Richard instantly regretted his words as Francis knit his brow in response. “She wasn’t so lucky two days ago. That bullet was meant for me. What the hell was she thinking, jumping at Charlotte like that?”
“She was thinking of you, Francis. Clearly she loves you very much—so much that she would give her life for you without a moment’s hesitation.”
“I can’t bear to see her suffer like this.” Francis muttered, his voice full of emotion. “Not because of me.”
“Yet if she hadn’t, would you still be standing here?”
“I don’t know.”
The truth was that he’d likely be dead. Charlotte had been quick on the trigger. He simply hadn’t seen it coming and he blamed himself for it constantly.
The door opened and Beatrice stepped into the room. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t believe I slept this long. I must have been more tired than I thought.”
“It’s quite all right,” Claire assured her. “You needed to rest.”
“I told Parker to bring us some coffee and Mrs. Reynolds asked the cook to prepare a fresh poultice for Emily’s wound.”
“What about some food?” Richard asked. “I’m starving.”
That comment brought the first smiles they’d seen in days. Richard Camden was fond of food, but he hadn’t had a decent meal since the night Emily was shot—and even though he’d been hungry, he’d realized that there were more pressing matters at hand. Now that Emily looked better, however, he felt no guilt over letting everyone know how much he longed for a hearty meal.
“I will tell Parker to have a proper meal prepared when he brings the coffee,” Francis told him. “Now that you mention it, I’m quite hungry myself.”
A knock at the door heralded Parker’s arrival. Francis called for him to enter, whereafter the aging butler brought in a tray with four cups of steaming hot coffee, some milk, and some sugar.
“Thank you, Parker. You may set it down over there,” Francis said, pointing toward the dresser. “And please tell cook to prepare a substantial meal for us.”
“Do you wish to eat it in here or in the dining room?”
“You may serve it in the dining room. Miss Claire and Lord Camden will dine first. Miss Rutherford and I will wait until they’ve finished.”
“Very good, my lord.” Parker said. He hesitated in the doorway. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?” he asked, glancing toward the bed where Emily lay.
“I believe so,” Francis assured him, touched by the troubled look on the old man’s face.
With a brief nod, Parker turned and headed for the kitchen, eager to help in any way that he could. He returned an hour later.
“Dinner is served,” he announced, moving aside to allow Mrs. Reynolds to enter the room. She brought the poultice with her, along with clean strips of linen for dressing Emily’s wound, and some warm water with which to bathe it. A quiet settled over the room as she left, followed by Richard, Claire, and finally Parker, who closed the door behind him.
Rolling back the covers, Francis gently eased Emily up into a sitting position. He braced her with his arms while Beatrice moved to untie the bandage that swept over her shoulder and across her chest. Beatrice had been concerned about her sister’s modesty and had therefore wrapped a wide strip of cotton around her chest to prevent her br**sts from being on constant display when they tended to her.
“It looks as though it’s healing well,” Francis remarked as he watched Beatrice dab at the wound with a wet piece of linen to wash away the old poultice. There was no sign of infection, just pink and swollen tissue with the first signs of a scab that had begun to form.
A soft groan startled both of them. “Emily?” Francis whispered. She groaned again, louder this time. “You’d best hurry up, Beatrice—I think she’s coming round.”
“I still have to pack the wound. Perhaps I’d best wait until she’s fully awake.”
Francis cursed under his breath. They had been used to a passive patient thus far, but Emily was already beginning to struggle against him, and he knew that what they were doing was paining her. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?” he whispered. “I know it hurts, but if you fight us, it will hurt even more. You were shot, and . . .” It was no use. Emily’s eyes flew open, wide with fear. And then she screamed, thrashing about like a madwoman.
Francis gritted his teeth together. “Do what you must,” he told Beatrice. “I will hold her.”
It took only five minutes to get the job done, but they were the longest five minutes of Francis’s life. Emily’s screams stabbed at his heart. He hated what they were doing to her and he suffered alongside her. Repeatedly he wished that it was he who had been wounded instead of her.
When it was over, he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, and finally her lips as he stroked her hair with his hand to soothe her. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered.
She took a shaky breath as he eased her back down to rest against the pillow. “What happened?” she asked as she looked from one to the other.
Francis’s eyes met Beatrice’s, and he knew that she waited for him to tell her. “You were shot, Emily. Charlotte shot you.” He added softly, “you saved my life.”
She was quiet for a moment with concentration, and then her expression changed, and Francis knew that she remembered. “I did, didn’t I?” she smiled. Francis nodded. “I think that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.”
“And quite possibly the stupidest.” Both Emily and Beatrice turned their eyes on him. “You could have gotten yourself killed,” he explained.
“I had no choice, Francis. She meant to kill you, and I just know that she would have if I hadn’t stopped her. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I could never forgive myself for something like that—knowing that I could have prevented it, but that I did nothing. No, then I’d rather suffer a hundred bullets instead.” She moved slightly, but quickly regretted it, wincing as a sharp pain tore at her wound.
“Are you all right?” Francis asked before Beatrice had the chance to.
“I’ll be fine,” Emily told him with a hint of a laugh. “I suppose a little pain is to be expected.”
Though Beatrice was beginning to feel increasingly like a third wheel, she couldn’t help but be pleased at how much Francis clearly cared for her sister. She bent to give Emily a slight peck on the cheek, then told them both that she would go to fetch a plate of food for Emily.
“I still can’t believe that you would do such a thing,” Francis told her once they were alone. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I thought I might lose you.”
“Then you should understand better than anyone why I did what I did.” She sighed as she reached for his hand. “I’ve only just found the love of my life, though you were right in front of me for all these years. You are the man with whom I look forward to sharing my life, the man with whom I wish to grow old. What we have is unique, and I’m not willing to give that up for anything. So if that means taking a bullet to the shoulder, then so be it. All I know is that I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose you so easily. I love you, Francis, and I cannot wait to tell the world how much you mean to me.”
Francis looked at her with wonder. How he’d managed to be so lucky was beyond him. Emily was such a rare gift, and he felt honored by the very notion that she was his. Gone was the heartbroken girl who’d pined for Adrian. Before him sat a woman of tremendous courage who’d fearlessly thwarted their enemy. His heart swelled with pride as he leaned over to capture her lips in a long, heartfelt kiss.
“I was brave, wasn’t I?” she grinned.
“You were exceptional, Emily. I still can’t believe that you’re my wife. When should we tell the others?”
“Let’s wait until I’m well enough to get out of bed,” she suggested.
“All right, but not a moment longer. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She paused for a moment as she bit down on her lip. “What happened to Charlotte?” she finally asked him curiously.
“She was caught off guard by you, so . . . I managed to hit her over the head with a brass candlestick before she had the chance to fire a second shot.”
Emily’s hands flew to her mouth to stop the sudden onset of laughter. “You hit your mother over the head with a candlestick?” Her eyes were beginning to water from the surge of giggles that exploded in her throat.
Francis’s eyes darkened. “She’s not my mother,” he grumbled. “Elisabeth was . . .”
“Oh, I know, my love, and I’m sorry,” Emily stammered as she gave way to her laughter. “But it’s just so ridiculous.”
Francis stared at her. Only Emily could find the humor in something as awful as what had happened. Her smile and her laughter were infectious, and he soon found it impossible not to laugh along with her. “Oh, I wish I could have seen it,” Emily grinned, wiping at the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. “Was there a loud thunk?” And for some reason, the thought of a candlestick producing a loud thunk as it struck Charlotte’s head made Emily laugh even more. Wincing at the pain her excitement had produced, she did her best to calm her amusement.
“Is she still alive?” she asked suddenly, realizing that such a blow to the head could have been fatal. “And the letter, Francis . . . what about the letter?”
Pushing Emily gently back onto her pillow, Francis gave her a slow nod. “Yes, she is still alive, though I’ll wager she’d rather be dead right now—she’ll be spending a great deal of time at Newgate instead of at my house in London. As for the letter—I retrieved it from her cloak pocket before anyone else arrived at the scene. It’s been destroyed.” His mind seemed to wander. “It surprises me that she never questioned the signature.”
“Hmmm . . . perhaps in her eagerness to wish you ill, she simply failed to notice,” Emily said thoughtfully. “In any event I’m just glad that she’s finally out of our lives.”
“Me, too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was five days since Emily had been shot, and with just over a week remaining until Claire and Richard were to wed, everyone was kept busy with the preparations. They wanted a small, private function, so when Francis had suggested that they use the chapel on his estate, they had immediately agreed.
The weather was still pleasant, and they all hoped that it would hold for the big day.
It was late afternoon, and Francis had asked Parker to bring some refreshments out into the garden.
“How do you feel?” Beatrice asked Emily as they all sat gathered around a wrought-iron table.
“Much better; I can move my arm now without it paining me to do so.”
Francis took her hand and squeezed it. “She’ll be fully recovered in another week—just in time for the wedding.”