Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dermott felt the lead ball penetrate his upper arm. He absorbed the impact and bent low over his horse, galloping toward the man who shot him. The other man's mouth dropped open in shock as Dermott launched himself out of the saddle into the sharpshooter, taking him to the ground.

Anticipating the others would take aim and fire, he rolled until he was lying beneath the blackguard who'd shot him. The man stiffened and moaned in agony as a shot was echoed by a curse. Dermott shoved the man off him, reached for the knife in the sheath at his waist, and hurled it at the closest attacker. The man's eyes widened in shock as he stared at the knife embedded in his shooting arm and dropped his rifle.

Instead of going for one of the rifles, Dermott reached for the knife in his boot and aimed for the third sharpshooter. Unerringly, the knife hit its mark, disarming the third man. Dermott shoved to his feet, bent down, and retrieved the first rifle. The man moaned, and for a moment Dermott thought about letting the man bleed out.

"Bollocks!" The earl and the duke would have his hide if they found out that he'd failed to render aid to one of his prisoners. He reached into his frockcoat pocket, withdrew a rope, and bound the man's hands behind his back. In his waistcoat pocket, he found what he needed, and used the spare cravat as a temporary bandage to wrap around his attacker's arm. "How much is Trenchert paying ye to kill me?"

Not bothering to wait for an answer, Dermott moved to the next man, surprised that his vision had dimmed. Had the sun gone behind a cloud, or had he imagined it was bright where it filtered in through the trees? He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and noticed the blood. "Feck me! Lord, I'll be needing a bit of a hand here. I need to tie up the other two thugs and see to their injuries before I pass out."

The sound of hoofbeats coming from the direction of the manor were the answer to his plea. "Thank ye, Lord." He managed to tie the man's hands behind his back, and remove the knife, but was struggling to tie the knot in the cravat he'd wrapped around the man's arm.

"Dermott!"

"Over here, Sean."

His cousin knelt beside him, and before Dermott could ask, Sean assured him, "Bart brought the lass back safe and sound."

Dermott nodded to where Michael now tended to the third man. "If they hadn't winged me, I would have had all three tied up nice and tidy when ye arrived."

"Never would have expected less from one of the Cork O'Malleys," Sean replied, nodding to Dermott's injury. "Can ye lift yer arm, or should I cut off yer sleeve?"

Dermott started to lift his arm, then stopped. "Cut me sleeve off."

Sean sliced through his cousin's coat sleeve with his knife, tossed it to the ground, then cut off the shirt sleeve and sheathed his knife. "Ye've two wounds—entry and exit. He shot clean through yer arm."

"Felt like it. Bind it up, would ye?"

Sean made short work of the task and said, "We should head back right away. The way ye're bleeding, we won't be able to sear yer wounds with a hot blade." Dermott groaned, and his cousin nodded. "Ye'll be needing threads to close it."

"Bloody hell."

Sean glared at their prisoners. "Not that I give a damn as to yer preferences, but the chances are a bit greater that ye'll bleed more if ye're facedown, hanging over the saddle. Now, his lordship and His Grace do care, so I'm giving ye a choice—ye can either ride sitting on yer horse, or draped over it."

Michael grumbled, "Why would ye be giving them a choice? Did they give her ladyship or Dermott's wife a choice?"

"Ye have the right of it, boy-o. Help me drape them over their saddles." Turning to Dermott, Sean asked, "Can ye hold yer seat on the ride back?"

"Aye."

A few moments later, Sean, Michael, and Dermott held the reins to their prisoners' horses, leading them back to Lippincott Manor.

*

Sean whistled asthey rode toward the stables. Flaherty was waiting for them. He lifted the prisoners off their saddles and lined them up against the water trough by the stables as Sean and Michael dismounted and rushed to help Dermott.

"I can get off me fecking horse without yer help." He shrugged their hands off and promptly stumbled and fell on his arse when his legs gave out.

Garahan walked over, hefted Dermott over his shoulder, and strode toward the house.

"I can walk, ye bleeding eedjit!"

Garahan snorted with laughter. "I'm not the one who's bleeding…or an eedjit."

Helping hands were already opening the door and motioning for Garahan to lay Dermott on the cot. He struggled against his cousin's hold. "I can bloody well sit!" Garahan set him on his feet. When Dermott wobbled, his cousin used the tip of his finger to keep him from falling on his face.

"Sit, then." Garahan used a bit more force, and his cousin sat.

"Where's me wife?"

"She's sitting with her ladyship," Mrs. Wyatt answered as she began to cleanse the area around Dermott's wounds.

"Were either her ladyship or me wife injured? Did ye check for bruises and cracked ribs?"

"Both women are fine," the physician assured him as he entered the room and walked over to the pitcher and bowl, washing his hands. "Thank you, Mrs. Wyatt." He studied Dermott's arm and nodded. "Excellent—the lead ball went right through your arm. Although the exit wound is a bit ragged around the edges—"

Dermott interrupted, "'Tis better than ye having to dig the lead ball out of me arm."

"I do believe I have spent more time here in the last fortnight than I have tending to the villagers."

The physician was tying off the last of the threads when Georgiana rushed into the room.

"Dermott!" She skidded to a stop, and her eyes filled with tears. "I knew they would shoot you."

"I'm glad Bart was able to get ye to safety. 'Twas a bit chaotic for a few moments before I had everything under control."

"But you were shot!" She walked over to where he sat, waiting for the physician to finish bandaging his arm.

Satisfied, the doctor nodded. "As you have no doubt heard my instructions numerous times before, O'Malley, I don't believe I need to repeat them."

"Would you, please, repeat them for me?" Georgiana said. "I have helped tend to injuries in the past, when our tenant farmers were injured, but no one was ever shot."

The physician nodded and began to explain the cleansing, bandaging, and diet he expected Dermott to follow. When the doctor left, Georgiana laid a hand to her husband's cheek and rasped, "I didn't want to leave you."

The others followed the doctor out of the room. When they were alone, Dermott reached for his wife's hand and tugged her onto his lap. "'Tis a paltry wound, lass. I've had worse." He brushed away her tears and kissed her gently. "I'm proud of ye."

"For what? Not fainting when I walked in a few moments ago, or for following orders?"

He smiled. "Now that ye mention it, both, lass." When her eyes met his, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her more deeply this time. When she sighed, he tucked her head beneath his chin and felt himself relax for the first time since she was captured. Dermott was well used to dealing with those who thought they would succeed in abducting those the duke, his family, or the women his guard loved. The man who'd abducted his wife was currently waiting for the constable, along with the three men—including the one he'd used as a shield against the attackers' rifles—who were about to be tended to by the physician.

Cradling the lass to his heart, he wondered if he would ever be able to forget the gut-wrenching fear that threatened to consume him when she had been taken from him. When she started to cry, he resolved to think about it later. "This time listen, lass, and cry it out. Then I'll carry ye to our bedchamber."

She shoved against his hold, and he eased back. The temper in her eyes surprised him. "What's wrong now?"

"You will not carry me upstairs. You have been shot!"

"Won't I?" Dermott rose to his feet with her in his arms, and walked out of the room. He nodded to the footman stationed in the hall. "I could use a hand opening the door to the servants' staircase."

The footman obliged, holding it open for him.

As he ascended the staircase, Dermott whispered, "If ye're up to it, lass, I'm thinking I'll need ye to soothe me wounds by making love to me."

Her gasp had him chuckling.

"This is not a laughing matter, Dermott."

He reached the top of the stairs. "I agree—making love to ye is a serious matter. Open the door for me, lass."

She did as he bade her, and did not speak to him again until he paused in the doorway to one of the guest bedchambers. He crossed the threshold, and she demanded, "How can you even think about making love to me?"

He kicked the door shut behind them. "Ah, lass, how can I think of anything else when today could have ended far differently?" He walked over to their bed and gently laid her on it. "Now then, I could use a hand taking off me clothes."

When they had shed their clothing, he lay on the bed and pulled her on top of him. "Now then, lass, I'm thinking 'tis time to teach ye another way to make love."

Her eyes were wide until he kissed her deeply, passionately, letting her know without words that he needed the affirmation that they were alive by burying himself deep inside of her. Sliding into her warmth, he felt his world realign. Here was love—here was his life. "Mo ghrá?" She opened her eyes, and he confessed, "Ye have me heart and me love forever, lass."

"Mo ghrá," she whispered, "you have had my heart from the moment I opened my eyes and you were there. I will love you forever."

They made slow, sweet love until exhaustion claimed them, and they drifted off to sleep.