Page 82 of A Kiss Of Lies

Maitland had taken off in the direction the shot came from, his horse flying over the ground.

Hadley was holding Lily back; the child was sobbing and trying to get to him, but all he could think about was Serena.

He laid her gently on the grass. Her breathing was raspy, and he felt his world slipping away. She was his world, his future, his everything. He threw back his head and howled with pain.

Serena gulped in big breaths of air, trying to calm her panic. She was still alive. The euphoria of that fact waned as pain twisted like a knife in her chest. She knew she’d been hit with a bullet.

She looked down her body, trying to see the gaping wound, but her vision began to blur. Was she dying? She must be, for through a haze she saw Christian’s face filled with fear peering down at her.

Words tried to form, but she couldn’t get them out.

“Shush, sweetheart. I’m here. Save your strength. You’re going to be fine. Promise me you won’t die. Fight, Serena. Fight to live and be with me.”

Fight? To be with Christian, she’d fight. They’d have to drag her kicking and screaming into either heaven or hell before she’d relinquish her life.

Before the darkness overtook her she murmured, “I love you.”

“She’s been shot through the right shoulder. I don’t think the collarbone’s broken.” Christian’s voice was full of concern. “The bullet’s still in there.” He ripped off the bottom of his shirt and pressed it to the wound to stanch the flow of blood.

“Stand back, please. Let me through.” The doctor bent over her and cut the ties of her riding jacket with a knife. Blood was everywhere. Looking at Christian with pity, the doctor handed him a stack of cloths and said, “Push down on the wound. We have to stop the blood.”

Men were milling all around. Christian was on his knees beside Serena, the duel forgotten.

But Peter Dennett hadn’t forgotten.

Men and horses were everywhere, and all eyes were focused on Christian and the woman bleeding on the ground. Dennett snuck around the outside of the crowd, inching ever closer to Christian.

He drew a dagger from his boot and hid it in his palm, Christian’s back his target. He knew just where he would plunge it: right through his neck. Christian wouldn’t be able to make a sound, and he would die quickly and quietly; some might think him overcome with grief. Plus the dense crowd might hide the assassin’s escape. He could be long gone before anyone ascertained what he’d done. He’d make for Great Plymouth and his ship, sailing home.

Both Christian and Serena would be dead. Her wound looked fatal to him, for blood soaked the ground. Either way, live or die, she would not have Markham.

So close now . . . . He eased the dagger fully into his hand, twirling it round to grip the handle. When his hand rose like the head of a snake ready to strike, a surge of triumph sent his pulse pounding. But before he could thrust the blade home, pain lanced his chest and he looked down in disbelief to see the tip of Christian’s rapier sticking from his chest. He glanced in disbelief over his shoulder into the cold, hard eyes of Arend Aubury, Baron Labourd. The satisfied smirk breaking over his killer’s lips was the last thing Peter Dennett ever saw.

Maitland had seen the shooter before he fired. The South Wood provided good cover and he was having trouble keeping up with the culprit. However, in his haste to escape, the shooter was leaving an easy trail to follow.

Maitland knew he was close when a shot and ball whizzed past his head. He crouched low over his horse and rode forward. Through the trees he spotted a man running. Luck went his way once more. The shooter was on foot.

He kicked his stallion hard, and after a couple more long strides, Maitland leaped from his horse, tackling the culprit to the ground. They rolled in the dirt, pinecones digging into his back. Being a big man, he managed to land one resounding punch that rattled the shooter’s teeth and made his eyes roll back up into his head, out cold.

Maitland stood and brushed himself off, straightening his clothes and cravat. He whistled for Thunder. Thank goodness the shooter was small, for he managed to throw the prone body over Thunder’s back before riding back toward the dueling field. He prayed Serena was not dead. He’d almost lost his friend at Waterloo. Christian’s burns seemed to suck the life from him. He knew that if Christian lost Serena, he would become a dead soul.

He shuddered in the saddle. Part of him envied Christian’s ability to feel so deeply, while the rest of him was thankful he couldn’t, for Serena’s loss would be more than Christian could bear. He never wanted to become that vulnerable.

He found Arend’s carriage, bound the man’s hands and feet, and threw him on the floor of the conveyance to be questioned later.

Then he made his way to the now much smaller crowd on the dueling field.

Maitland approached Arend and was greeted by the words “Dennett’s dead and Sean Burcher has scarpered.” At Maitland’s surprised look he explained, “I caught Dennett about to stab Christian in the back while he was distracted by Serena’s injury, and skewered him first. With Christian’s rapier, which happened to be lying at his feet.”

“How poetic,” was Maitland’s dry response as he stepped over Dennett’s corpse. “I’ve got the shooter tied up in the carriage. He’s knocked out.” He looked to where Christian knelt beside Serena. “How is she?”

“The shot is not fatal. They’ve slowed the blood loss, but the bullet’s still in there.”

“Best we get her home, then.” With that, Maitland walked to Christian’s side. “Is she stable enough to move?”

The doctor rose to his feet, wiping the blood off his hands with a cloth. “Yes. Clean surroundings are required. We need to get that bullet out before infection sets in, and close the wound. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Christian was in shock. His face pale and drawn. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Lily?”

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