‘We won’t let her die, Stephen, and the bleeding is slowing. Look.’
The oozing had ceased a little, but as he calculated the time and volume lost since being shot, it was of little comfort. He had seen people bleed out before his eyes a number of times and they were always cold, like Aurelia was.
He merely nodded. With her bruised cheek and her wet hair loosened vibrant red against such utter paleness of skin, Aurelia had the look of a mermaid washed up on some foreign beach. Alone and forsaken. All Hawkhurst wanted to do was to hold her, keep her close, but as the doctor hurried in carrying a bag he stood back instead, allowing the man access.
‘She is lucky,’ the physician said finally after a thorough examination of her arm. ‘The bullet passed through and has ruptured nothing. There is a substantial blood loss, of course, from all the movement, and she will be weak. But she is young and healthy so a full recuperation should occur.’ His hand rested across her forehead before measuring the rate of pulse in the artery of her neck.
‘She will need someone with her tonight in case she becomes feverish. If you could carry her upstairs, Lord Hawkhurst, to one of the bedchambers, I will dress the wound there.’
‘The pink room, I think, Hawk,’ Lillian said as he lifted her. ‘There is a generous basin in the alcove and a sofa by the window.’ She laid her hand against his and he was pleased for a contact that was warm and well meant.
The lack of luggage had not yet been mentioned, nor had Luc and Lillian plied him with questions about the obvious attack but he could tell Luc was keen to know if danger was still imminent.
He hoped like hell that he had not been tracked to this place, but he prayed even harder that Aurelia would feel a lot better by the morning.
And beneath everything there simmered the problem of how he could protect her from the long and all-knowing arm of the British Service in general and Alexander Shavvon in particular, a man who must now be wondering where on earth it was they had gone to ground.
The flicker of a candle was the first thing she saw, a tiny orange flame that sent light across a beautiful room swathed in dusky pink.
Hawkhurst was there, stretched out on a chair near her bed, his legs crossed and his head bent at an awkward angle. Turning to look at him, she felt pain sear through her arm, the heat of sickness making her weak. Blood still lingered on the sleeve of his shirt, indicating that he had neither changed his clothes nor bathed. she could barely swallow, so dry was her throat. ‘Water?’
He came fully awake as she breathed the word, raising her head to the rim of a cup and allowing small sips before taking it back. ‘How do you feel?’
Aurelia did not know, for a violent headache had scattered all logic, leaving her floundering somewhat in a place that was frightening. ‘S-scared.’
‘You will live.’ The words were strong and assured, no doubts within them. If he left, she was suddenly certain that she would never survive this.
‘Stay?’
He simply took her uninjured hand into his and brought her fingers to his lips. Feeling the scratchiness of his unshaved face and the warmth of his touch, she closed her eyes.
I love you. The honesty of the thought brought her peace as a single tear traced its way down the side of her eye and fell into her hair spread across the pillow. Fear subsided, too, her world narrowed to this one room. Pink. Like a young girl’s, the silk in long curtains of the finest quality and the furniture harking back to an older and more generous time.
In the distance she could hear the first dawn call of birds.
‘It will be morning soon,’ Hawk said as he saw her listening, his eyes softer now, threads of relief through tired, worn gold. He did not let go of her hand.
‘Where are we?’ She found it difficult to remember things.
‘Woodruff Abbey. Luc and Lillian’s country home.’ His voice was slow and quiet, and speaking of something other than sickness calmed her. If she was truly dying, would he be so unhurried?
‘Is it safe?’
‘Yes.’ A wealth of trust lay in the word. Delsarte and the implications of espionage and deceit crouched further away in another time and place, a conversation that could keep until she felt stronger. In London her family would be frantic—she knew they would be—but right now she needed to think of herself.
She smiled. No longer all alone. Closing her eyes against hope, she slept.
‘Delsarte should be shot for this.’
‘He will be.’
‘And Aurelia St Harlow? What will happen to her?’
Stephen stood against the balustrade, looking over a garden to one side of the bedroom. ‘The injury is only a small part of Aurelia’s worries, Luc, for if Shavvon has got wind of her involvement with the French intelligence then I cannot think of a single way to save her.’
No, that was not quite true. Hawkhurst shook his head at the thought, for there was one. If he married her here and now, his name might be enough protection.
Luc seemed to be veering down the same track. ‘Shavvon owes you, Stephen, and if you brought in Delsarte and any of his group still left, surely that could be an end to it.’
‘Perhaps.’ The Atherton title was an old and venerable one and peers of the realm and their families were seldom dragged before the courts. Besides, under law, presumptive legal unity treated husband and wife as one and he could fight far better than Aurelia would ever be able to.
‘Lilly thinks she has had enough hurt in her life and now needs safeguarding.’
Anger solidified. If Woodruff Abbey was beautiful, then Atherton was doubly so and the luxury and ease of the place might soften all the hard edges of the obstacles between them. He could help her, if she would let him, and in return…
She was nothing like Elizabeth Berkeley and all the other young ladies who had set their caps at his wealth or titles. She did not want baubles and dresses, the newest of carriages or the largest of diamonds. He could not imagine her lolling around the ton, collecting gossip or enjoying scandal. Lord, she had been the centre of some of the most damning slander of all and seen first-hand the hurt it caused and the suffering.
She had harboured the father of a girl badly used by Charles and taken the criticism upon her own head for years and years. No, Aurelia was nothing like any other he had ever encountered and for that fact he was grateful. She was her very own person, solid and worthy. Someone like that at his side would be…formidable. He smiled at the thought.
The doctor had indicated she should be well enough to travel by the end of the week and before that he had a job to do. With Delsarte locked up and the sorry saga of the Park Street warehouse finished, he would be in a stronger position to help her entirely.
But first he would employ guards to watch the Abbey while he was away, just in case Delsarte had obtained some knowledge of their movements.
Lillian Clairmont was one of the most beautiful women Aurelia had ever seen, with her pale eyes, unmarked skin and her remarkable sense of fashion. Today she wore a gown that was a warm peach, a diversion from the paler tones she had worn across the past days and the hue sat against her skin well. Aurelia wondered how the gold silk from the fine looms of Macclesfield might look upon her and decided she would send her a bolt as a thank-you gift as soon as she had returned to London. Hawkhurst had grabbed the documents pertaining to the business before leaving the inn and they were tucked safely away and little worse for wear. She would make certain the deeds were placed in her safe