Forget Me Not Page 29

  The muzzle flashed, lighting the gray around her. Lydia never even heard the bang. Intently she stared at Roark’s back. Nothing happened. Roark’s weapon exploded. Panic nearly consumed her as, with shaking hands, she fumbled to reload the pistol. Simultaneously Roark and the viscount turned. She cringed back into the bushes. It was then she spotted Brian lying on his stomach in the grass, unmoving.

  No! Internally she screamed, dying inside. Brian was dead. No sooner than the thought crushed her mind than Roark crumpled to his knees, the flintlock slipping from his limp fingers. For a moment it seemed he looked directly into her eyes, Lydia’s breath hitched, but Roark collapsed face down in the mud. Dead. Northbridge did not as much as glance at his fallen henchman before striding with dangerous intent toward Lydia’s measly haven.

  A second muzzle flash glinted off the falling raindrops with the eerie beauty of sparkling diamonds. It took Lydia half a heartbeat to realize the spark flashed from where Brian lay in the grass, and half a beat more to see the viscount flop face first into the grass.

  Could Brian still be alive? Had he shot the viscount? “Brian!” The pistol dropped from her hand squishing in the muddy grass. She clawed through the bushes, letting them tear her expensive skirts, and sprinted across the stretch of barren lawn between them. She couldn’t get to him fast enough. A surge of relief flooded her senses as he rose to a knee, eying the surrounding area. “Brian.” She sobbed, running headlong toward him arms outstretched.

  A jagged lightning strike creased the sky, lighting his face. Horror laced his features. “Lydia!” He charged forward, lifting the pistol as though to fire. When nothing happened he threw the weapon aside, lunging for her.

  Confusion washed through Lydia. What’s wrong? She swung her head around. Another crisp bolt of lightning illuminated the kneeling figure of Lord Northbridge, a weapon leveled in his hand trained on Brian. Her heart stopped cold. A muzzle flash sparked through the gray. Without a thought she threw herself in front of Brian. Searing, white hot pain exploded through Lydia. “Augh.” She crumpled forward. I’m shot. Brian’s arms steeled around her, cradling her against his chest as he slid to the sodden ground. Vaguely, she was aware of shouting, and more muzzle flashes.

  “Lydia, Lydia, no. Why did ye do that?” He grabbed the side of her face in a palm. Eyes crazed with sorrow bored into hers. “Someone please! We need help over here.” His hand traveled down to the wound in her back. “We’ve got to get ye inside, love. I cannot tend yer wound out here.”

  Excruciating, throbbing pain radiated from the left side of her back, paralyzing even the will to fight. A low ring hummed in her ears, making it difficult to concentrate. Blackness rippled at the edge of her vision. “Brian,” she whispered hoarsely, wrapping her fingers in his shirt, holding him as an anchor. She needed an anchor.

  Anguish embedded every facet of his handsome face. “Hush, love, don’t try to speak.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Hang onto me, lass. Just hold on. Ye’re goin’ to be fine. Just fine.”

  Numbness traveled up her limbs, blocking the cold. The hold on his shirt weakened, her fingers slipping down his chest. A strange, almost fuzzy sensation took over her senses. “But, I—I must tell you…” She swallowed, her tongue thick. “Before it’s too late.”

  “No, love, don’t talk that way. Just stay with me. It’s not too late.”

  But it was too late. Lydia knew that. “I have no regrets, Brian. Not one flowing through my mind.” The rippling blackness closed in. Her eyes drifted closed, the effort to keep them open monumental. “I love you.”

  * * *

  Blood, thick and warm, pooled in Brian’s hand. “Oh, God,” he sobbed, hefting Lydia into his arms. Her head bobbed back, completely lifeless. For a single heart shattering second he feared she’d stopped breathing. He pressed a cheek to her mouth and nose, reassured by the warm gusts still escaping her lips.

  “Sir William!” Frantically he searched the dim surroundings for any sign of the general. Brian spotted the man kicking the unmoving figure of Northbridge, a gun trained on the viscount’s head. “Sir William,” he called a second time, but the din drowned the call. “Bloody hell,” he swore, heaving to his feet, clutching Lydia to his chest.

  He ran to the house, exploding through the front door. “I need help!” Instantly he strode to the stairs.

  “My, God, man.” Harkens voice answered Brian’s call. “What is the meaning of—” The butler stopped dead in his tracks, aghast. “Oh, dear.”

  “Miss Covington has been shot.” Brian continued mounting the stairs two at a time. “Have boiling water, fresh linens and bandages brought to her quarters immediately. Also see to it Dr. Byler is summoned. There is not time to waste.”

  “Right away, Mr. Donnelly.” Harkens scurried down the hall.

  A flurry of mumbling voices followed Brian to the second story as servants piled into the front hall.

  “Lydia’s been what?” Olivia’s voice screeched from the foot of the stairs. “Shot? No, it can’t be! William! Where is my William?”

  Brian blocked the hysterics from his mind, focusing on his primary purpose—get Lydia into bed and put pressure on that wound before she lost any more blood. With effort he ignored the trail of blood trickling down the hall behind them.

  He stepped through her bedroom door, instantly assailed by sweet memories of the night before. Despair nearly crushed him. What a fool he’d been to push her away. Now all chance of happiness with the woman he loved may be lost. The worst was he’d never told her how he truly felt. Brian shoved the miserable thoughts away.

  Gently he settled Lydia on the bed, assessing the ashen hue of her face. He squeezed her hand, and the white imprint of his thumb remained on her knuckles. Damn, she’d lost a lot of blood. “Focus, Donnelly, ye’ve done this a time or two before.”

  Quickly he scanned the room in search of clean bandages to apply pressure to her wound. His eyes fell to a white muslin gown hanging on the bureau door—Lydia’s cursed wedding dress no doubt—he tore off a layer of the soft fabric and rolled Lydia to her side. A deep puddle of burgundy blood soaked the sheets. “Christ.” He shoved the wadded cloth against the wound, stemming the ooze. “Where is that goddamned doctor?” he bellowed. His gaze moved to the door and collided with the huge terrified eyes of Brandon.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Brandon, go back to yer room.”

  Wide watery eyes flicked from Brian to the blood soaked bed. “But—”

  “Do not argue with me, lad. Get out of here. I will come fer you when this is over.”

  The boy stumbled back a step, colliding with Olivia.

  “Lydia! Lydia! Where is my daughter?” Olivia’s frantic eyes flitted about the room. “Oh, my god.” Olivia clasped a hand over her mouth, chest heaving on a sob. “Is she…?”

  “No,” Brian bit tersely, not entirely sure what he’d answered no to. The situation was spinning rapidly out of control.

  Brandon darted back into the room, tears streaming down his cheeks. “She’s goin’ to die isn’t she? Miss Lydia—”

  “Will be fine!” Brian jerked an arm toward the door. “Mrs. Covington, get him out of here. Now.”

  “I—I…” She looked from Lydia’s battered form to Brian and back again. “Very well.” Olivia caught Brandon’s shoulder, pulling him toward the door. “Let’s go to my room and say a prayer, shall we?”

  No sooner than Brandon and Olivia left the room but three harried servants rushed in with boiling water and bandages.

  “Where is the doctor?” Brian barked, setting to work ripping the bloodied layers of clothing from Lydia’s body. Not once did she rouse.

  “Here.” Dr. Byler strode coolly into the room, a pensive mask on his face.

  Relief flooded Brian. “Finally.”

  “I’ll need the water and bandages laid out on the table,” the doctor ordered, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. “Mrs. Hayes, you will assist me again.”

  “Of c
ourse, Doctor.”

  Brian was quickly shoved back and away from the bed. An overpowering sense of uselessness assailed him. He moved to wipe a hand over his face but stopped short… blood dripped to his elbows. He wiped his hands on his trousers, stomach churning. Heavily he sank into a chair, trying to catch even a glimpse of Lydia behind the wall the doctor and his assistants created.

  “I’ve got the bullet, now let’s roll her back. Easy does it.”

  An arm, limp like a ragdoll, flopped over the side of the bed.

  “Damn it,” Dr. Byler cursed. “She’s not breathing!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fog, thick and ominous, settled dismally around Wheaton Abbey. Brian stood in the yard outside the house, battling the melancholy permanently attached to his soul, gazing upon the ancient cemetery nestled against the stone wall. Wisps of mist curled around the tombstones, lonely spirits beckoning, pleading, for a mate.

  “Thought I might find you here, Donnelly. How are you holding up?”

  Brian turned as Sir William approached, warily gauging the general’s reaction. “Well enough, Sir.” Brian hadn’t been allowed to see Lydia since that fateful night. He met the general’s haggard gaze and for once all that reflected back was Lydia’s father. No cutthroat politician, just a man about to lose everything of value in his world. “And you?”

  “Just taking a break.” Sir William scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Seeing her that way…”

  Brian could well imagine… Unmoving… terrified each shallow breath would be her last. “I understand, sir.”

  Sir William looked away, eyes suspiciously moist. “Brian,” he began slowly. “I never had, er—” Clearly uncomfortable, the older man cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t hold our conversation in your cottage the other day against me.”

  Brian quirked a brow. General William Covington apologizing? Had hell frozen over?

  “This,” Sir William gestured obtusely about the yard, “has given me a bit of perspective on life, and I may have overreacted. You’re welcome to stay on as my horse trainer for as long as you’d like.”

  For the briefest instant Brian’s spirit lifted, if—

  “However,” the general continued ominously, “if by some miracle Lydia lives she is not for you.”

  An apology, arms open, welcoming Brian into the family would have been far too much to hope for. “Still lookin’ out fer your interests I see.”

  Sir William’s face hardened. “My daughter can do miles better than you.”

  “I know.” Brian shifted his gaze back to the ghostlike mist. How could any man prove so callous while his daughter lay dying just inside the house?

  For a long moment Sir William was silent. “Dr. Byler just left.”

  “And?” Brian’s gaze drifted up to Lydia’s third story window.

  “No change. No improvement.” The general sighed. “If anything more happens to her I will never forgive myself.”

  The fatherly guise flashed back over the older man’s face, and Brian took momentary pity on the general. In some ways the two of them were kindred spirits. “Do not blame yerself, sir. Her bein’ shot is not yer fault.” It’s mine. If only the shot he’d fired into the viscount’s back had proved truer. A vivid replay of the events two days before spun sickeningly through his mind. The gunfire… the rain… Lydia collapsing limp in his arms… the crimson blood staining his hands. She’d saved his life. Why? He wasn’t worth it. Didn’t deserve such sacrifice. Brian would give anything to take her place.

  Sir William stepped to the hall window, gazing upon the swirling vapors tripping through the cemetery. “Isn’t it? I betrothed her to that murdering bastard.”

  Brian didn’t know how to respond, Sir William had done nothing less than hundreds of fathers before him. “How is yer wife farin’?”

  The older man scrubbed a hand across his face. “Not well. I finally convinced her to rest a spell.”

  “Sir William?” The gentle voice of Harkens interrupted the conversation. “The magistrate is here to see you. Are you able to receive him?”

  “Of course.” The general cleared his throat, straightening the navy blue jacket he’d worn the last two days. “Bring him to my study, and ask Mrs. Hayes to prepare tea and coffee.”

  “Certainly.” Harkens bowed and strode down the hall.

  “Would you like to come to the house and sit in, Donnelly? The magistrate is sure to hear what you have to say again.”

  “No thank you, sir. I’ll just stay out here.” Keeping his silent vigil outside Lydia’s window. Brian had no desire to participate in the muddle of the late viscount’s death. Rumors flew through the countryside, and every precaution had been taken to keep the truth tightly under wraps until the new lord arrived. The whole debacle sickened Brian. The peerage never answered for their crimes… not even the murder of innocent women.

  The general nodded, a keen glimmer of understanding in his eye, and clapped Brian’s shoulder before following Harkens toward the staircase.

  “Sir William?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would ye check on Brandon for me? The lad hasn’t left his room since Lydia…” His voice broke.

  “Of course.”

  Brian would have gone to the boy himself, but he lacked the strength to lie to Brandon again. All along he’d told the lad everything was being done for Lydia, that he only needed to pray a little harder… the same empty lines nuns had filled Brian’s head with as a child.

  Heart heavy, Brian ambled about the yard below Lydia’s window. Surreptitiously he sidled up to the servant’s entrance and slipped through, quietly negotiating the halls to Lydia’s chamber. He had to see her. Part of him hated to go in, to see the sallow pallor of her skin, but he feared wasting even a moment while life still lingered. Should she rouse for even a moment, he wanted to be at her side. Softly he rapped the wooden panes. When no one called from within he opened the door and slid silently through, glad for a moment alone with her.

  Instantly his gaze fell to the oversize bed, Lydia lay at the center, still as death. Dim light filtered through the window, accentuating the curve of her cheekbones. A tinge of pink lit her face, more pink than he’d seen after her injury two days ago. His heart leapt with hope. Cruelly he quashed it. Impossible. Lydia did not look better… she was dying.

  At this point hope was the enemy.

  He crossed the distance to the bed, silently—perhaps foolishly—willing her eyes to open. Nothing. A mere shell of the woman he loved lay broken before him. It won’t be long now, the hardened soldier within him barked.

  Miserably he raked a hand through his hair. “Please, no.” He crumbled beside the bed, heart shattering mid-beat as the last sliver of faith gave into despair. “Oh, Lydia,” he croaked, raking a hand through the length of hair draped across the pristine white pillows. “Where do I go from here? There is nothin’ in this life I want without ye. Fer years there was you, only you… I could never keep ye from me mind. I miss the feel of yer arms, lass. I miss the fire in yer eyes.”

  Brian stretched beside her, drawing her into his arms. For as long as this miserable limbo lasted he would feel her warmth in his arms. He buried his face in her silken hair, inhaling the sweet smell of roses and rain, striving to commit every inch of her to memory. “I cannot go on without ye, love.”

  The mist continued to dance and weave eerily outside the window, lending a timeless quality to the air around them. Brian knew the keenest sense of living in a single magical moment… as though nothing—not even death—could touch them.

  “Grá mo chroí,” he murmured, softly kissing her forehead.

  A small sigh escaped Lydia’s lips. “Will you ever tell me the meaning of those words?”

  Brian froze, certain he’d gone mad. Lydia wriggled in his arms before turning huge amber eyes to him.

  “Y-ye’re awake!” A mixture of disbelief and joy washed through him.

  “Yes.” She yawned, snuggling into him. “I’ve had t
he strangest dreams.” Her tongue swept across her lips. “And I’m so thirsty.”

  Brian could hardly comprehend her words. “Thirsty? Oh, yes, of course.” He scrambled off the bed, grabbing the glass and pitcher on the nightstand. “Here ye are, love.” He sat beside her, lifting her head, helping her drink. His mind whirled, dumbfounded with shock. Just seconds ago Lydia was sure to die and now…

  She moved as though to sit and grimaced.

  “Easy, lass.” He settled her back against the pillows, smoothing her hair with a palm. “It’ll take some time to regain yer strength. I should fetch the doctor and yer father.” Or perhaps just pull the bell cord and leave so Sir William would never be the wiser to his visiting Lydia. “Everyone’s been very worried.”

  A glimmer of understanding sparked in her eye. “I remember being shot.” Her eyes widened in sudden alarm. “Lord Northbridge?”

  “Dead, love. He’ll never bother ye again. Yer father is safe, Olivia is safe. No one else was harmed by his hand.” Brian lifted her fingers to his lips. “One of Northbridge’s hired lackeys told us everything when he was arrested, but don’t worry yer pretty head about that now. I’ll explain all in time. Right now ye need to rest.”

  She nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “There is no need to explain, Brian. Lord Northbridge spoke of his plans when he tried to take me from Wheaton Abbey. He also mentioned a very important question you intend to ask me.”

  “Aye, love, there is somethin’ very important I need to talk with ye about.” Brian hesitated, taking in her peaceful expression. Running would not be an option until she recovered, and Lydia was entirely too impatient to keep her mouth shut while she gained strength enough to elope. “But, later, when the time is right.” For a long moment Brian just gazed upon her. “I love you, Lydia. Always and forever.”