Simon's Brides (27 page)

Sixteen

Simon strode into the house. “Bolton,” he shouted, then stood watching the butler make his measured progress from the kitchen.

“Yes, my Lord,” Bolton answered, his gait slowed then stopped, like a sailing ship in a becalmed sea.

“Hurry, man,” Simon encouraged. “We are about to have a special visitor. Help is coming. Miller sent word a Bow Street runner will arrive this morning. Call me as soon as you hear the carriage. I’ll be in my office.”

Simon left the hall and started toward what he considered his sanctuary, his thoughts on what to tell his wife.
Wife!
That word sent a thrilling sensation through him. Soon, he would have her in his bed. He grinned to himself. Dora was as good as home, now.

Before he had an opportunity to get to his office, Bolton’s excited voice drew him away from his destination.

“My Lord!”

“Yes, Bolton,” he started back toward the butler.

“A carriage, my Lord, a carriage.”

Simon smiled. Even Bolton grasped the advantage of another runner.

“Get the door, Bolton,” Simon ordered and turned back the way he had come, “and bring him to me,” he shouted over his shoulder. This investigator, Miller had written, had the best of recommendations from former clients. With any luck he’d find Dora before the end of the day. And, that night, he was certain he would be able to begin the seduction of Amy. How he was looking forward to that!

Before Simon reached his office, Bolton shouted “You! No, oh no!”

Simon heard the door crash against the wall.

He spun around and raced to the front hall.

Bolton was on the floor. The door stood open.

Harold Bottomsworth charged toward Simon. Harold’s hair stood on end. His glazed eyes had a frantic look to them. His disheveled clothing looked as if he’d slept in them for days.

And, in his right hand he waved a pistol, a repeater.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he shouted as he slowed then stopped in the middle of the hall. With his left hand, he held Dora’s arm and dragged her into the hall behind him.

“Damn you,” Harold screamed at the top of his lungs.

“He’s knows you and Amy are married,” Dora shouted from behind him. “Simon, he’s mad.”

She yanked against Harold’s hold, but he refused to release her. Instead, he gave her arm a quick jerk, sending her to her knees.

“Harold, put that pistol away,” Simon ordered. From behind him Simon heard the rustle of silk.

“Amy, stay in the parlor.”

Harold waved the weapon in that direction.

“Come out, you devils. Watch me take back what is mine.”

“Amy, no!” Simon shouted.

In his peripheral vision, Simon saw the blue silk of a woman’s skirt. But, he couldn’t take his gaze from Harold’s angry face.

“Amy, go back.”

“Don’t you listen to him,” Harold coaxed. “You come here, girl. He ain’t gonna get away with taking it all away. I just needed the estate. But, you refused. Now, it’s gone and they’ll come for me, but it won’t matter. Cause you won’t be here. You had to marry him. Well, now yer gonna pay.”

A chill raced down Simon’s spine.

“Amy, go back to the parlor,” he commanded. “Go back.”

Simon watched Bolton try to regain his footing.

“Bolton, stay where you are,” Simon ordered.

Then he heard another voice.

“What is all this shouting about?” Agatha asked.

Simon couldn’t turn to look at her either, “Aunt, get back in that parlor.”

“Now, nephew, I’ll have none...” she retaliated.

Simon saw the black of her skirt and silently swore. “Aunt, go back.”

“Oh, it’s that Harold person and he has a--a...” Simon heard a thud behind him. Bloody hell! He couldn’t risk a glance but he was certain his aunt had just swooned.

He took advantage of Harold’s momentary distraction and advanced toward him. The hall looked a mile long. Simon knew he was too far from Harold to grab that gun.

“I’ve got her. Amy, help me,” Caro’s voice.

“I’ll help.” Beth’s voice.

Harold snarled, “Don’t you move, Miss Amy witch, or I’ll shoot yer husband.”

He pointed the gun toward Simon.

Simon took another step forward. Dora chose that movement to give a sharp tug on her hand.

Harold growled, “Stop that,” and shook her arm. “Don’t you move a step closer.” This at Simon. He waved the pistol, first toward Simon’s left, then at Simon.

Dora shouted, “He’s lost his senses. He’s mad. Someone in the village told him about the wedding...”

“Shut up,” Harold screamed. He yanked on Dora’s arm again.

Simon moved another step closer.

Harold began to rant, “You had to take it all. But, ain’t gonna do ya no good. Not a bit of good. I’m gonna kill her. The bitch! Traitor!”

Harold glanced at Amy, then turned back to Simon. “Then, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Harold, put away the gun. This won’t do any good.” Simon took another step as Dora struggled to her feet.

“Stop! You stay right there. I ain’t putting this away. Never. You ain’t gonna have it all. You ain’t gonna live to have it all.” Harold laughed.

The sound sliced through Simon like a knife.

Harold glanced toward the back parlor. He pointed the weapon in Amy’s direction. “Amelia, you come here, girl. You come out here where I can see you better. Get out here!” he ordered. “Stand next to yer husband.”

Simon raked his hand through his hair. “Amy, get back into that parlor.”

“Stay there,” Harold screamed. He pointed the pistol toward Simon, then back again toward Amy.

Dora yanked at Harold’s hand. “He’s insane. He won’t listen to reason.”

“I told you to shut up.” Harold gave Dora another tug. He twisted her arm.

Dora gasped in pain.

Simon moved another step closer.

“No,” Harold screamed bringing the gun up to sight down the barrel. He aimed the pistol at Amy.

Simon watched as Harold’s finger tightened on the trigger.

His breath caught. “No,” he roared and dove for the gun.

Thunder crashed through the hall as the bullet went wild.

Dora jerked free and dashed toward Bolton.

Simon knocked Harold to the floor.

Harold bellowed in outrage.

Simon held him pinned. He grabbed Harold’s hand with the weapon. He smashed it against the floor.

Harold refused to release the weapon. He rolled over and pointed the barrel at Amy.

Simon grabbed his hand. He forced it down, between the two of them.

Another shot rang out.

Dora and Amy screamed.

Clifford, Ben and two other men raced into the hall.

“My Lord?” Clifford shouted. He grabbed Harold, his beefy arm around the older man’s throat.

“Simon,” Ben dropped to his knees next to Simon. The two other men grabbed at Harold. “Oh, good Lord. He’s been shot.” Ben glanced up at Amy.

She saw the agony in Ben’s eyes. He was trying to tell her that Simon was hurt, badly hurt. Amy gazed at the blood spreading rapidly over Simon’s shirt and the stain starting to puddle on the floor.

“No,” she whispered and dashed toward him. “No,” her voice rose in agony. “Oh, no,” she fell to her knees in the warm blood. Her voice trembled as she lifted Simon’s hand. “Oh, please God, no!”

Ben reached around her and tore open the shirt. Amy heard a sigh of relief. The bullet had missed Simon’s stomach. However, blood drenched his side.

“Looks like the bullet went through. Must have hit a rib. Pray nothing important was hit,” Ben sat back on the heels of his boots.

Amy stared in horror at her husband. He had been shot saving her from Harold Bottomsworth.

Simon opened his eyes and tried to say something, but Amy hushed him, “Save your strength.”

He let his eyes drift closed.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Amy whispered. Suddenly all the skills she’d learned from Edith Williams deserted her.

She couldn’t think.

How to stop the bleeding?

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Simon needed her now. And, she could not, would not fail him. She could do this. She had to do this.

She dredged up the lessons Edith had drummed into her. First, stop the bleeding.

Pressure. She had to apply pressure.

Without regard for the men in the room, Amy raised her skirt and tore her petticoat. She folded the material into a square and pressed it against Simon’s side.

“My Lady?” Clifford interrupted. “What about Harold?”

“Bedlam,” Simon whispered, his eyes still closed.

“You heard the magistrate. Bind him and take him to Bedlam,” she said without lifting her gaze from her husband stretched out at her knees.

She heard the men talking, but she closed out their comments. Simon was her concern. She could only concentrate on Simon. He needed her now. She pressed hard against his wound.

“Let’s get him into bed.” Ben stood and signaled several sailors forward.

“Yes. But, be careful,” she ordered as Simon’s men bent to hoist him up. “Here, keep pressure on his wound.” Reluctantly, Amy stepped back then led the way up the stairs to the master bedroom.

~ * ~

Amy gazed at Simon’s bronze chest. His shirt had been removed and he lay on the bed, his flesh bare for her inspection. She forced herself to remember his wound. After he swallowed some of the brandy she’d ordered brought from his office, she cleaned his wound. When she poured a little of the brandy into the wound, he gasped and lost consciousness.

She took a needle and thread and soaked it in the brandy. Biting the inside of her cheek, she fought to keep her fingers steady. Once she had calmed herself she sewed up the wounds in his side.

She asked Agatha to stay with Simon and went to her own room to gather the herbs she needed. Back in the master bedchamber, she ordered the fire stoked, and wine brought. She prepared a poultice of herbs and applied it to his wound. Then she sat down to keep watch and say her prayers.

As the day waned, Simon grew fretful, his skin took on the flushed appearance of fever and he tossed and turned in pain. She placed her hand on his forehead and shook her head. He felt hot to the touch.