Page 133 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Breathing hard, she dug her fingers into Thomas’s waistcoat and sank against him. Excitement surged in her. They’d done it.
Lights glared, a fast blur. Grosvenor Square was behind them. Another square was ahead. Her chest hurt. Her palms stung. She was gulping midnight air, could hardly breathe. The scarf over her face wasn’t helping.
Thomas’s head whipped sideways. “Men are chasing us,” he said above cold, piercing winds. “Dump the gold.”
“I—no.” Her voice was weak.
The bagwasdreadfully heavy. Over her shoulder, three riders raced toward them. Wortley and two men. They were twenty or thirty paces out and gaining.
“Get rid of it!” Thomas yelled.
Another pistol shot rang out in the night. Women screamed. Men dove for cover behind carriages. She was light-headed, one arm around Thomas. Wind stung her eyes. Carriages and coachmen were ahead. The lights were terribly bright. An entertainment, a ball.
“Dump it now!” Thomas’s voice was a ragged roar.
Her fogged mind whispered,He’s right.
She blinked, more tired than she’d been in a long time. She struggled to open the folio. Blood was sticky on her palms, her fingers. Rope burns had slashed her skin. Her thigh nudged the bag and it tipped just so.
Streams of gold poured out. A pretty flash, those coins. They were gone forever.
Checking the road, she witnessed the wisdom of Thomas’s plan. Coachmen swarmed first. Then, thirty or forty people set about scooping and shoving and grabbing unexpected wealth. Mr. Wortley and the two riders with him were on the other side of the mob and growing smaller by the second.
She rested her head on Thomas’s back.
“No one’s following us.” It took all her might to say those words.
Thomas answered by squeezing her hand. Her eyelids were getting heavier, and her body slumped. She hugged the folio to her side. She couldn’t afford to lose the papers too. Clutching the leather, she tried to get comfortable. Under her nose, an exposed corner of the papers riffled in the wind. Wine red stains were unexpected. Was it blood?
How could fresh blood be dripping on the pages?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Morning broke slowly over Mary Fletcher. She was entombed in his bed, more fragile than his heart could take. She stirred, groaning.
“I ache,” she said through cracked lips.
“Try this.” Thomas held the back of her head and set a cup to her lips.
She slurped water, some of it dribbling down her chin. Once satisfied, her head fell on the pillow. He dabbed her chin and throat with a linen cloth.
“Is that better?”
“Water is good,” she mumbled, “but I’d be ever so grateful if you stopped the arrows from piercing my chest. Unless you’re telling me Cupid has finally struck.”
Thomas felt his shoulders sink from relief. Mary’s spirited humor was a good sign.
“Let me take a look.”
He pulled back the covers and lowered the bodice of her thin shift. A bandage had been strapped around her chest above her heart. Gingerly, he peeked under the tightly wound cloth. The hole above her heart wasthe vivid wine color of congealed blood. Another positive sign. She was healing. Even better, only a small red ring encircled the wound. No infection, though it bore watching.
He’d removed the iron ball and saved it (he’d wager Mary would want to see the piece). It wasn’t the first shot he’d removed; it wouldn’t be the last. She’d been lucky, his Mary. Layers of leather and a gold medallion had saved her life. The shot had lodged half an inch into her body. Any deeper and she wouldn’t be here to jest about her heart.
He was delicate with the bandage. “I’m sorry to say, but you’ve been attacked by the chubby love god.”
She croaked a laugh, which ended in a wince. “Please, don’t make me laugh. I can’t take it.”
Her bandaged hand rested on the coverlet near his. It wasn’t long before they were holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. Death breathing down one’s neck could do that. Life, or the threat of losing it, rearranged priorities and clarified needs with alarming speed.
