Chapter Thirty-Four

Theo couldn't quite process what she had done.

The gun was in her hands, which suggested she had been the one to shoot Sir Montague, but nothing quite felt real. The air was too thick, and she was struggling to drag it into her lungs, because she was falling, falling, falling.

A voice. Her name. She snapped her head up, but the figure in the doorway was blurred. Something hot ran down her face as she blinked, and the figure lurched forwards. Towards her. Hands outstretched, saying her name again in a pleading way that tugged at her heart.

The gun toppled from her fingers, landing on the carpet with a dull thud that radiated through her.

Sir Montague fell to his knees. Blood stained his brocade waistcoat, and he pressed his hands to his stomach, pulling them away with an expression of confusion, as though the redness there didn't make sense.

Theo wasn't certain she was breathing.

"Theo," the voice said again, and now there were hands on her face, turning her to look at him. Familiar grey eyes greeted her, filled with concern and anguish and an expression she couldn't name, that put air back into her lungs and spurred her mouth into speaking.

"Nate," she whispered.

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

At the mention of hurt, she looked back at Sir Montague, still on the floor. The detachment faded, replaced by alarm. She had done this. She had done it.

As though Nathanial sensed her shifting mood, he released her and knelt by Sir Montague's side. "There's a lot of blood," he said grimly.

Sir Montague raised his head. Every breath was ragged, and Theo thought she could hear something liquid bubbling at the back of his throat.

He couldn't die. Not now. Not because of her .

"Theo, fetch Mrs Clayton," Nathanial said sharply. "Tell her to send for a doctor."

"Trying to save my life, cousin?" Sir Montague's snort was weak. "I beg you wouldn't bother."

"Theo," Nathanial said again. " Go ."

Her feet moved before her mind did, consumed as it was by the sight of Sir Montague lying on the floor, bleeding out against the rich, green carpet.

She had done that.

And Nathanial was here. How he had come to be here now, she didn't know, but she could cry at the sight of him, coolly peeling back Sir Montague's shirt to reveal the wound, unhesitating in everything he did.

But she couldn't cry. Not when Sir Montague's life hung in the balance.

She had shot him .

Mrs Clayton hovered outside the library door, her hands fluttering beside her mouth, and Theo drew herself up. She was a duchess .

"There's been an accident," she said, her voice cool and clear. "Send for a doctor immediately."

Mrs Clayton's eyes darted from the doorway, through which little was visible, to Theo's face. "I'll get the stable boy to take the trap into the village," she said. "Dr Brayburn resides there, and—"

"Thank you," Theo said, cutting her off. "Do it now, please."

"Of course, Your Grace." She bobbed a harassed curtsy and waddled down the corridor, calling for her husband in a loud, brash voice.

Theo slipped back into the library and closed the door behind her. "She's sending for a doctor," she said, her voice not quite sounding like her own.

Nathanial glanced up and nodded. "Help me remove his coat." He paused as he withdrew a knife from Montague's pocket and held it up to the light. A frown caught the corner of his mouth. "This is familiar."

"That's because I took it," she said, coming to kneel beside him.

"I see." In a quick, easy motion, he sliced through Sir Montague's coat, followed by his shirt. "Help me hold him up so I can remove these."

The last thing she wanted to do was lift up a man twice her size, who thanks to her might soon be a corpse, but there was no one else to help, and Nathanial had given her the instruction in the steady understanding she could obey.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and raised Montague's shoulders, allowing Nathanial to peel his clothes away. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking. "I never intended . . . I'm so sorry."

Sir Montague's lips twitched into a ghastly facsimile of his languid smile. "An excellent shot, Duchess. "

A muscle in Nathanial's jaw ticked, but all he said was, "Hold these strips, Theo."

They worked in silence, wrapping Montague's ripped shirt around his stomach, the binding tight and quickly stained with blood. There was so much of it, coating Theo's hands, hanging pungent and coppery in the air until she wanted to vomit.

Montague didn't wake. She wasn't sure if he ever would again.

Finally, Nathanial rocked back on his heels, and Theo slumped against the ground. Her hands were shaking. If Montague died, she would be responsible. She would be a murderer.

She rose, stumbling from the library, away from the body and the proof of what she had done.

"Stay with him," Nathanial commanded behind her, but tears were blurring her eyes, and she couldn't see who he was addressing.

It didn't matter.

Her shoulder knocked against a wall and her knees gave out. Sobs, ugly and raw, burst from her throat, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

"Theo," Nathanial murmured, wrapping his fingers around her wrists and pulling them from her face. "My sweet, foolish darling." He eased her against him, his arms settling around her back, and with a gasp, she submitted to his embrace. He smelt like home.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh. Shh." With one hand, he stroked her hair; the other locked around her waist, holding her more securely against him. They were on the floor, the marble cold against her legs and Nathanial's legs on either side of her. His arms cradled her. And for the first time since Sir Montague had caught her, she released the fear that had been building in her chest. She cried, not caring Nathanial's shirt was wet under her face, or that the rough material made her skin itch. She cried until there were no tears left and all she was left with was an aching hollowness that devoured her heart.

This was her fault.

Nathanial shifted under her, and she tried to draw back in alarm. "Am I hurting you?"

His arms tightened, holding her in place. "Don't think of it."

"Nate—"

"Let me hold you. It's all I thought of doing since I discovered you were missing." His lips brushed her hair, and his voice broke. "You stupid, stupid girl."

She pressed her face more deeply into his uninjured shoulder and choked back another sob. "I know."

"I thought I would never see you again. I thought—" His breath caught and he drew back so he could tip her face up to his. His thumb swiped tears from her face as he kissed her, seeking and giving assurance with every movement of his mouth. When he pulled away, hers was not the only face that was wet. "I thought I'd lost you."

Theo closed her eyes.

"I can't be without you," he said, his voice raw and ragged, each word ripped from him. "I thought about it, Theo. I thought about what my life would be without you in it, and I couldn't. You had my heart before I knew I'd given it, and you have it still. You might—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "You might not love me in return, but—"

"I do," she said, taking his face in her hands. His eyes widened and met hers, wonder and adoration in them like the rising sun. "You married me to rescue me, Nate, and everything since . . . How could I not love you? How could I ever love someone else?"

There was blood on his face from her hands. Sir Montague's blood. And she was certain there was blood on her dress. But when Nathanial reached up to brush her cheek with his fingertips, so lightly and gently she might have imagined it, she forgot to care.

"And your heart?" he whispered.

"In your keeping," she whispered back, their breaths mingling. She rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes. "As it has been for longer than I care to remember."

"Montague—"

"I don't want him to die, but that doesn't mean I love him." She hesitated. "I never did."

His sigh was heavy, one of relief, and his nose nudged hers. "I'm not ashamed to admit I'm glad."

She wanted to remain in his embrace forever; she wanted to forget the rest of the world existed and lose herself in him. And, by the way his arm tightened around her, he wanted that, too.

But all too soon, Mrs Clayton's frantic voice rang out, "The doctor is here!" and Theo could no longer forget.

"I won't go upstairs," she warned as Nathanial eased back. "I did this."

He studied her face for a moment before nodding. "Then let us go." His thumb rubbed her cheek one last time before he climbed stiffly to his feet. She followed, sliding her fingers through his. Together, they walked to the library.

Theo had expected a country doctor, more accustomed to dealing with farmers' wives than gunshot wounds, but she encountered a thin, greying man with sharp eyes and a manner of calm command. He betrayed no surprise or alarm and wasted no time asking questions. Instead, he removed the bindings around Sir Montague's stomach to reveal the wound.

It was just as Nathanial's had been those weeks before. The flesh around the entry point was singed, and although it was no longer actively bleeding, it looked red and raw and pulverised.

"You may have been lucky," the doctor said. "The bullet missed his stomach. "

"Will he survive?" Theo whispered. Nathanial squeezed her hand.

"If he wakes," the doctor said dispassionately.

The hours seemed to pass slowly and yet too fast. With help, Nathanial and the doctor removed Sir Montague to a bed, and the doctor assured them he would remain until the morning. With nothing further to do, and exhausted, Theo and Nathanial retired to bed. They lay together, wrapped in each other's arms, the reality of what she had done colouring their every thought.

"If he dies, will I need to flee?" she whispered against Nathanial's chest.

"No."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I will not allow it."

Theo pressed her nose against his neck and his arm tightened around her waist. "You cannot force the law to bend to your will."

"If it comes to court, and it will not, I will ensure that the world knows what Sir Montague attempted to do to you. They will be lenient."

"What about Sir Montague?" she asked. "If he survives."

"He will leave the country and never return."

She nodded. That seemed fair. Closing her eyes, safe in Nathanial's arms, she attempted to get some sleep.

As dawn glowed its promise on the horizon, a knock sounded at their door. "Forgive me for waking you," Mrs Clayton said, "but Sir Montague is awake."

Theo's heart jumped into her mouth, but she and Nathanial said nothing as they threw robes over their nightwear and hurried into Sir Montague's room.

Just as Mrs Clayton had promised, Sir Montague was awake. At their entry, his eyelids fluttered. "The devil's in my gut," he rasped .

Nathanial turned to the doctor. "How is he?"

"Recovering, sir. It will be a slow process."

"Thank you. You may go now and rest. We will send for you if his condition changes."

The doctor bowed and left the room. Nathanial turned to Sir Montague, and even in the dim light, Theo could see the anger across his face. "You are fortunate," he said, crossing the room to stand by Sir Montague's side, "that my wife shot you so I do not have to."

The whisper of a smile, though it was more of a grimace, crossed Sir Montague's pale face. "Fortunate indeed."

"Juliet?" Nathanial asked curtly, and Theo startled. To her knowledge, he had not so much as seen her since Theo was poisoned. "Was she behind it?"

"Handed me the poisoned cup herself."

"And?"

"Dead."

Nathanial stiffened, then nodded, as though this did not come wholly as a shock. Theo gaped at them both.

"For Theo's sake, you may remain here until you are well enough to travel," Nathanial said. "Then you will leave. I don't care where you go as long as I never have to see your face again. If I do, they will hang you for your crimes. Do you understand?"

Sir Montague closed his eyes. "I understand."

Without so much as another glance at Sir Montague, Nathanial strode to the doorway. "Come, Theo."

Theo lingered, looking at Sir Montague's white face and pale lips. He did not look like a villain now; he looked like a man who had lost everything.

His eyelids fluttered open. "Duchess," he said, looking at her. The fire was gone from his dark eyes, and unexpected pity stirred in her chest. "Forgive me. "

Nathanial made an impatient noise. "You have done too much to be so easily forgiven, Radcliffe."

"A mortal wound in exchange for kidnap," she said. "Consider us even."

She took Nathanial's hand as she left the room.