded, darting from the chamber. Her father stepped up to them, securing his pistol in his waistband. “Let me see.”
Louisa hesitated, not daring to move. “Are you going help him or kill him?”
Her father scowled, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do I look like a murderer, Louisa? Let me see the wound.”
She parted her lips to respond, but before she could speak, two figures burst into the chamber, pistols drawn. Louisa’s eyes widened. “Mr. Helgate?” Her gaze shifted to a cloaked figure behind him. She couldn’t catch even a hint of a face. “And Miles, I presume? What are you doing here?”
Helgate strode over to kneel at her side. “We heard a shot.” He reached out to the wound. “How bad is it?”
Louisa granted him instant access, her gaze meeting her father’s. She had hoped to keep this part of their adventure, where she had met more dangerous characters—and stayed over at their cottage—from him. Unfortunately, one glimpse at his frosty gaze, and she understood her father had already pieced together the bulk of it. He must already know something of Mr. Helgate and Miles, or he wouldn’t have been angered to the point of not saying even one word.
“It’s a flesh wound,” Mr. Helgate announced, sighing.
Louisa let out a breath of relief. Thank God. “Help me move him to the bed.”
“No,” her father said, rising to his feet. He motioned to Mr. Helgate. “Take him and leave this house.”
“Papa!”
“Do not argue with me, Louisa. Or would you have me nurse a man back to health who climbed up to my daughter’s balcony?”
