Page 24 of The Wilful Widow
“Are you threatening me?” Ashbrook asked, drawing back the heavy piece of iron; his lip curled and a look of madness glazing his expression.
“Stop!”
Charlotte couldn’t stand by and watch the two men who controlled her past, and her future, at public loggerheads like this. She’d lost two husbands to violence, and she’d not stand by and see history repeat itself.
Rushing forward, she sought to shift the focus from Alexander, who had earned Ashbrook’s ire through no fault of his own.
“You’re behaving like a—”
She’d thought to put Ashbrook off balance, not throw herself into the line of fire.
But then, she’d not realized the force behind the fury as her future husband raised Alexander’s weapon against him; and she’d not imagined he’d be unmoved by her entreaty.
The flat, steel blade collected her across neck and chest, flinging her from the stage, and Charlotte barely registered the cries of alarm from the audience before pain tore through her body as she landed heavily at the bottom of the four steps, hitting her head against the legs of the piano.
“Charlotte!”
Alexander moved on instinct, leaping from the stage to kneel by Charlotte where she lay at the feet of their horrified hostess.
He scooped her up, her head and arms hanging limply, and was met with a sea of faces ranging from blank stares to looks of horror as he rose.
“Get the doctor!” He looked around wildly, until he caught Lady Fenton’s eye, following her when she picked up her skirts and hurriedly led the way to the door.
“Mama!” Turning at the panic in Beatrice’s tone, his heart lurched when he saw Charlotte’s injury was worse than he’d feared.
The edge of the sword had apparently made contact with the side of her neck, causing a deep gash from which blood now flowed freely. Pain, more slicing than any wound he’d received on active duty, ripped through him as he took in her closed eyes, and he stopped to press his hand to her throat while he called for linen to staunch the bleeding.
“Mama! Mama!” Beatrice’s hands flailed wildly as she sought to enfold her mother’s head in her arms, and Charlotte’s hair came unbound, rippling about his knees in glorious abandon; the rich, glossy black tresses catching the candlelight, inviting him to lose himself in their lustrous glory.
Sickened and fascinated by the sight in equal measure, Alexander twined his hands in their thickness, a practical measure to enable him to move forward, unimpeded.
And the touch pierced his soul for this was not how the moment was meant to be.
“You’ll save my mama! Promise me you’ll save her!”
He only became aware of the child’s wails when he’d gathered his wits sufficiently to take into account the fact her suffering was more than equal to his own.
Then, still holding Charlotte’s limp form in his arms, he leaned down a little, enough to put his cheek to Beatrice’s and to say clearly and loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I’ll save her for both of us, Beatrice. I am your father, after all.”
Chapter 12
Three weeks later
“CanI carry the breakfast tray, Papa?”
Alexander smiled as Charlotte raised her head at their entrance, her pale face lighting up as she beheld the two of them.
Her injury had been more serious than any had understood at the time, and for several weeks her life had hung in the balance.
Now she was on the mend, the doctor had declared she would make a full recovery, and Alexander had never felt more grateful to the universe that he’d been granted this second chance at happiness.
“It’s very heavy, Beatrice,” he warned. “I’d hate you to drop it and burn yourself on Mama’s hot tea.”
“I’m very strong,” Beatrice assured him. “And if I do drop it, you’ll save me just like you saved Mama.”
Her faith in his all-powerful abilities obviously amused Charlotte as much as himself. She patted the side of the bed, inviting him to sit closer to her rather than on the chair where Beatrice perched herself, smiling happily between the two of them.
Beatrice hugged herself. “This is the first day you’ve not been sleeping when we’ve come in, Mama. You must be nearly well enough to leave Quamby House.” Dropping her hands and clenching her fists, she took a deep breath, pressed her lips together, then asked in a rush, as if she’d been too frightened to ask the question before, “And then where are we going to live?”
