Page 64 of The Gentleman's Confession
Jemma took one look at him, and her mouth hardened into a fine line. He thought she might be frustrated with him, but this was worse than he’d predicted. She drew Lady Kellen into a conversation, preventing him from speaking to her.
Even angry, she was beautiful. Dressed in a dark orange few could wear as well as she and a straw bonnet with feathers pluming from the back, she was eye-catching. Mr. Manning noticed him, and soon Miles was standing by Lisette and asking after her and her family.
After a few minutes, he returned to his team. The feeling of unease only increased, and no matter how much attention he paid to the match, he couldn’t shake it.
When the inning ended, the Brookeside team took to the field. Paul stepped in as the next bowler, a quick hand at it, and Mr. Reed as the wicket keeper. Miles jogged to the outfield with Ian, each of them taking opposite sides. He didn’t trust himself any closer since he needed to clear his head to focus.
All the same, he sought out Jemma, knowing she was too far away to realize he was looking for her, but discovered she was no longer in the tent. He glanced around, searching for a glimpse of orange, and finally found her by the score keeper, not terribly far from him. He caught her voice. A cheer—a cheer for Mr. Bentley.
Miles huffed in disgust and forced his mind back on the game. Nothing came his way for several overs. After the next batsman, he would rotate closer to the pitch.
The ruddy-faced bowler with the thick arms from the day before stepped in front of the wicket for his turn at bat. Paul bowled a clean, underarm throw, and the batsman swung hard.The ball connected with a resounding whack and soared toward the boundary. Miles would never make it in time to catch it, but he started running to retrieve the ball wherever it landed.
Only it didn’t land. A woman walking along the far side of the field, far from the crowd, was struck in the back of the head before she crumpled to the ground in a heap oforange.
Jemma?
Miles’s run turned into an all-out sprint. She was too still.Move. Please. Move.He slid to her side only moments later. Her eyes were closed when he scooped up her upper body, turning her so his arm carefully cradled her head. “Jemma, can you hear me?” Was she even breathing? “Hold on, love.” His hand went to her throat, searching for a pulse. Nothing. His very soul could feel hers slipping away from this world. “Please, open your eyes.” Oh, why wasn’t she opening her eyes?
A dry sob caught in his throat, his fingers fumbling for any sign of life. He needed to feel life. Her life. Forgetting her pulse, his eyes fell on her lips. She had to know she couldn’t give up. He brought his head down and kissed her, his mouth as desperate as the rest of him. There was no thought of the why or the how behind his actions, just the need to be close and to communicate to her soul the only way he knew how.
His kiss was neither short nor long, but against her warm mouth, he felt her breath on his upper lip—the taste of a miracle. He pulled back, his heart pounding, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Jemma?” he gasped, relief searing through the ache in his chest.
Her eyes dulled and rolled back, closing once more.
“Stay with me, love. Stay with me.” He started thinking logically. The wound. He should check the wound. His hand searched for her bonnet pins, tugging at the two he found. By the time he freed them, Ian dropped to his side.
“How is she?” Ian’s breath heaved.
“Her eyes opened for a moment.” As gently as possible, Miles dug his fingers through her hair until he found the large goose egg and a wet, sticky spot. Without looking, he knew it was blood. Heaven help her. “Give me your cravat.”
Ian ripped it from his throat as more of their teammates reached their side, flanking around her. Miles took the cravat from Ian and pressed it to her head wound.
“Vixen?” Tom cried, pushing closer. “Tell me she was just knocked cold.”
“It looks to be that way,” Ian said, “but she is bleeding.”
“What can I do?” Mr. Bentley bumbled, bouncing up and down on his toes and running his hands through his hair. “Someone tell me how I can help.”
“Start by calming down,” Paul ordered. “And give her room to breathe.”
“Right, be calm.”
Miles glanced up at the man he had painted as far too perfect in his head. Mr. Bentley was mumbling under his breath, his eyes impossibly wide. Miles was struck with compassion for him. The man was anxious for Jemma but had no claim on her to do anything about it. Miles had no claim either, despite his long history, fierce friendship, and deep-seated love for her. It was a helplessness that couldn’t be measured.
“We need to get her back to the house,” Ian instructed.
Miles nodded, putting gentle pressure on the cravat. His touch was steady, but underneath his skin, he was shaking to his core. He couldn’t lose Jemma—wouldn’t lose her. But he was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life. He forced himself to breathe evenly. If she woke again, he wanted her to see his full confidence in her ability to recover. “Ian, take one side of her, and I will take the other so we do not jostle her head too much.”
“I see a carriage nearby. Bring her there instead.” Paul pointed to the nearest conveyance, the horses still hitched to it. “Wecan get her to the house faster in there than going through the crowd.”
Miles agreed, and he maneuvered his hand, now covered in blood, to beneath her knees, then stood with her in his arms.
Mr. Bentley took one look at the blood on Miles’s hand and now Jemma’s dress and fainted.
“I’ve got him,” Mr. Reed said, crouching beside Mr. Bentley. “Take care of Miss Fielding.”
