In an instant Walstead’s expression hardened. He stepped to the window and looked out. His brows drew together, and he cursed under his breath. He extended his palm. “Toss them here. Now!”
Sensing an opportunity during Walstead’s break in concentration, not to mention the fault in Walstead’s request, Anthony reached into his coat as bid. But he did not retrieve the emeralds. Instead, he snatched his pistol from his waist.
Walstead reacted and lunged forward, grabbed Charlotte, and pulled her tight against his chest, blocking any shot Anthony might have. And then Walstead pointed his pistol straight at Anthony.
* * *
Charlotte stood frozen, her gaze locked on Mr. Walstead’s pistol, her wet boots fixed to the flagstone floor.
His fingers dug, sharp and hard, into her arm through her soaked wool pelisse.
Every heartbeat pulsed through her ears.
Every breath wheezed with desperation.
She slid her gaze to the commotion in the courtyard that had caught Mr. Walstead’s attention: Mr. Ames and other men. Perhaps watchmen. And if these were watchmen, she had no way of knowing whether they would assist Anthony and her or would support Mr. Walstead.
He spewed out another slew of curses, the first sign of a break in his haughty composure, and Charlotte’s heart leapt. He pulled her back to him even tighter, his scent of horses and brandy overwhelming her.
And she did not have time to contemplate it further, for Mr. Ames burst in the front door, pistol drawn.
One shot fired.
Then another.
The cracks echoed from the archaic stones and wooden beams.
Charlotte cried out with the shock of it, then stumbled forward as Mr. Walstead’s tight grip on her suddenly released. She fought for balance, and Mr. Walstead dropped to the ground behind her.
She gasped for air.
But there had been two shots, and she had not been hit.
She lifted her gaze.
Anthony was on his feet, but he was stumbling backward. Blood seeped through the white fabric of his neckcloth and his gray coat. He fell to the ground.
Horror froze her to her spot. Suddenly men seemed to be everywhere—shouting, running. She regained control of her limbs and rushed toward Anthony and dropped by his side. “Anthony!”
She touched his face, forcing him to look at her. His vibrant eyes were wide. But he said nothing. He gasped for air and looked down to his chest.
Her panicked words tumbled forth. “It’s going to be alright, Anthony. Breathe, my love, breathe.”
Mr. Ames pushed her away and she fell back. He ripped off his own coat and tore a sleeve free.
Anthony exhaled and leaned his head back against the stone floor. Every second seemed an eternity as Mr. Ames assessed the wound. She felt sick at the gory sights around her, and the acrid scent of gunfire and death turned her stomach. She reached for Anthony’s hand and held it as if both their lives depended on it.
She could not look at the wound as Mr. Ames cut away the fabric of Anthony’s coat or at the man who came to assist him. Instead, she leaned close to his face and spoke firmly. “Don’t close your eyes, Anthony, don’t you dare.”
Mr. Ames nudged her, jolting her from her shock. “Go find wine, whiskey. Ale. Anything. Now.”
She flew to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle, barely noticing one of the other men standing over Mr. Walstead’s body. She returned and knelt by Anthony.
“Get as much in him as you can,” instructed Mr. Ames. “He’ll be glad you did.”
She adjusted Anthony’s head just enough to get the bottle to his lips. He coughed and sputtered as she assisted him.
After several moments, Mr. Ames looked up. “The bullet went through his shoulder, close shot like that.”
She turned back to Anthony, whose eyes were beginning to flutter closed. He seemed weak, and yet he reached his other hand to her just enough to touch the fabric of her gown.
As Mr. Ames continued his work, she leaned down and kissed Anthony’s forehead. “I love you, Anthony Welbourne. Please do not leave me.”
Chapter 43
As Charlotte sat next to Anthony’s bed in the upstairs chamber, she lost track of time. The sky outside the window was black. Not even a small star dared to make an appearance. The day’s events played before her in vivid detail—the elation of saving Henry. The fear of encountering Mr. Walstead. The horror of Anthony getting shot.
Her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she would not sleep.
She could not sleep. Not until there was evidence that he was alright.
Anthony, on the other hand, had not woken since the incident. Perhaps it was the spirits poured into him, the laudanum that the surgeon had given him, the shock of the bullet to his body, or the loss of blood.
Whatever the reason, she would not leave his side. Not until she saw the blue of his eyes. Not until she told him again that she loved him.
At present Henry was asleep in the bedchamber with Sutcliffe. Mr. Ames, the magistrate, Mr. Greenwood, and the other men Mr. Ames had assembled had since removed Mr. Walstead’s body and departed to collect Timmons and Rebecca.
All was finally growing quiet, growing still, and yet anxiety wound through her, squeezing and choking. Thoughts about what might have happened plagued her, and every time she closed her eyes, the sights from earlier in the day were as detailed as they had ever been.
She brushed a wayward sable curl from Anthony’s brow. He was clean now. His bloody clothes had been cut away, and linen bandages wrapped over his shoulder and around his chest, leaving his other shoulder and arm exposed. The scent of the tincture the surgeon brought filled the chamber. Anthony seemed to sleep peacefully enough, but he looked broken, and yet she knew he possessed a strength most could only strive to emulate.
With his chest bare she could see the full extent of his war injury—of how something had crossed down the side of his face and caught again on his shoulder and appeared to deepen as it reached his arm, just as he had said. Uneven scars from hasty stitches were purple and pink on otherwise fair skin. Now his opposite shoulder and arm were bandaged—not because he was fighting for king and country but because of her.
For her.
His chest rose and fell in deep, rhythmic breaths, and she leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
She did not know what would happen next. But she had fought for Henry. And now she would fight for Anthony. It was glaringly clear now. Hollythorne House was their home, but now it would not be complete without Anthony. She loved him. Every memory, every heartache, every smile was written on her soul. On her heart. Circumstances of every kind threatened to unbind them, and yet they had found their way back to each other.
She reached out and took his large hand in hers. It seemed so much larger than she remembered. Much rougher. Calloused and scarred. It was so different from Roland Prior’s. And she never wanted to let go of it.
* * *
Noises.
Movement.
Searing pain.
Anthony was pretty sure he was dreaming—trapped in that unconscious space of alertness and decision, daydream and lucidity. He’d been here before, in the days following the Battle of New Orleans while in the field hospital and on the hospital ship. His eyes were closed. He attempted to adjust his hand, but his fingers were swollen. He seemed to vaguely recall a bout of fisticuffs.
Pain scorched through his shoulder and down his arm. His head was heavy and thick, as if emerging from a drunken fog. He pried an eye open and was met with a brightness from a candle that felt like a fiery poker stabbing his eye. He promptly closed it again. As he became more aware of his limbs, it all rushed back.