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“
No
. No!” Brice took only enough time to shove Rowena behind the tree before diving for the bloody, still form of his oldest friend. “Geoff! Geoff, speak to me!”

But Abbott made no reply. He didn’t twitch. The only movement was the spurting blood, drenching his friend’s face in crimson.

“Brice, get
down
!”

He heard Rowena’s frantic cry, of course, but the words meant nothing. He reached Abbott, touched a hand to his face, his neck. Was that his pulse or Brice’s, thundering so hard he could feel it in the tips of his fingers?

“Brice!”

But the air was still. Of those earth-shattering shots anyway, though now footsteps pounded from every direction. Brice rested a hand on Abbott’s chest, trying not to look at the terrible wound on his head. Trying to focus on whether there was the faintest rising and falling, a beating of the heart.

Voices joined the footfalls, shouting a dozen questions at once. As if he had any answers. As if he could do anything but fall back, impotent, when Old Abbott stumbled to his knees by his son’s still form. When Mr. Child put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “What happened, Your Grace?”

He could only shake his head. “I don’t know. We were walking, talking, and I heard—I could scarcely believe it—a gunshot. But not coming from where they had all been practicing. Bark flew from the tree. Then Geoff was shouting and running our way, trying to help, I suppose, and . . .”

“Brice.” Rowena crawled up to him, wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his shoulder.

His arms came about her without the need for thought. Thankfully, because he couldn’t think, could only stare at his friend with that terrible dark circle on the side of his head. Then something shifted, clicked, and he shook himself. “Run to the telephone, Mr. Child. Call the constable straightaway, and the doctor. Hurry!”

The butler rose and took off with a speed that defied his age. Others had joined them—grooms and stable hands, gardeners, servants from the house. Mother, Ella, and Miss Abbott, all of whom looked about to fall over. Especially Miss Abbott, who advanced on shaking legs and all but collapsed at her father’s side, over her brother.

Brice pressed a kiss to Rowena’s head and staggered to his feet, his wife still latched to his side. His gaze fell on Davis, just emerging from the rear door beside Cowan. “Davis—would you get the women inside? They shouldn’t—”

“No. I’m not leaving you.” Rowena’s arms went tight around him. “Not with someone trying to kill you.”

“You think it was on
purpose
?” Ella, eyes wide, gripped their mother’s arm. “Why?
Who?
”

Brice drew in a quick breath. “There were two shots—one too many to have been an accident, I should think. But it’s hard to say who the target was. The first bullet struck between us, on the tree.”

Rowena shook her head. “But I was already on the ground when the second one was fired. They must have been aiming at you, to have hit Mr. Abbott.”

She had a point. And in part it brought relief, to realize she wasn’t the target. Not that he particularly liked being in a gunman’s crosshair. But better him than Rowena and the baby.

For the first time, he prayed the child was a boy. That if something happened to him, Nottingham would live on through that tiny life inside his wife.

Was that why God had brought them together, and her already with child? Was that why He had insisted Brice understand, love her, accept the baby as his own? Was he destined to die for the sake of justice—or to protect his wife?

He stood up straighter, held her tighter. He prayed not. But if so . . . then so be it. So long as they lived on.

Ella shook her head. “But . . . but
who
? Who would do this? Humphrey?”

“No, not Humphrey. He isn’t in the area.”

But assuming himself the target didn’t exactly narrow it down. He was the one Catherine was after . . . though he was also the only one who knew where the diamonds were, so why would she risk silencing him before he could confide the secret? And he was also the one Kinnaird would be more likely to take a shot at, if he’d so quickly traveled from the Highlands.

Neither of which he particularly wanted to tell the entire household.

Old Abbott rocked back on his heels, drawing all attention to him and to the terrible reality, rather than speculation. “He is alive, at least. Barely, I think, but alive. Praise God for that.”

“We need to pray for him.” Brice lowered to his knees again, Rowena alongside him, and gripped Geoff’s hand. Still warm, promising life. Yet how would he have the strength to cling to it?

Brice closed his eyes, opened his lips, and prayed for a miracle.

Twenty-Four

H
ow had it all gone wrong? Her brother lay in the hospital, unconscious, death looming. Unable to lift a finger. Unable to breathe a word. Unable to open his eyes and accuse. Clinging to life by the slenderest thread, but clinging.

Cling. Keep clinging
.

He could live, that was what Ella had kept repeating all afternoon. Like Phineas Gage in America, who had taken a railroad spike through the skull and lived to tell about it. Like countless men in war. On and on Ella had gone, even dragging out some random book to show her the standard procedure for treating a bullet wound to the head—a procedure the medics wouldn’t bother with if survival weren’t possible.

But Stella cared little for whether the silver coin even now bound to the wound on Geoff’s skull would keep infection at bay. The how didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he lived. He had survived the operation to remove the bullet, so perhaps there was hope. There
must
be
hope.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” Father mumbled, his voice barely piercing the shadows that clung to the room. “
Why?
Why you, son? Not that I would have wished such a thing on His Grace, but why did you have to be there?”

Why indeed? Stella pressed her fingers to her eyes to try to make the images go away. It had all gone so wrong. Never, as the plan formulated, had it occurred to her that someone else might arrive to intervene. An oversight. A grave one.

No, not grave. Don’t think about dying. Pull through, Geoff. Pull through.

Father looked up, and their gazes tangled. He sighed. “You ought to head home, Stella. I’ll stay here with your brother. The duke said there would be a carriage waiting for us.”

The duke. Eyes sliding shut, she shook her head. It had all gone so terribly wrong. That first miss . . . but he had acted so quickly. He’d pushed Rowena down, out of her sights, and the look on his face—not fear, not for himself. His every movement had been to protect
her
.

The rage had shifted, then. Turned, twisted.

She shouldn’t have pulled the trigger again. She’d known it the second she’d done it, had nearly let loose a scream of dismay. Killing
him
was never what she’d wanted. Rowena must be removed, yes, but she never should have let herself grow angry with Nottingham. Even if he had spoken words of love to the sniveling twit. Even if he had forgiven her betrayal. Even if he had barely so much as glanced at Stella in the last week, nor said how-do-you-do.

But she hadn’t meant for it to affect Geoff. Her father. Her family.

Geoff.
Cling to hope. Cling to life. Fight. Fight!

Her eyes slid shut. Geoff had never been one to fight. Not
in
life—but
for
it, surely he would. He must. Just like all those other lucky men Ella had been so quick to find examples of.

Because if he didn’t . . . She muffled a sob with her fist. He shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t her fault he’d come running up as he’d done. She hadn’t meant to hit him. Hadn’t even seen him there, not through the rage that had greyed out her vision. But it hadn’t been aimed at him, not at Geoff.

“Stella. My dear, please. It’s growing late. Go home. Update the Nottinghams and your grandmother.”

Stella grimaced. Grandmum would spend the evening fretting and lecturing, berating Stella for not being at her brother’s side, for being in the manor with Ella instead of among her own. And she wouldn’t be able to retort, would she, and say she
hadn’t
been with Ella?

Because it was even more her fault than Grandmum could know. Than anyone could know. Because if they did, if they ever found out . . . if they somehow found the pistol she’d stashed in the shrubbery and not yet had time to fetch . . . She buried her face in her hands. She could be arrested. Go to prison, all hope of a life with Nottingham gone. All hope of
any
life gone. And if Geoff died—but he mustn’t. He
mustn’t
. “Please, Father. Just let me stay here.”

“Stella.” He sighed, sounding so very old. “Geoffrey wouldn’t want you to neglect yourself, or for your grandmother to be kept waiting for news. Eat. Rest. One of us should, and Geoff would want—”

“Will you
stop
it?” She lurched to her feet, spun away but then back to face him, her back to the door. Her brother had a private room solely because Nottingham had insisted on it. Otherwise they’d be in the ward with all the other patients. “Stop talking about what Geoff would want, as if he were the perfect, selfless child. He wasn’t, you know. He
was— Isn’t
, I mean. He isn’t.”

Father rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his head in his hand, as if merely talking to her wearied him. “I never said nor thought your brother was perfect. But will you really argue with me right now about whether or not he’s always wanted the best for you? For all those he cares about?”

Of course not. Sainted Geoff, always putting everyone else first. How was anyone to compare to him? To live up to the standard he set? But he wasn’t so perfect. He
wasn’t
. “He resented the duke, did you know that? Resented him for his faith, when he’d never studied as Geoff had. Is
that
what a perfect child would do? Hate someone for being
good
?”

Father didn’t jerk to attention, didn’t gasp, didn’t so much as blink. He just sighed again. “Please, Stella. He had his emotions firmly in hand, he spent hours on his knees to keep his focus where it belonged. He did not begrudge what the duke had. He only wanted to have such faith
too
. And he confided in me just this morning—”

His voice broke, but he sniffled and smoothed out his features again. “Just this morning he said he could see how His Grace needed such faith to get through these times. How relieved he was to realize it has aided him and Her Grace as they’ve fallen in love.”

“No!”
She didn’t mean to scream it, but a whisper wouldn’t have been ardent enough. Nothing would be ardent enough, but it helped to grab the nearest thing at hand—a clipboard—and fling it to the floor. “No. He doesn’t love her. He
can’t
love her, they aren’t meant for each other. It was all a mistake, all a terrible mistake. They shouldn’t have wed. It was a mistake. A mistake! I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t . . . I love him. That’s all that matters. Love. All is fair, as they say, in love.”

Father’s brows had knit, drawing lines in his face that had already deepened in the past few hours. They made him look as ancient as Grandmum, as doddering. As if he even remembered what it meant to be in love—if he’d ever known. No doubt he’d married Mother simply because she was an appropriate choice. Propriety—it was all he ever cared about.

“Stella.” Father shook his head. “Lower your voice, I beg you. Sit down. And please don’t say such things. You don’t love him—”

“I
do
! Who are you to tell me my heart?”

His visage went fierce. “Your father—that’s who. Though heaven knows you always resented being born to the steward instead of the lord. And that’s all this talk is about—you wanting the life of a lady.”

“It is
not
what it’s about! I wouldn’t care if he was a stable hand or a miller or a . . . a pickpocket. I love
him
, and he ought to be married to
me
, not that spineless Highland goat!”

Father washed pale, and his eyes went large. “She doesn’t mean it, Your Grace. She is . . . It’s just a tasteless jest.”

Something inside went from sparking and hot to cold as a stone. Slowly, Stella turned. And there, staring at her as if she were a stranger speaking Swahili, stood Nottingham. His hand was still on the knob she hadn’t heard him turn, and he had frozen in the doorway.

At least the she-goat wasn’t with him. Stella lifted her chin and refused to let any embarrassment creep in. What had she to be ashamed of? She was every bit the lady Rowena was. Perhaps she hadn’t been born to a nobleman, but her family was as fine as those moody Kinnairds—better, really. And
she
at least knew how to conduct herself in society. How to stand without cowering. How to greet lords and ladies without stuttering or lapsing into an incomprehensible accent.

She met his stare, though she nearly took a step back at the look in his eyes.
Horror
was the only word to describe it. Horror, at
her
! His old friend. The girl he had teased all their lives. Had flirted with long before
Rowena
ever entered the picture. Had said time and again would steal some nobleman’s heart—and who could he have meant but himself? Why would he have given her that book, that inscription?