The Duke's Perfect Wife(73)

When she swam to consciousness again, she found herself on the floor, Hart on top of her, Daniel and Cameron on top of him. There was shouting, crying, cursing.

Hart cupped Eleanor’s face in his hands, gaze searching, eyes filled with fear. “El.”

I’m perfectly all right, Eleanor tried to say. She had no energy to form the words. She looked down at her beautiful wedding gown and saw that it was scarlet with blood. Oh, dear. Isabella will be so annoyed.

“Eleanor, stay still.” Hart’s voice was harsh.

Cam and Daniel got to their feet. Cameron bellowed orders at the top of his lungs, the sound hurting her head, and Daniel dashed away.

Eleanor touched Hart’s chest—whole, no blood. Thank God.

“I thought he hit you.” Eleanor’s words came out a slur. She tried to push Hart away, but her hands were too weak.

“Don’t move.” Hart lifted her and cradled her against his chest. “El, I’m so sorry.”

But Hart hadn’t had the revolver. That boy had fired the shot. So young, so young… Poor lad.

Lord Ramsay flung himself on his knees on her other side, his faced creased with terrible worry. “Eleanor. My sweet little Eleanor.”

Hart looked up at the ring of faces surrounding them, singling out Cameron, who’d returned, it seemed. “Tell me you have him. Tell me you got the bastard.”

Cameron nodded grimly. “Fellows is on him. He and the constable are taking him to the village lockup.”

“No, I want him here.” Hart’s voice cut through the noise. “Put him in my study and hold him there.”

Cameron didn’t argue. He nodded once and pushed away, his big body parting the crowd.

“How did he get past you?” Hart was bellowing to his men, and really, Eleanor did have a headache.

He was just a boy. Who notices a boy sent to hold the horses?

Eleanor heard them answering Hart, but dizziness spun the room about her, and she had to close her eyes. The next time she opened them, Isabella, Beth, and Ainsley hovered over her.

“Let us take her, Hart,” Beth was saying. “She needs looking after.”

Hart didn’t want to let Eleanor go. He held Eleanor on his lap, against his chest, great rage on his face. His eyes were wet, though, making the golden light in them glitter.

Eleanor tried to reach for him, to comfort him, but her hand fell back. Don’t worry, Hart. They simply need to help me fix my dress. It will be all right.

Her words came out a mumble, which worried her. Beth shoved a glass under her nose. “Drink this.”

Eleanor obeyed because she was suddenly very thirsty. The water tasted wrong, but she drank. It slid down her throat, and her limbs went limp.

We should go and greet our guests now, she tried to say. Isabella’s planned everything so carefully…

When Eleanor woke again, she was lying flat on her back in bed, her left arm stiff and hot. Her fine wedding dress was gone, and she was in her nightgown. From the way the light slanted through the windows, it was late afternoon.

She threw the covers off in panic. Today was her wedding day. Why hadn’t Maigdlin or Isabella woken her? She had dreamed of the wedding—the crowd, the queen, Hart fine in his plaids, his eyes holding triumph.

Eleanor sat up, but her head spun so much that she fell back to the pillow. After taking a few deep breaths, she lifted her head again, carefully this time.

She discovered that her left arm was wrapped, wrist to shoulder, in a tight bandage. Eleanor stared at it in surprise. No wonder it felt so odd.

The arm’s soreness cleared the fog of sleep, and Eleanor remembered. She’d been walking back down the aisle with Hart, a married lady, when the lad in a horse boy’s livery had darted through the windows, aimed the pistol, and fired. In panic, she’d shoved Hart aside. The bullet must have hit her as she and Hart tumbled to the floor.

She lifted her arm, and pain rippled through it like fire.

Her cry brought hurrying footsteps, then Maigdlin. “My lady, are you all right? Do you need more laudanum? I’ll fetch it.”

“No.” Eleanor lay down again, being careful not to move too quickly. “I don’t want to sleep. Where is Hart? Is he all right?”

“His Grace is in his study, my lady. I mean, Your Grace. He’s been shouting something fierce. The constable took that boy with the pistol away, even though His Grace told him not to, and now His Grace is threatening to sack him if he don’t get the boy back here. But the constable says he answers to the magistrate, and now His Grace wants the magistrate here too. And the guests don’t know what to do—about half have left, but the others are staying the night here, and it’s a right mess.” Maigdlin related the tale with relish. “His Grace is torn up about the bullet hitting you. Right off his head, he is.”