He gripped her against his chest and turned to where she’d said the carriage was waiting. He didn’t trust this area; the attackers, whoever they were, knew he’d be here. He needed to get her away. Needed to get her to his own home. There he could guard her and tend to her, and she would be safe. He sprinted past houses, his heart thumping in his chest. She moaned and clutched his waistcoat but did not open her eyes.
There! He saw the Blanchard carriage as he turned the corner and ran toward it, yelling an order to the coachman. He saw the man’s wide eyes, the footman’s startled face, and leaped into the carriage without waiting for the steps.
“Go!” he bellowed, and the carriage lurched into motion, the coachman swearing at the horses.
He held her across his lap and looked into her face. It was flour-white, so pale that tiny freckles he’d never noticed before stood out on her cheeks. Oh, God, he would not let this happen. He brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, but his hand was bloody, and he only smeared crimson across her temple. Dammit. He needed to see how bad the wound was.
Reynaud reached under his coat and drew out his knife. The carriage swayed as they rounded a corner, and he braced himself with feet and elbows. Carefully he sliced through gown, stays, and chemise, from low on her hip to the top of the bodice, both in back and in front. He pulled the fabric away and saw the wound. It was a two-inch cut at her side just to her back, raw and ugly against the expanse of her smooth pale skin. The assassins had been aiming for him and had caught her instead as he held her in front of himself, an inadvertent shield. Fresh blood flowed clear and bright red from the wound. The fabric had stuck, and he’d reopened the wound when he’d pulled it away.
He swore softly and cut a swath from her underskirts, wadding it and pressing it against the wound. He wrapped his other arm about her shoulders and held her close to himself, her head under his chin. She was so soft, so small in his arms, and he could feel the blood soaking the wadded bandage, wetting his fingers.
“Come on,” he whispered.
Outside, houses and shops flashed by. They were making good time, but they still weren’t at his town house yet. The coachman shouted something, and the entire carriage lurched heavily. Reynaud slid across the seat, crashing into the coach’s side painfully, trying to cushion the movement with his body.
Beatrice moaned.
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.” He stroked her fair hair back with the hand that held her and pressed his open mouth against her forehead, whispering, “Hold on. Just hold on.”
The carriage halted, and he was standing with Beatrice in his arms before the footman had the door all the way open.
“Turn your back!” he snapped to the gawking man.
Reynaud climbed from the carriage, conscious that Beatrice was almost nude to the waist. He leaped up the town-house stairs just as the butler opened the door.
“Send for a doctor,” he told the gaping butler. “And I’ll need hot water and cloths in Miss Corning’s room at once.”
He started up the stairs but was blocked by St. Aubyn coming down.
“Beatrice!” The older man’s naturally red face paled. “What have you done to my niece?”
“She was stabbed,” Reynaud replied curtly. Only the concern in the other man’s voice kept him from knocking him aside. “Not by me.”
“Dear God!”
“Let me pass.”
St. Aubyn fell back, and Reynaud surged past him, mounting the steps as quickly as possible. Beatrice’s bedroom was two floors above. He could hear her uncle panting behind him. By the time he reached her room, the door was open and her maid was turning back the bed.
“Lord have mercy,” the woman murmured. She was a capable-looking sort, short, red-haired, and sturdy.
“Your mistress has been stabbed,” Reynaud said to her. “Help me get her gown off.”
“Now, see here!” St. Aubyn sputtered from the door. “You can’t do that!”
“She’s bleeding,” Reynaud said, low and intense. “I can hold the bandage as the maid works. Or would you rather preserve your niece’s modesty and let her bleed to death?”
St. Aubyn gulped but said nothing, his eyes fixed on Beatrice’s face.
Reynaud nodded at the maid, and St. Aubyn turned away with a mutter and closed the door as she began pulling Beatrice’s gown off. A gentleman would’ve averted his eyes, but Reynaud hadn’t been a gentleman for some time now. He watched as the maid undressed Beatrice. Her breasts were high and round, the nipples a pretty pink. The maid pulled the gown from her legs, and he stared with possession at her feminine triangle, so vulnerable, so sweet, scattered with dark gold hair. This was his woman, and he’d failed to protect her. The maid pulled the covers up over Beatrice’s breasts and one arm, leaving her right side bare so he could press the now-sodden cloth against the wound.
“Where’s the damned doctor?” he growled.
No sound had come from Beatrice’s lips as the maid had moved her. She slept deeply.
“Build the fire in the fireplace,” he ordered the maid.
“Yes, my lord.” She hurried to the fireplace and heaped coals on the embers there.
“What’s your name?” he asked her when she returned to the bed, as much to distract himself as anything else.
“Quick, my lord,” she said.
“How long have you been with your mistress?” His mind was running in circles, like a mouse trapped in a glass jar. Where was the doctor? How much blood had she lost? Was the bleeding stopped?
“Eight years, my lord,” Quick replied. “I’ve been with Miss Corning since she came out.”
“A long time, then,” he said absently. He laid the back of his hand against Beatrice’s cheek. Still warm. Still alive.
“Yes, my lord,” the maid whispered. “She’s such a gentle mistress.”
The door opened and several footmen came in with cloths and hot water. One of them was Henry, looking grave at the sight of his unconscious mistress.
“Has the doctor been sent for?” Reynaud asked him.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied. “Right away ’e was sent for, and Lord Blanchard has gone down to wait for ’im.”
Reynaud nodded. “Bring a new cloth here.”
“Will she be all right, m’lord?” Henry asked as he gave him the cloth.
“God, I hope so,” Reynaud replied.
He replaced the torn piece of underskirt with the clean cloth. The wound was merely oozing now. That at least was good. He closed his eyes. If he still believed in praying, he’d be on his knees right now.