had cost her everything.
They rushed to her side. Sweat beaded on her brow as another feverish wave crept over her.
Russell, his coat half-on and hanging half-off, nearly knocked the basin over in his attempt to reach Gillian and hold her still. “She mustn’t move. We have to keep her as calm and immobile as possible.”
Simon reached across the bed to wipe her forehead with a cool compress, whispering, “Shhh, my love. You are safe. Russell is here. He will watch over you. Everything is going to be fine.”
He cooed to Gillian, shushing her until she drifted back into peaceful oblivion, promising not to jeopardize his safety, feeling as if nothing would ever be the same. When she finally drifted back to sleep, Russell readjusted her counterpane.
“How is it possible she still wants us to save Holt?”
“It’s not Holt she wants to save, Russell. It’s me.”
Simon looked down at the woman he loved with a mixture of satisfaction and conflicted fury, feeling the pull to interrogate Holt as much as the tug to stay.
Russell avoided eye contact as he shrugged out of his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. “With respect, I am not blind and neither is anyone else. She loves you, my lord. That has been clear to me from the first time we met. Do what you must. Find out why Holt did this to the baroness. I won’t leave her side. You have my word.”
The nod to Russell’s trustworthiness gripped him hard. The man had sworn not to take life, but protect it, which made him suitable for Nelson’s Tea. His vocation permitted access into stately homes, hospitals, and prisons. Unlike Holt, who’d sworn falsely to minister to the lives of his flock and uphold Nelson’s Tea’s code, Russell’s oath of do no harm could be counted on. He felt the truth of this deep in his marrow.
Determined to finish what they started below stairs, Simon reached out to touch Gillian’s cheek before pulling back his hand. He wasn’t worthy of her love. He hadn’t prevented her from getting shot. He most certainly couldn’t forget that his inability to protect her had taken away her ability to do the one thing she’d waited years to give him — a child. He stared down at her for a few more precious moments then turned and walked around the bed, summoning all of his strength to leave the room without looking back.
“I’m counting on you, Russell,” he voiced over his shoulder.
“As I am you, my lord.”
He grabbed the door handle without looking back and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Now, finally given a moment of privacy, he laid his forehead against the cool wooden frame. Hours of listening to Gillian cry out as Russell dug into her flesh were ingrained into his mind. He could still hear the ball Russell had retrieved from her hip plunk into a steel dish. More importantly, he’d never forget the panic in her eyes, the way she clung to his hand as the expedient surgeon probed to make sure there weren’t any fibers left inside her.
Infection was their greatest enemy now.
Simon splayed his fingers on the door, once more directing his gaze to his discolored skin. Enough!
He turned, rounded the balustrade, and descended the stairs, each creak in the floorboards a nail pounding into Holt’s coffin. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat as he swallowed back emotions threatening to override his good sense. How was he to balance the scales without giving away his hand to the enemy?
The townhouse was eerily quiet as he finally stepped onto the first floor and moved through the house until he neared the dining room. Light beamed onto the wall adjacent to the doorway, assuring him the curtains had been drawn to allow in the afternoon sun. Curious, he pressed forward.
A quick survey of the room proved it was empty and had been put back to rights. While he’d been gone, broken furniture had been carried off and replaced. Shattered dishes and pieces of glass littering the dining table and the Turkish carpet had been
They rushed to her side. Sweat beaded on her brow as another feverish wave crept over her.
Russell, his coat half-on and hanging half-off, nearly knocked the basin over in his attempt to reach Gillian and hold her still. “She mustn’t move. We have to keep her as calm and immobile as possible.”
Simon reached across the bed to wipe her forehead with a cool compress, whispering, “Shhh, my love. You are safe. Russell is here. He will watch over you. Everything is going to be fine.”
He cooed to Gillian, shushing her until she drifted back into peaceful oblivion, promising not to jeopardize his safety, feeling as if nothing would ever be the same. When she finally drifted back to sleep, Russell readjusted her counterpane.
“How is it possible she still wants us to save Holt?”
“It’s not Holt she wants to save, Russell. It’s me.”
Simon looked down at the woman he loved with a mixture of satisfaction and conflicted fury, feeling the pull to interrogate Holt as much as the tug to stay.
Russell avoided eye contact as he shrugged out of his coat and began to roll up his sleeves. “With respect, I am not blind and neither is anyone else. She loves you, my lord. That has been clear to me from the first time we met. Do what you must. Find out why Holt did this to the baroness. I won’t leave her side. You have my word.”
The nod to Russell’s trustworthiness gripped him hard. The man had sworn not to take life, but protect it, which made him suitable for Nelson’s Tea. His vocation permitted access into stately homes, hospitals, and prisons. Unlike Holt, who’d sworn falsely to minister to the lives of his flock and uphold Nelson’s Tea’s code, Russell’s oath of do no harm could be counted on. He felt the truth of this deep in his marrow.
Determined to finish what they started below stairs, Simon reached out to touch Gillian’s cheek before pulling back his hand. He wasn’t worthy of her love. He hadn’t prevented her from getting shot. He most certainly couldn’t forget that his inability to protect her had taken away her ability to do the one thing she’d waited years to give him — a child. He stared down at her for a few more precious moments then turned and walked around the bed, summoning all of his strength to leave the room without looking back.
“I’m counting on you, Russell,” he voiced over his shoulder.
“As I am you, my lord.”
He grabbed the door handle without looking back and closed the door soundlessly behind him. Now, finally given a moment of privacy, he laid his forehead against the cool wooden frame. Hours of listening to Gillian cry out as Russell dug into her flesh were ingrained into his mind. He could still hear the ball Russell had retrieved from her hip plunk into a steel dish. More importantly, he’d never forget the panic in her eyes, the way she clung to his hand as the expedient surgeon probed to make sure there weren’t any fibers left inside her.
Infection was their greatest enemy now.
Simon splayed his fingers on the door, once more directing his gaze to his discolored skin. Enough!
He turned, rounded the balustrade, and descended the stairs, each creak in the floorboards a nail pounding into Holt’s coffin. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat as he swallowed back emotions threatening to override his good sense. How was he to balance the scales without giving away his hand to the enemy?
The townhouse was eerily quiet as he finally stepped onto the first floor and moved through the house until he neared the dining room. Light beamed onto the wall adjacent to the doorway, assuring him the curtains had been drawn to allow in the afternoon sun. Curious, he pressed forward.
A quick survey of the room proved it was empty and had been put back to rights. While he’d been gone, broken furniture had been carried off and replaced. Shattered dishes and pieces of glass littering the dining table and the Turkish carpet had been
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