Page 87 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“A most happy outcome,” said Mrs. Thorpe, with the satisfaction of one who had supported the endeavor. “I wish you good fortune in Shropshire.”

“On my own hook,” Arthur said with a smile. “Granted. I will stay for your performance here, of course.”

“You have seen me as Lady Macbeth before. More than once, I think.”

“But I haven’t seen Chatton as a marauding Viking.”

“Or the bishop as St. Cuthbert,” put in Helena. “I understand he finds the robes sadly plain. And they chafe.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked.

“And where precisely do they chafe?” asked Mrs. Thorpe.

“That Idon’tknow,” replied Helena with dancing eyes. “But the vicar told Mr. Benson, and he told me. I suppose the bishop must have complained to Reverend Cheeve.Hetook that as a sign that he should be been given the role. He is still exceedingly bitter for a clergyman.”

He would miss her company, too, Arthur thought, but the pageant would mark the end of his visit. All seemed to be well here, and he felt his work might be done. If it weren’t for the lingering question of the anonymous letter writer. But that abject individual would probably fade into obscurity, as such people most often did, nursing their malice in small, mean corners.

Seventeen

Fenella took a deep breath of the summer air moving past her cheeks and enjoyed the view over a stretch of low hills. It was restful to drive a gig along a country lane—a much finer gig than she’d had at Clough House—and think her own thoughts. The Chatton Castle household operated with more pomp and required more attention than her old home. She was happy in her new role, but she was also glad to be away for a brief time. So she’d slipped out to make her visit to Mrs. Dorne, which had been put off by John’s antics at Lindisfarne and then a positive rush of events.

She sat with the old lady for nearly an hour, eating one of the cakes she’d delivered and discussing the merits of the liniment she’d brought, as well as the doings of Mrs. Dorne’s various offspring, some of whom were stationed in the outermost reaches of the British Empire. By the time she started back, Fenella was considerably refreshed and looking forward to being in her own house again. Her own house. She repeated the words silently. A few weeks ago she’d had no notion that she’d soon be mistress of Chatton Castle. And a wife. Perhaps before long a mother. As her horse ambled along the familiar route, Fenella’s thoughts drifted off into the various pleasures that her change of status had brought.

A hissing sound startled her out of her daydream. It was followed by a sharp blow to her left arm, just below the shoulder. Fenella looked down in astonishment. An arrow had passed through the skin on the outside of her arm. It stuck there, quivering, the reddened head behind her, the fletching in front. Blood welled up and flowed onto her shawl, pinned in place by the missile.

The pain came then, sharp and dizzying. Fenella bent under the onslaught.

Another arrow passed over her head with a hiss like a hunting cat. That one would have pierced her chest if it had found its mark.

Crouching even lower, Fenella slapped the reins on the horse’s back. “Go!” she shouted. “Run, Dexter!”

Startled, the horse surged forward. Fenella slapped the reins again, urging him to greater speed. The pain in her arm spiked as the motion caused the arrow to wobble and shift. This grew worse with every bump in the road. “You will not faint,” she commanded through clenched teeth. “You will not!” If she slowed, the archer might catch her. If she fell, she’d certainly break bones, or her neck, at this speed.

At least one more arrow arced toward her, but it passed well behind the gig. After that, Fenella wasn’t certain. She didn’t see any more. But the ride had become a haze of teeth-gritting pain. Her attention narrowed to urging Dexter on each time he tried to slow. Which was often. Dexter was accustomed to gentle rambles, not desperate races down winding lanes.

After what seemed an eternity, Chatton Castle appeared before them. Fenella slapped the reins again, and they hurtled up to it. The gig careened under the arch and slewed around into the stable yard. A surprised groom came out to receive the vehicle. At his shocked cry, others appeared. “My lady, what’s happened?”

“Someone shot at me.”

Horrified exclamations rose around her.

“From a clump of trees.” She tried to remember the moment of the attack. “Near the turn to the village.” Fenella swayed in the seat.

“Hold that horse, nodcock.” The head groom came to Fenella’s side. “Let me help you, my lady.”

“Yes, I should—” But when she moved to step down, the arrow shifted and the pain made her cry out.

“Fetch Mrs. Burke,” said the head groom to his minions. “And his lordship. Run, cloth head!” He reached up and lifted Fenella to the ground. “Rafe, you ride for the doctor. Sharpish, go!” He offered his arm to Fenella. “Can you walk, my lady? Or shall I carry you?”

“Yes, of course I can walk.” But Dexter shied, jerking the gig sideways. The carriage caught the head of the arrow, knocking it sharply. Fenella cried out. She reached for support, noticing that her whole arm now ran with blood, and fell into darkness.

* * *

Roger sat beside his wife’s bed as Mrs. Burke bound up her arm with a length of cotton bandage. He’d cut the head off the arrow himself and eased it gently out even as he went quietly mad. Someone on his own land had shot at Fenella. Which was impossible, insane, because no one would. This didn’t make sense. He was on good terms with all his tenants. She’d been driving along a common lane. She hadn’t been creeping through the woodlands, where she might have been mistaken for a deer. By an idiot! And no hunter would use a bow and arrows. Nobody had for years and years. Snares, firearms, yes. But not this. A poacher? Perhaps. But none of that brotherhood would be lurking by a traveled lane. Still less would one risk a shot across it. Roger’s thoughts bounced from one impossibility to another. And yet Fenella lay there, wounded and pale. He held her hand as Mrs. Burke took away the bowl of bloody water and felt as if his heart might burst out of his chest.

Fenella opened her eyes. She looked around her bedchamber, confused. “I told myself not to faint,” she said.

“You didn’t do so until you were home. You did splendidly.” Roger squeezed her hand and tried to keep the frantic note out of his voice. “I don’t understand what happened.” He needed more information so he could catch her attacker.

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