by Mara
She was going mad.
She was certainly irrational even to think of marrying Fitz. All the same, if it weren’t for his past... She made herself be honest; the truth was, she’d marry him if his crime weren’t known.
But it was.
Why did his scandal have such sharp teeth? It wasn’t fair. Anyone could make one mistake.
But people hanged for one mistake.
She puffed out a white breath. When had it happened? Perhaps it would fade with time.
But hadn’t he gone into the army because of it? She remembered his story about his new sword. Surely he’d said he’d been fifteen.
Fifteen? It was even more scandalous, she supposed, for a fifteen-year-old to be so precocious, and yet... how old had his brother’s wife been? Everything was looking different now.
Fitz was the eighth child, and his brother, Lord Leyden, was probably the first. There could be twenty years between them, so unless his brother had married a very young wife...
She stared blindly at a laurel-wreathed hero, working through the implications. He’d said nothing about who’d seduced whom—
A blow to her chest staggered her backward, and she sat on the ground with a jarring thump. Pain blossomed in her chest, and she choked for breath. She looked down to where a feathered stick—an arrow!— protruded from between her breasts. She tried to clutch at the agony, but her hands didn’t respond. A circle of black began to close in.
She tried to cling to consciousness, tried to call out, but darkness sucked her down.
Fitz heard a soft sound, turned, and saw Damaris collapse on her back. He raced to her crumpled body and fell to his knees. If this was another trick... Then he saw the arrow sticking out of her chest.
He felt as if his own heart stopped dead.
Genova knelt by his side. “My God!”
Damaris was unconscious, but his frantic hand found a pulse. No blood yet, but no one could survive such a wound. He grabbed one gloved hand tight, but she was going to die before his eyes.
Genova grasped the other. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”
He didn’t know if she was talking to Damaris, him, or herself, but her stark pallor belied her words.
As if summoned, Damaris stirred, her lids fluttering. Her hand tried to move toward her chest. “Hurts... hurts...”
“I know, love,” he said softly, blinking to clear his eyes. Zeus, what to do?
He remembered danger and swiveled to scan the area, letting go of her hand so he could shelter her with his body, though it was far too late. Too late. Too late.
He’d been guarding Genova and left Damaris to be killed.
Such a straight shot had to have come from what was called the Grecian Grove, where the wide tree trunks and life-size statues provided plenty of concealment. When the assassin tried to escape, Rothgar’s people might catch him, but what good would that do? All the same, he went through the motions. He pulled the small pistol out of his pocket.
“You can handle this?” he said to Genova.
She nodded, so he gave it to her. “Go and get help. Send for a doctor. If anyone comes at you, shoot him, but let him come close. It’s hopeless at a distance.”
She nodded, got to her feet, and ran.
Damaris was conscious but shaking, and her gloved hand fluttered near the shaft as if wanting to touch but fearing the agony of it. He grabbed her hand, holding it tight. She looked up at him, eyes dilated, mouth open to take tiny, pained breaths.
“We’ll have help soon, love,” he said, praying without hope for a miracle. Probably the kindest thing was to let her die quickly, but he couldn’t surrender her without a struggle.
The arrow stuck out beneath a button of her quilted jacket. He couldn’t see blood, but it must be soaking the clothes beneath. He had to see the damage—as if he might be able to do something. As long as he didn’t add to her agony.
“I need both my hands for a moment, love,” he said, tugging his right hand free of her clutch. Her eyes were a little less frantic—brave sweetheart—but her breathing was still shallow with pain.
“I’m going to cut off your clothing.”
Something in those huge eyes suggested a humorous comment, but when she inhaled to speak she choked with pain, and her hand went again to the shaft. He stopped it.
“That won’t help.” He drew on every ounce of strength to speak calmly. “If there are any risqué remarks, they’ll come from me.” He should be watching for another attack, but what point now? The evil was done. “This sensible quilted jacket will have to go.”
He dug out his folding knife and flicked it open, giving thanks that he still kept it razor sharp. He slid it behind the neckline and cut through the thickness there, then a straight slash down to the bottom, which again was tougher. He tried to keep the center part still, but even so he heard a little sound escape her.
Beneath, her corset was splattered with blood.
But then he realized the scarlet was only embroidered rosebuds. Faint irrational hope began to torment him.
“Now your corset, pretty one,” he said, trying for the tone of a villain in a play. “This sturdy cage of purity must go.”
The arrow pinned the stiffened, boned garment to her body, seeming to have gone right through the busk, the long piece of wood that reinforced the center front. He couldn’t see how to cut any part free without hurting her. He tried slicing the heavy cloth between two bones, but she immediately cried, “Don’t!”
Her voice was tight with pain, but she sounded remarkably well for someone suffering a mortal wound, and he’d seen plenty in that condition. Some people met death with stoical calm or even joy, but death could still be read in their features.
Heart pounding, hardly able to hope, he touched the shaft for the first time, watching Damaris’s face. She simply looked up at him, more alert by the moment.
Holding his breath, he pushed the shaft to one side, aware through his fingers that it wasn’t behaving as he’d expected. She flinched and made a noise, but surely her discomfort was closer to “ouch” than to deathly agony. Had the arrow broken at the entry point? Unlikely.
Gathering all his resolution, he took firm hold of the shaft and jerked it free.
“Ow!” But no scream, no blood, and no shattered end on the weapon.
What he held in his hand was a feathered dart about five inches long, with a fine, sharp, crumpled metal tip. Relief made him sway for a moment, and he almost burst into mad laughter.
“Saved by your stays,” he managed to say. “It never made it inside you, Damaris. It never got past the busk.”
She moved to sit up and instantly cried out again and went pale.
“Gently,” he said, holding her down. “The impact might have broken a bone. Let me see.”
A tear in the rosebudded linen over the busk showed where the dart had been. Beneath the tear the busk clearly bent down into a vee. Now he understood.
“You ladies are armored better than many soldiers, but I fear some splinters are sticking into you.” He suspected some were more like small daggers of wood. “Is that what it feels like?”
“Perhaps. And an ache,” she whispered.
“From the blow.” He prayed it hadn’t shattered her breastbone. A crossbow could fire a shot of great force, but this small dart must have come from a miniature weapon. Cunning device, but that was for later.
“I want to get you into the house, but if I try to carry you now I could drive a splinter deeper. Better to cut your corset off.”
“How dashing.”
“More of that and I’ll suspect you of arranging this in order to have your wicked way with me.”
Her lips fluttered with tentative amusement.
He held the center as immobile as he could as he sliced through the corset and the shift beneath, but he still felt and heard her flinches. Like a surgeon performing an amputation, he went for speed, but when he raised the center part to reveal the damage, he went ve
ry slowly indeed.
Blood. Enough to be alarming if he weren’t just back from the brink of terror. Fangs of wood stuck in her flesh.
She gripped his wrist. “Stop! It hurts.”
“At least you can complain more loudly.” He leaned down to look beneath the stays, trying to block the fact that he was leaning on her breast. “Jagged edges from both sides are sticking into you, love, but none are very long.” He straightened to look at her. “There’s nothing for it other than to pull them free, or it’ll hurt even more to move you.”
“Do it, then.”
He jerked the front of her stays from her body. She let out only a tight gasp, but she went white. Blood spread, freshly red, so he pulled up her skirts, slashed out a chunk of her shift, and made a pad to press to the wound. But she cried out again, grabbing his hands.
“Splinters,” he said, frustrated that he couldn’t save her from the lightest touch of pain. “I’m going to have to carry you in as you are. I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She nodded.
He pulled out his cravat pin and used it to draw the two sides of her shift together, to make her as decent as possible, to cover her exquisite breast, a pale, firm mound crested by a pretty pink nipple.
She wasn’t for him.
She would live.
It was enough.
And whoever had done this would shortly burn in hell.
He gathered her into his arms and stood. He could see that she suffered, but she made no sound except to say, “Splinters. I feel so silly.”
“Don’t. You could be dead.”
“But why? What happened? What was that weapon?”
He’d put the dart in his pocket for later examination, and as he carried her quickly toward the house and safety, he said, “A dart, probably fired from a small crossbow. I’ve seen such things. They’re small enough to be concealed in the clothing but can be deadly all the same.”
“But who would want to kill me?”
Fitz hadn’t had time to think. As he entered the house, the identity of the killer seemed clear. Whoever stood to inherit Damaris’s fortune.
Genova hurried to meet them. “I’ve sent for the doctor! Ash is with the dowager.” Genova stared. “ Damaris! You’re all right?”
“The bolt hit her busk.” Fitz halted. Now that they were safely inside, relief and safety threatened to crumple him. “By God’s grace she escaped death, but only by His grace.”
“Praise heaven! Praise heaven. I was sure—”
“She has splinters that need to come out,” he said, summoning his strength and carrying Damaris upstairs.
Genova came with him, hurrying ahead to open doors. As he laid Damaris on her bed, Genova slipped Damaris’s cloak off, then spread a blanket over her chest.
“How do you feel?” Fitz asked, wanting to brush stray hairs off her face but knowing his control held by only a thread.
“Safe. Because of you.”
“I notably failed to keep you safe.” When she stirred, he said, “Stay flat until the splinters are out.”
He couldn’t remain here for that operation, but hated to leave her. He knew she was in little danger in the house, but all the same he wanted to stay close.
“Why me?” she asked. “I had my hood down. No one could have mistaken me for Genova.”
He hated to frighten her more, but truth was best. “I’m realizing too late that you may have been the target all along. For your money, I assume. Do you know who your heir is?”
Her eyes widened. “No. I never thought to ask. How stupid of me.”
“I should have thought of it. I was obsessed with the danger to Ash.”
Genova said, “You have to go, Fitz. We can’t dig out splinters while you’re here, and Ash should be told.” When he hesitated, she added, “I’m sure we’re all safe in the house, but just in case, I have your pistol.”
“Nonsense, of course, but it’s as well to take precautions.” He still felt as if he wore leaden shoes, but he made himself move toward the door. He turned to find Damaris frowning at him.
“This seems so silly,” she said.
“Sweet one, if only it were.” With that, he left.
“He’s madly in love with you,” Genova said.
Damaris looked at her. “Truly?”
“He wept when he thought you were dying.”
“Because he’d failed to protect me. It was shame, not love.”
“He called you ‘love.’ I see all the reasons against your marrying him, but feelings of that intensity aren’t something to brush aside.”
Damaris pressed a hand to the place where her torn flesh throbbed. A place so close to her wounded heart. “I think he’d fight me hardest.”
Maisie rushed in. “What’ve you been doing now, Miss Damaris? I dunno, I can’t let you out of my sight!”
There was no way to conceal the truth, so Damaris told Maisie the story.
The maid grabbed the bedpost. “Someone shot at you, miss?”
“Yes, but you’re not to tell anyone. We’ll say I tripped and bruised myself.”
“Bloody clothes?” Genova queried.
“And gashed myself on some glass. We’ll take the evidence to London, anyway. We’re going there tomorrow, Maisie.”
“Heaven be praised! But what about whoever did this?”
Damaris met Genova’s eyes grimly, but said, “That’s all taken care of. Now please find the tweezers and desplinter me.”
Maisie hurried to the chest of drawers, muttering, and some of it was “that Fitzroger...”
Genova pulled out the long cravat pin so she could part her ruined shift. Damaris noticed it was silver topped by a plain knob. Fitz should have something finer. Diamonds, she thought.
Perhaps because of her brush with death, she was certain now: She wanted him, scandal or no. He was her handsome hero par excellence.
“Who might your heir be?” Genova asked, bringing a damp cloth to wipe away blood.
Damaris realized she’d been trying to hide from that thought. “I don’t know.”
“Your father’s family?”
“They cast him off, and he cared nothing for them.”
“A friend, perhaps. Even someone from the East.”
“That seems most likely. How strange to have a deadly enemy I’ve never met.”
Maisie came over with Damaris’s small medicine chest. “It’s all his doing,” she grumbled, taking the cloth from Genova. “Oh, you poor dear. You’re all torn up and swelling. This is going to hurt.”
“Just do it. Make sure to get all the bits out.”
It did hurt, but it was the kind of pain that could be borne, especially with Genova holding her hand, especially when thinking of a man who had wept for loss of her. She knew she was in no state for clear thinking, but she wanted him. Forever. Life was too short and chancy for second-best.
“There, miss. I think that’s all of it. How shall I dress it?”
Damaris asked for a mirror. Her wounds looked rather paltry for all the fuss and discomfort, but there was always the danger of infection.
“The green salve and then basilicum ointment. A clean cloth on top. I supposed I’ll have to wear a long bandage wrapped around me to hold it in place. And then I’ll need a fresh shift and my robe.”
“You’re never getting up, miss! You stay in bed after such a nasty shock.”
“I’ll go mad lying here. I want to be up, and I want sweet brandied tea. But not too sweet.”
Maisie dressed the wound; then Genova helped Damaris sit up so the long bandage could be wrapped around her. It didn’t hurt much, but her head swam. It was sinking in that someone had tried to kill her.
Twice.
She remembered the snaggletoothed man and knew he had poisoned the cider at Pickmanwell. She hadn’t entirely misjudged his unpleasant expression. He’d intended the poison for her. Was he her heir? Or a hired killer?
She needed Genova’s arm to walk to a chair by the fire. Maisie pu
t a footstool beneath her feet and wrapped a woolen rug around her, and Damaris didn’t object. The room wasn’t cold, but she felt chilled to her bones.
Maisie hurried away, and Genova put another log on the fire. Then she went to the window, which was ice-free at this time of day. But the ice would return with the night.
“I assume there’s no one skulking out there?” Damaris asked.
Genova turned. “Of course not. And I’m sure you’re safe inside.”
“How stupid not to know who my heir is. I should have demanded to see my father’s will instead of letting my trustees explain the relevant parts in simple terms.” She sighed. “I found reading my mother’s will tedious, so when I discovered my father’s will concerned me I was glad to be spared the effort. And thus sloth is punished.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Who would imagine such wickedness?”
“As soon as we get to London I’m going to read every word.” But first, she thought with a glance at the window, she’d have to get to London without being killed. A shot could be fired from anywhere.
Maisie returned with a pot of tea and two cups. Genova poured it and added milk. When she picked up a second lump of sugar, Damaris said, “Not too sweet, remember.”
They shared a wry smile as Genova passed the cup.
As Damaris sipped, the chill melted. Her heart rate steadied, but she kept thinking back to that moment when she’d felt the hard blow and looked down to see the shaft sticking out of her chest.
It was as pointless as probing a sore tooth in the hope that this time it wouldn’t hurt, but she couldn’t help it. She could have died.
There was a knock on the door and Maisie answered it. Fitzroger asked permission to come in.
Damaris gave it, and he came over to her. “Is it very painful?”
She realized she’d been pressing her chest. “No. Hardly at all now that the splinters are all out.”
“Are you well enough to be up?” he asked, concerned, but without obvious love or passion.
“Yes, truly.”
“Will you be able to travel tomorrow, then?” he asked. “Those papers should be taken to the king and I’ll be happier to see you in the safety of Rothgar’s London house.”
