Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

clapped his hand to his arm and sank forward to the carpet on his knees. She heard Justin cursing.

She heard Elsbeth scream. The scream sounded so very far away. She felt a strange lassitude.

It was as if through a darkening mist that she saw her husband’s face above her, and said only, “Justin, are you all right? My love, are you all right?”

Suddenly, she felt weightless, only dimly aware that the earl had lifted her into his arms. She thought she heard him speaking to her, but she could not be certain. She heard Elsbeth sobbing now and wanted to go to her sister, but she couldn’t. He was holding her. She felt strangely without substance. She felt very close to nothingness.

“I am fine,” she heard him say. “I’m so sorry, Arabella. I came with the pistol hidden because I knew you were here with him and I was afraid you would get hurt. Damnation, look at what my stupidity has brought. I should have walked in and shot the bastard—no words, nothing.”

“No,” she whispered, just a flutter of a sound. “Not your fault, none of it.” She tried to focus her eyes on her husband’s face, but saw instead a movement from the corner of her eye. Deep cold fear brought her momentarily back to her senses. Gervaise was staggering to his feet and moving, swiftly now, across the room to the open door. She saw him shove Elsbeth aside. She saw her sister tumble to the floor, crying out as she hit her head against a table leg.

“He is escaping.”

“Don’t worry, Arabella. He won’t go very far at all. The little bastard was right about that. I’ve more than a dozen men waiting for him to appear.”

She managed to focus for an instant on his beloved face above hers. “But, Justin,” she said, “I wanted to kill him. He should die for what he did to Elsbeth.” Then it was too much. Pain ripped through her, crushing her, dragging her into darkness so profound that she knew there would be no escape. But she didn’t want to die, she didn’t want to leave her husband after they had finally come together, she didn’t want—

She felt the bed under her and saw her husband’s face above her—naught but a pale blur. “It’s all right, Arabella. Let Gervaise go. It’s not important. Only you are important. Only you.” She accepted his words and was silent. Yet there was something else that was important, something she had to tell him. She struggled to keep the blackness from pulling her away, mayhap away from him forever. “Justin, you must listen to me.”

“No, love, be quiet, please.” She felt his hands on her gown, ripping it open.

She tried with her last ounce of strength. “I don’t want to die, but I might, and you know it. You must know the truth in case I do. Justin, please, listen.” Her voice was only a whisper now, raw and harsh, and he leaned very close to hear her. “Elsbeth is Gervaise’s half-sister.

Magdalaine is their mother. I found a letter on the skeleton in the abbey ruins. The skeleton was Gervaise’s father and Magdalaine was his lover.

My father, oh God, Justin, he must have killed them both.” His voice was as calm as night. “I understand, Arabella. You can trust me. You are not to worry about anything now.” It was all right then. She let the darkness close over her mind and take her away from the pain.

The earl had ripped away her bodice and the silk chemise below, to bare the wound in her shoulder. The ball had entered high above her left breast. If she had not thrown herself in front of him, he thought grimly, the bullet would have gone straight through his heart. He worked with the efficiency that the years in the army had taught him, all of his energy focused on stanching the flow of blood. He wadded his handkerchief into a thick pad and pressed it over the wound. The blood welled up over his fingers. Even as he heard the servants’ hurried footsteps up the stairs, pounding loudly down the corridor, he did not look up or lessen the steady pressure.

He did not even care when a man named Potter, whom the earl had hired to oversee the other ten or so men, appeared at his side, panting hard, saying at last, “We’ve got him, my lord. I’m sorry, but we had to shoot him.”

He heard Elsbeth cry out.

“He is dead then?”

“Not yet, my lord, but I don’t hold out much hope for him.” Even though he had ordered all the staff belowstairs for the evening, the sound of gunfire had, thankfully, made them disobey his orders. Giles stood panting in the doorway. “Oh my God, my lord! Oh, Jesus, what should I do?”

The earl said quickly, “Giles, ride to Talgarth Hall and fetch Dr.

Branyon. Tell him that the countess has been shot and he is needed urgently. Go, quickly. Tell him, too, that it is all over.” He heard Crupper’s familiar wheezing behind Giles. “Giles is bringing Dr.

Branyon. Crupper, have Mrs. Tucker tear up clean linen and bring hot water. Quickly, man.”

Crupper was weaving where he stood. “Yes, my lord,” he finally managed.

“But, my lord, let me kill the damned blighter first!”

“You can consider that later, Crupper. But first get me the cloths and the hot water.”

“Yes, my lord. First things first. Of course her ladyship is more important than that piece of slime from a foreign swamp.” The earl could only shake his head. He kept the pressure on the wound. He prayed. He looked up to see Elsbeth weaving where she stood, her face white. As he looked at her, he now saw the tremendous resemblance between her and Gervaise. Never would she know, for he would never tell her, nor would Arabella. “It is all right now, Elsbeth. I am sorry that you were betrayed by Gervaise. But it is over now.