Page 55 of The Allure Of Lord Devlin
Tobin? Not Devlin. Tobin. Dharma’s heart almost stopped.
“Where’s Devlin?” she croaked, struggling in Tobin’s arms until the pain made her weak. Was he hurt? Injury forgotten, she closed her eyes and gave a silent prayer. Was he dead? She couldn’t remember anything except the cold, putrid water pulling her under and then being captured by Fencourt. That steel blade at her throat… then… she was shot! She pummeled Tobin’s coat with her fists. “Put me down. I have to go to him.”
“You’re losing a lot of blood, so don’t move.” Tobin simply held her tighter. “Devlin’s fine. He’s just finishing what we started.”
Dharma slumped back against his shoulder, her head suddenly dizzy. “It hurts. A lot.”
“The bullet’s broken your collar-bone. I’m taking you home. The doctor needs to get that bullet out.”
“Did you find Fiona?”
“No. Was she not with you?”
“I made him release her. She was badly hurt. We should find her.”
“After everything she did? I hope she never returns.”
“But she can back up Devlin’s story.”
Tobin momentarily stopped. “That’s true. I’ll send men out to look for her.” He continued towards the carriage.
She couldn’t hold her cry of pain in anymore and Tobin’s face paled further. They reached the carriage, and he gently laid her on the squab before giving the driver instructions. She bit back a cry of agony as the carriage moved.
“Sorry, but this is going to be a very painful journey. I can’t waste time, so we will move at a pace,” said Tobin, keeping the pressure on her wound.
“Will he have to kill Fencourt?”
“I hope not. We need him to ensure Devlin’s name is cleared, leaving no doubt.”
Her mind cartwheeled. Despair seeped into every pore. If Fencourt died, that meant the parchment written in old Gaelic and not really naming names, just cryptic clues, would be his only evidence. Would that be enough? Given Society’s tendency to believe the worst—probably not. It was little wonder Devlin sent her away with Tobin. She’d cost him everything; her stupidity at leaving the house after he’d purposely told her not to, had made him a captive, had caused him to suffer terrible indignities, cost him his pride, and, worst of all, destroyed his only hope of clearing his father and restoring the noble family name of Lord Devlin.
Would he forgive her?
And she wanted him. She wanted him so much. The truth sizzled across her heart like a lightning bolt streaking across the sky.
All her life she’d believed in love, but now the one man she wanted to love her, the one man who she could envision sharing her life, body and heart with, may never return her feelings. The monster of her nightmares was marriage to the wrong man. She was now facing her own nightmare—had she destroyed any chance Devlin could learn to love her?
He might not want to admit it, but she wondered if as the years passed, he would resent all he’d lost because she’d ignored his warning and left the house, only to be captured… He’d had to let Fencourt go to save her. Could he still capture him without getting himself killed?
Devlin would feel obliged to marry her, given the intimacies they shared. He wouldn’t be so selfish as to walk away. He had too much honor.
Unlike her. The horror of her actions—her selfish actions—made her tremble, made her retch into her hand.
For ten years he’d believed in his father, in his family’s honor, and in himself. He would never give up when he had a sister and mother to care for and protect. And he hadn’t.
He was an honorable man—even to the point of saving her life at the expense of his own honor and his family’s vindication. The thought of his sacrifice tore a sob from deep within her. His family. Rosemary! Would she still be able to marry Hawthorne?
Her breath seemed to be stuck in her throat. Right now, all that mattered was that he survived and, if possible, captured Fencourt. Then she would have to beg his forgiveness.
She must have fainted from the pain, for when she awoke it was to familiar surroundings and Tobin laying her on her bed. Philippa barked orders, organizing the doctor to be sent for and clean cloths and hot water. “Some laudanum too, if you please,” she told the servant.
Dharma collapsed back onto the mattress and shut her eyes. Her throat burned, and she was desperate for a drink. As if reading her thoughts, there was a knock on the door and the servant entered carrying a tray.
“A drink of brandy,” said Philippa, tipping her head back and pouring the fiery liquid down her throat. She coughed and spluttered as the warmth invaded and her pain dimmed.
“Ohh,” she croaked out.
“A dose of laudanum, too. That collar-bone needs to be reset.”
