Reynaud was panting, but the boy was out of the line of fire at least. The bastard couldn’t shoot him again, couldn’t scalp him as he lay dying. Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. Reynaud shook his head, wishing he could think through the blinding pain. Something… something wasn’t right.
“What is this?” Reginald St. Aubyn, the earldom thief, cried, his face red. He started for the door.
Reynaud shot out his arm, barring the way. “Snipers in the woods. Don’t go out.”
St. Aubyn jerked back his head, staring at him as if he were insane. “What are you babbling about?”
“I haven’t time for this,” Reynaud growled. “There’s a shooter, man.”
“But… but, my niece is out there!”
“She’s safe at the moment, sheltered by the carriage.”
Reynaud assessed the crowd of soldiers gathered by the commotion in the entry hall. Except… except they didn’t look like soldiers. Something was wrong. His head was splitting with pain, and he hadn’t the time to figure it out now. His back crawled with the knowledge that the Indians were still out there, waiting. The lad moaned at his feet.
“You.” He pointed at the oldest. ”Are there any guns in the house? Dueling pistols, birding pieces, hunting rifles?”
The man blinked and came to attention. “There’s a pair of dueling pistols in his lordship’s study.”
“Good. Get them.”
The man whirled and ran down the back passage.
“You two”—Reynaud indicated two practical-looking women—“fetch some clean cloth, linens, anything we can use for bandages.”
“Yes, sir.” They went without a word.
Reynaud turned to the boy but was stayed by a hand on his arm.
“Now, see here,” St. Aubyn said. “I won’t let my servants be ordered about by a raving lunatic. This is my house. You can’t just—”
Reynaud spun and in the same motion took the older man by the throat and shoved him into the wall. He looked into watery brown eyes, suddenly widened, and leaned close.
“My house, my men,” he breathed into the other man’s face. “Help me or get out of my way, I care not, but never question my authority again—and don’t ever lay a hand on me.” There was no question in his tone.
St. Aubyn swallowed and nodded his head.
“Good.” Reynaud let him go and glanced at the sergeant. “Look out the door—quickly—and check that Miss Corning and the others are still by the carriage.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Reynaud knelt by the wounded man. The boy’s face was greasy with sweat, his eyes narrowed in pain. The wound was on his left hip. Reynaud took off his coat and found the small thin knife he kept in a pocket. Then he bundled the coat and placed it beneath the boy’s head.
“Am I dying, my lord?” the lad whispered.
“No, not at all.” Reynaud sliced open the boy’s breeches from waist to knee and spread the bloody fabric. “What’s your name?”
“Henry, my lord.” The lad swallowed. “Henry Carter.”
“I don’t like my men dying, Henry,” Reynaud said. There was no exit wound. The bullet would need to be dug out of the boy’s hip—a tricky operation, as sometimes the hip bled badly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
“So you’re not to die,” Reynaud stated with finality.
The boy nodded, his face smoothing. “Yes, my lord.”
“The pistols, sir.” The older soldier was back, panting, with a flat box in his hands.
Reynaud rose. “Good man.”
The women had returned as well with the linens, and one immediately knelt and began bandaging Henry. “I had Cook send for a doctor, my lord. I hope that was right.”
Cook? That feeling that something wasn’t right made his head spin again, but Reynaud kept his face calm. An officer never showed fear in battle.
“Very smart.” Reynaud nodded at the woman, and a flush of pleasure spread over her plain face. He turned to the sergeant. “What’s happening outside?”
The sergeant straightened from the door crack. “Miss Corning is still by the carriage, my lord, along with the coachman and two footmen. A small crowd has gathered across the street, but other than that, it seems just as usual.”
“Good. And your name?”
The sergeant threw back his shoulders. “Hurley, my lord.”
Reynaud nodded. He placed the dueling-pistols box on a side table and opened it. The pistols within looked like they might be from his grandfather’s time, but they had been properly oiled and maintained. Reynaud took them out, checked to see if they were loaded, and stepped to the door.
“Keep away from the doorway,” he instructed the sergeant. “The Indians might still be out there.”
“Dear God, he’s insane,” St. Aubyn muttered.
Reynaud ignored him and ducked out the door.
The street was strangely quiet—or perhaps it just seemed so after the chaos of the shooting. Reynaud didn’t pause but ran swiftly down the steps and dropped to the ground by Miss Corning, who was nearly underneath the carriage.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Quite.” She frowned and touched a finger to his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He took her hand and licked his blood from her fingertip, making her gray eyes widen. “You still have my knife?”
“Yes.” She showed him his knife, hidden among her skirts.
“Good girl.” He looked at the soldiers… except now they were a coachman and two footmen. Reynaud blinked fiercely. Concentrate. “Did you see where the shots were coming from?”
The coachman shook his head, but one of the footmen, a tall fellow with a missing front tooth, said, “A black carriage pulled away very fast just after you dragged Henry into the house, my lord. I think the shots may’ve come from inside the carriage.”
Reynaud nodded. “That makes sense. But we’ll take Miss Corning in with all precaution just in case. Mr. Coachman, please go first. I’ll follow with Miss Corning while the footmen come behind.” He handed one of the pistols to the footman who had spoken. “Don’t shoot, but make sure anyone watching can see that you’re armed.”
The men nodded, and Reynaud rose with his little company. He wrapped one arm about Miss Corning, covering as much of her body with his as he could. “Go.”