Rhys cursed. “This has gone too far."
Michael sighed. “I believe that ball took quite a bit of your hide when it went past."
Emme paled. “You were shot?"
"It's nothing,” Rhys protested.
Emme squared her shoulders and began issuing orders to the servants. With hot water and bandages ordered, she followed Rhys and Michael up the stairs to their chambers. Rhys’ valet was there, and Emme thought the man would weep as he had to cut the coat and waistcoat from her husband. There was a shallow gouge that arced across Rhys’ shoulder. It did not appear to be a severe wound but it was bleeding terribly. Rhys was stripped to his breeches and seated on the bed, where Michael began to poke and prod at the wound, eliciting more than a few curses and threats.
Satisfied that his friend would not die from the wound, Michael cleaned the blood away with brisk economical movements.He turned to Emme. “Bring me the Scotch,” he said, gesturing to the decanter on the table.
Emme did as he asked.
She watched as Rhys took a healthy swallow from the decanter and then braced himself for what was to come. Michael poured the whiskey over the wound and Rhys’ breath hissed out between his teeth.
When it was done, Michael applied a few stitches to the wound and then bandaged it. It took only a few moments, but she felt as if it had taken years off of her life. Wearily, she collapsed onto the large chair before the fireplace.
"This has to stop,” she said. “Broken carriage wheels, gunshots, being followed—no, being hunted! We cannot live this way."
Michael recognized the rising hysteria. He gave a brief salute to Rhys and quickly made his escape. With Michael gone from the room, Rhys beckoned her.
When she stood beside the bed, within reach, he took her hands in his and said, “We will stop it. But for now, come to bed. Let's forget about the outside world at least until tomorrow morning."
Emme wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around her. With his assistance, she shrugged out of her gown and stays, stripping off her stockings with no thought as to how seductive her movements were.
Wearing only her chemise she slipped between the covers and took solace in the warmth of his body against hers.
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Chapter Eleven
The Somerfield ball had been pleasant enough, though in light of Rhys’ injury, Emme had wished to beg off. He had refused, of course. He wanted to get their society duties over with and return to Briarwood Park. He also wanted the person who had hired the thug from the previous evening to see him about, hale and hearty. Unable to fault his logic, Emme had relented and endured the stares and whispers. She'd waltzed with Rhys and that had made it all worth it. No one would guess that he had been shot the night before. His movements were as sure and confident as always.
Only the unexpected presence of Lord Alistair Brammel had marred the evening. He'd requested a dance and had done so in such a manner that it would have been rude to deny him and would have undoubtedly resulted in a scandal. Though she'd wanted to run away when he'd taken her arm to lead her onto the floor, Emme had allowed him to lead her in a quadrille. It had taken all of her will not to pull away from him. She couldn't pinpoint why he made her so uncomfortable.
From the tightening of Rhys’ jaw and the icy glare that he had directed at Alistair, she knew that he been less than pleased, as well. She didn't fully understand the enmity between them, but she suspected it had far more to do with Elise, than with Alistair's rapscallion ways. Nonetheless, the tension between the two men was palpable. Thankfully, Alistair had been on his best behavior.
The rest of the week had passed in a blur of parties. Each one had been indecipherable from its predecessor. She had been greeted by whispers, smirks and knowing stares at every turn. She was viewed as the worst sort of upstart by society—a social climber and a fortune hunter. Their reception had little impact on Rhys.
Their last night in town they attended a small gathering. It was a quiet evening, with a literary theme. It was a terrific bore for Rhys, but was the most enjoyable evening Emme had spent in society. The evening had been devoted to Shakespeare's sonnets and she'd found both the conversation and the company to be convivial.
They had left early, using their pending journey as a convenient excuse. The return to trip was less tumultuous than the trip to London had been. There were no accidents and the roads were marginally better. Making better time meant fewer nights at posting inns, which was a relief for Emme. It was also a relief to get back so that they could turn their attention to finding Melisande's killer. Emme felt compelled, as if something was pulling her back there, urging her to return the entire time they'd been away. She didn't say as much to Rhys, as she knew he would think her mad.