14. Chapter 14

Chapter fourteen

Time slowed. Iris watched Rowland fall for what felt like hours, his body like a tree that had been chopped down. She scrambled to get beneath him before his head hit the floor.

When he collapsed into her arms, the sound of the chaos engulfed her. Women screaming, men barking orders at them and each other, the shooter still hurling insults. People darted around her, but she held Rowland close to her and lowered them gently to the ground together, until his shoulders and head were in her lap. She cupped his cheek in her hand, but she couldn’t catch his gaze through his half-closed eyes.

“Rowland,” she whispered with remarkable calm given the panic that gripped her heart. “Rowland, can you hear me?”

Through the gaping hole in his dinner jacket, she saw a crimson bloom form over his white shirt. Her limbs stiffened with alarm. “Rowland!”

“Iris…” he wheezed.

Fleeting relief flooded through her. He was talking. That had to be a good sign.

“Hold on, I’m going to get you some help,” she told him. She turned her head around frantically. “Sybil! Sybil, I need you!”

Sybil appeared at her side in a second. “I’m here, Iris. Not to worry, I saw wounds like this all the time during the war.”

Iris swallowed and nodded. Sybil had served as a nurse in Buckland Hall, which Hugh allowed to be used as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers. Iris was so busy with her work with the suffragettes, she never saw the side effects of the war up close. She had never seen that kind of violence.

“Charles, help us get him into the library,” Sybil said.

Charles knelt down and scooped Rowland into his arms. When he lifted Rowland away, the damp fabric of Iris’s dress cooled her legs. She chanced a look down to find a red stain had seeped into the gold threads.

“It’s gone all the way through,” Sybil observed, examining Rowland. “We’ll have to be quick.”

With a nod, Charles carried Rowland through to the library, which was the closest room off of the entrance hall. Iris remained rooted to the floor, a hot stinging in her eyes.

“Iris!” Hugh’s familiar voice sounded from somewhere above her. She peered up at him through a haze. “Iris, are you—oh, dear God!”

His eyes were fixed on the blood stain, and she shook her head. “It’s…it’s not mine.”

Hugh’s face collapsed with relief. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Without waiting for an answer, he hooked an arm beneath hers and hoisted her to her feet. She let him. Once she was up, she swayed, but Hugh held her fast.

“I’ll help you to your room.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No!”

As feeling returned to her legs, she pushed Hugh off and flew to the library. A few stragglers disappeared into the front parlors and dining room, across the hall from her destination. By the fireplace, a few men were wrestling the shooter into submission. The pistol skidded across the floor as Iris passed, and Hugh dove to retrieve it. Iris ignored it all.

In the dim light of the library, Iris could make out Charles holding Rowland upright on the coffee table. Rowland’s head lolled forward, and Charles struggled to hold it up along with the top half of his body.

“Iris!” Sybil cried with relief. “Good, we need you. Can you help me get him undressed?”

Any other time, that statement would have made Iris blanch. As it was, she couldn’t be shocked. With a resigned nod, she stepped forward, and together, she and Sybil stripped away Rowland’s dinner jacket, tie, and shirt, until his chest was bare. Absurdly, Iris noticed he had a tattoo over his heart—devil horns with rosary beads hanging off them. Before she could wonder what they meant, Sybil’s hand swiped over it with a cloth, removing the blood that was running over his skin.

“Take this,” she said, holding the cloth out to Iris. “And put it over the entrance wound. Apply pressure, as much as you can.”

Finally, Iris had to look directly at the dark hole in Rowland’s flesh, with blood still gushing out from it with every pump of his heart. Her stomach heaved. She took a ragged breath to steady herself. She wouldn’t be helpful to anyone if she got sick. With a shaking hand, she did as Sybil instructed.

“Charles, you hold this cloth over the exit wound,” Sybil went on. “I’m going to run downstairs. We left some extra supplies in one of the pantries in the kitchen after the war, and with any luck, they’ll still be there. Keep holding that pressure, and I’ll be right back.”

She was gone before they could answer.

“Funny, I believe the last time she said that to the pair of us, I was putting you on a lifeboat,” Charles said, meeting Iris’s eyes over Rowland’s shoulder.

She offered a watery smile. “I think I’m more frightened now than I was then.”

“You weren’t frightened at all if I remember correctly. At least, you didn’t look it.”

She grimaced. She was scared to death then. Climbing onto an unsteady lifeboat, even with Charles’s hand in hers, had made her stomach swoop. The rugged descent into the water didn’t make it any easier. And then all she could do was watch as the ship went down, knowing two people she loved were still on board. It was terrifying.

“Well, I was,” she told him. “Perhaps you mistook the paleness on my face for the cold.”

“Perhaps. But there’s no making that mistake tonight.” He held her gaze with a meaningful look. “It’s going to be all right, Iris.”

She swallowed through the tightness in her throat. “I hope so.”

“Iris…” Rowland murmured.

Her eyes snapped to him. “Rowland?”

“I need a drink.”

“Water or something stronger?”

“Something stronger.”

“I’ll get it,” Charles said. “You hold him.”

Iris nodded and moved around so the center of her body was aligned with Rowland’s arm. She had one hand on either side of him and pressed down. The cloths were already red and damp with his blood. He turned his ashen face toward her, his eyes heavy and tired.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Sybil’s the nurse.”

“I’m glad you’re here, anyway. ”

Her cheeks got warm, and then Charles was back, a decanter of whiskey in his hand. He held it out, and Rowland took it with his good arm.

“I started to pour a glass, but then I thought better of it,” Charles said.

“Smart man,” Rowland replied, and tipped the amber liquid into his mouth. He took two deep pulls and then set it down, heaving a sigh. “Fuck, that’s better.”

“For someone who’s just been shot, you are surprisingly calm,” Iris said.

“Shock is a helluva drug,” he replied. “It’s also not my first time.”

Her eyes blew wide. “You’ve been shot before?”

“Yep. A couple times.” He jerked his chin down. “In my side, during the war. See the scar?”

She glanced down and spotted the small circular bit of discolored skin on his abdomen. “Oh. Yes, I see.”

“And I was shot another time shortly after I got home,” he went on, and nodded toward his opposite shoulder. Right where his shoulder met his arm, she could make it out. “Got into a scrap with another group who thought they could take Liverpool from me because I’d been in France.”

“Clearly, they were wrong,” she said.

“That they were.” He took another swig of whiskey. “God, you are beautiful in this light, you know that?”

She frowned. “I’m going to attribute that comment to blood loss and alcohol.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

She squeezed his shoulder hard between her hands.

“Ow!” he cried, and tried to shake her off, to no avail.

“No flirting when you’re hurt.”

“I’m wounded, I should be able to flirt as shamelessly as I want.”

“Not with me as your nurse.”

“Fine, where’s Sybil? I’ll flirt with her instead.”

She looked over at Charles, incredulous, only to find him smirking. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

He shrugged. “All I can say about flirting with Sybil is that he’s got good taste.”

“Good Lord.” Iris rolled her eyes. “Your lack of jealousy is just short of insulting.”

“I know I’ve got nothing to worry about with her.”

“Nothing to worry about with who?” Sybil asked as she re-entered the room, a bundle of bandages in her arms.

“Ah, at last, the angel returns,” Rowland said.

“If you’re well enough to flirt, Mr. Sinclair, I’d say we’ve got nothing to fear,” Sybil said with a grin and a shake of her head. Her eyes flicked to the decanter in his hand. “Oh, good, there’s whiskey. I couldn’t find the disinfectant, so that will have to do.”

She marched over, put her things down, and had Iris remove the cloth on each side so she could examine Rowland’s wound. It made Iris woozy to look at it again, and she marveled at Sybil’s ability to stomach it. Especially in her state.

“The bleeding has slowed, that’s good,” Sybil said. “We’ll clean it and close it up.”

She poured the whiskey onto a fresh cloth and dabbed at the wound. Rowland hissed, and his hand shot out, finding Iris’s. His grip was tight, but she only curled her fingers around his palm. She held it firm through the entire process, while Sybil cleaned him and stitched him up. Iris had to look away for the actual stitching. Rowland’s grip tightened with every wince that came from his throat. Iris peeked again when she heard the snip of Sybil’s scissors, and then she helped with dressing it.

“The shooter, is he still here?” Rowland asked.

“Yes, but the police are on the way,” Sybil said. “At least, that’s what I heard the men saying when I was coming back from the kitchen.”

He frowned at Iris. “Tell your brother to call off the coppers. I’ll deal with this myself.”

“What?” Iris gasped. “No. I won’t let you kill him right here in our library.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“And he will be arrested for that, and no doubt prosecuted to the highest extent of the law!”

“That’s not how I do things.”

“Well, it is now! No murdering in my home.”

He frowned, almost pouted, and cut his gaze from her.

“Besides,” she said. “You haven’t got a weapon.”

He wasn’t wearing his holster when she and Sybil were removing his clothes, which she was now incredibly grateful for.

“I’ve got a knife in my sock,” he said.

“No cutting either,” she snapped. “The maids will have a difficult enough time getting your blood out of this carpet.”

“You’re really not going to let me defend myself for the sake of the maids ?”

“I’m not letting you commit murder! That’s for everyone’s sake, including yours!”

“Fine. If it upsets you, I won’t kill him.”

“Thank you.”

“Yet.”

She groaned. “You are the most stubborn, bullheaded arse I have ever had the misfortune to meet!”

“Takes one to know one, love.”

“Why you—”

“Iris!” Sybil interjected. “I think we should get Mr. Sinclair up to a room and let him get some rest.”

Iris softened. “You’re right.”

“I can’t stay,” Rowland said. “I need to get back to Liverpool.”

“You’re not traveling in this state.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t let me kill anyone and now you won’t let me leave. Am I being held prisoner?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Consider yourself under house arrest.”

He sighed. “I suppose with a warden as beautiful as you, I can’t complain.”

“ Rowland .”

“Surely, flirting is allowed now that I’m all patched up.”

She rolled her eyes and ignored him. “Sybil, are you able to stay a few days to help?”

“I think someone will need to be here to keep you two from killing each other,” Sybil said, and she turned to Charles. “You’ll be all right with the children?”

“Sure, I can handle it,” he assured her through a chuckle. “I’ll come get you after a week. Is that enough time?”

“It should be.”

“Good, that’s settled,” Iris said, and met Rowland’s gaze again when he groaned. “Welcome to your first stay as an official guest of Buckland Hall, Mr. Sinclair.”