Page 25 of The Duke’s Man-At-Arms (The Duke’s Guard #11)

“D o. Not. Die on me!” Michaela pressed down on her husband’s chest with both hands and paused to listen for the sound of his breathing, but could not hear past the roaring in her ears. She pressed on his chest again as her father’s voice echoed in her head. Keep up the rhythm, then force air into his lungs. She wasn’t going to use ash-covered bellows to force air into Emmett’s mouth. Michaela fitted her mouth to her husband’s and blew what she hoped would be life-saving breath.

“Lass, what in God’s name are ye doing?” Garahan demanded.

“Keep the pressure on Emmett’s back! We have to stop the bleeding!” Strong hands settled on her shoulders, but she jerked them away. “He needs air to breathe and his heart to keep beating.”

“Ye can’t—”

Michaela interrupted, “I can. If my father were here, he’d explain while he would do exactly what I’m doing.” As she pressed on O’Malley’s chest, she asked, “Did you send for my father? He could not have gotten far in his carriage this time of day.”

Garahan sighed. “Tremayne left as soon as ye shouted at him to.”

Michaela concentrated on her ministrations, though she feared that the man she loved more than life—the man who gave his own protecting her—was beyond saving.

“Will ye stop beating on me cousin’s chest when yer da gets here?”

“How long has it been since he fell unconscious?” Garahan grunted, and she ignored him. “There’s a slim chance we can save him. I just need to blow more air into his lungs and shock his heart into beating.”

“Doesn’t he need to breathe?” Tremayne’s deep voice nearly distracted her.

“Where is my son-in-law?”

Hope filled her—if anyone could save O’Malley, it was her father. “Papa! In here. I’ve been keeping up the chest compressions, but not the bellows method. I’ve been giving him my air.” A sob caught her off guard. “He isn’t breathing.” She felt the tears pouring from her eyes, but couldn’t stop them. “I refuse to let him die!”

Her father knelt beside her. “How much blood has he lost?”

“Too much,” Garahan answered.

“Can you quantify that?” Colborne asked, lifting O’Malley’s eyelids.

“Nay,” Garahan replied.

Michaela watched her father and prayed while he placed his hand close to O’Malley’s mouth and slowly smiled. “He’s breathing.”

Michaela’s heart began to pound as hope tangled with the fear that had her by the throat. “He wasn’t a moment ago.”

She felt her father’s hands covering hers. “You can stop now, Michaela.”

Though she’d felt more than one of her stitches snap while she was pressing on Emmett’s chest, she ignored them. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if she lost him. “I cannot. He’ll die. If he dies, Papa, I have no reason to live.”

Aimee knelt on the other side of her and placed a hand to her shoulder. “What if you’re carrying his babe?”

Michaela froze. “Babe? But I… We…”

“It is quite common for a woman to conceive on her wedding night, Michaela,” her father reminded her. “I thought you paid attention all of those times I counseled mothers-to-be.”

“Aye, but—”

“Did you seal your vows?”

“Papa!”

“Forget your embarrassment, Michaela, and answer the question.”

“More than once.”

The deep voice had to have been Garahan’s, though how he would know, she could not imagine. She turned to glare at her cousin-in-law. “This is nothing to jest about!”

Garahan raised his hands, protesting, “I haven’t said a word.”

She was half leaning on O’Malley when she felt him move. “Emmett?”

“I told you he was breathing,” her father said. “You were concentrating so hard on what you had to do to save him that you failed to notice his shallow breathing.”

“Ye’re carrying me son, lass,” O’Malley rasped, calling her attention back to him. “We’ll name him Patrick for me da.”

“Emmett!” Michaela threw herself on her husband’s chest and sobbed. He wasn’t insensate now and wrapped his arms around her. The terror from moments before began to fade.

“We thought ye dead,” Garahan said. “Ye weren’t breathing.”

“There are times when our bodies defy the laws of nature,” Colborne said. “I noticed his eyes were not dilated. His color was still normal… Not blue around the lips from lack of air. Not pale as flour, or turning waxen as one does when one passes.”

Michaela shivered, and O’Malley dropped one arm to push himself into a sitting position. “You should be lying down.” She looked into his eyes and saw what her father had—they appeared normal. “I thought you weren’t breathing.” She could not keep her voice from breaking when she added, “I couldn’t detect your heartbeat.”

*

Upright, O’Malley shifted and slid Michaela closer. “Me chest is a bit sore. Faith, but I thought I was stabbed in me back.”

Michaela shook her head, and Garahan chuckled. “Yer wife was pounding on ye something fierce, determined that she was going to restart yer heart.”

“Were ye now?” O’Malley asked, locking gazes with his wife. “Do I matter that much to ye, then?”

Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. “You are my life,” she rasped. “ Mo chroí. My soul, my reason for living.”

“As ye are mine, mo ghrá . Me da, grandda, and grandma all agree what a fine lass ye are, and are over the moon that ye agreed to wed an eedjit like meself. Even Siobhan agreed.”

Confused, she asked, “Who is Siobhan?”

Garahan laughed like a loon. “Their old milk cow.”

“Are your grandparents still living?” Michaela asked.

“Nay, lass. They passed on some time before me da.”

“How is Uncle Patrick?” Garahan asked.

“Hale, hearty, and relieved I was there to help him bale the hay. Me grandma was baking scones…” O’Malley paused, shook his head, and continued, “He whistled, but it sounded more like yerself. And I felt meself falling…” He paused when he felt something warm and wet against his side. “Lass, ye’re bleeding.” With a groan, he shifted to one knee and shakily got to his feet with her in his arms. “I’m thinking yer hardheaded daughter must have torn her stitches,” he told Colborne.

“I’ll carry Michaela,” Garahan insisted. “Ye need time to recover from yer imitation of Lazarus.”

O’Malley wavered, grunted, but knew his cousin was right. He passed Michaela to Garahan’s waiting arms, then stared at his wife and wondered if she was even aware that she was still crying.

With a fresh stack of linen squares pressed to O’Malley’s back, Colborne nodded to Tremayne. “He should not lose any more blood. Can you manage to—”

“I’ve got him.” Tremayne hoisted O’Malley over his shoulder and pressed the thick pile of linen to his wound. “I’ll set him on the cot in the room off the pantry. Garahan and I will help hold him still while you sew him back together.”

“Thank you, Tremayne.” Colborne followed the men out of the kitchen. “By the by, O’Malley, it may take you longer to forgive me than it took my daughter, but when you do, you may call me Father or Robert, whichever you prefer.”

Tremayne bent to set O’Malley on his feet. As O’Malley straightened to standing, his groan of agony had everyone moving quickly. Colborne washed in the basin of water while Tremayne helped him sit on the cot beside Michaela, then pressed the wad of linen squares against the wound.

When Michaela’s father walked over with the needle and boiled threads, O’Malley said, “Well now, that’s generous of ye.” He wrapped an arm around his wife. “Mayhap we’ll be naming our son Patrick Robert O’Malley.”

“Do I not have a say?” Michaela asked.

“Oh, aye,” O’Malley replied. “As long as we name him Patrick in memory of me da, and Robert in honor of yers.” When she frowned at him, he laughed. “After all, ’twas yer da’s teaching ye that saved me…even if I’ve never heard of such before.”

“I have had very few instances where I’ve had to use the technique I read about when I was studying medicine,” Colborne said. “I enjoy reading about different methods. The one I taught Michaela was first documented in the mid-1700s by a Dr. Tossach, who reportedly revived a suffocated coal miner using mouth-to-mouth resuscitation a dozen or so years earlier in Scotland. Thirty or so years ago, our Royal Humane Society proclaimed the use of bellows was preferable to mouth-to-mouth for artificial respiration.”

“I recall Lieutenant Sampson mentioning the use of bellows,” Tremayne said. “He grumbled that he wasn’t about to carry a bellows along with his other medical equipment on the battlefield.”

“I did not have time to sterilize the kitchen bellows,” Michaela murmured.

“Ye did a fine job of it, lass,” O’Malley said. “Even though I don’t remember it, I prefer knowing yer lips were on mine when ye gave me the gift of yer life-giving breath, lass. Though I think I could have done without the pounding me ribs took.”

“ Hmph. Next time I won’t bother.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead as Tremayne moved to stand behind him and place his hands on his right shoulder. Garahan moved to do the same on his left side. Knowing what was to come, O’Malley pressed his lips to Michaela’s temple. “Ye know ye would. Ye cannot live without me.”

“Mayhap I can,” she grumbled.

“Ah, it must have been another angel with soft brown hair and moss-green eyes that wept, saying if I died she’d have no reason to live.”

Michaela sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Forgive me for being cross with you when I nearly lost you. The very least I can do is speak the truth and tell you that you are right—I would give my life for you.”

“As I’ve already given mine for ye, could we try to avoid doing that again? At least until our son reaches the age of maturity, when we no longer have to worry about him.”

Her father began the arduous task of cleansing O’Malley’s wound. It felt as if a hot poker was laid against his back. “Nearly finished with the easy part.”

“Easy?” O’Malley grumbled.

“Aye. From the scars I can see, you are accustomed to the pain required to close the wound,” Colborne said.

“Ye have the right of it,” O’Malley agreed, and braced himself for what was to come.

While he threaded the needle, Michaela’s father told him, “A parent never stops worrying about their child. No matter how old they are. King and I had an agreement, Michaela, one that I never intended for you to know. You wanted your independence, and I wanted you to have it for as long as possible. I hired a few of King’s best men to follow you and keep an eye on you.”

Michaela, firebrand that she was, asked her father, “Why did you not tell me that?”

“You must admit that you have a tendency toward stubbornness,” he said before nodding to Garahan and Tremayne, who braced their hands on O’Malley’s shoulders, holding him still.

“I do not—”

“Please be silent while I sew your husband back together.” To O’Malley’s surprise, his wife obeyed her father. “I shall tend to you next. You were fortunate the blade missed several organs, O’Malley. The blood loss must have hit the critical level that had you falling unconscious.”

Garahan grunted, though Tremayne remained silent, ensuring O’Malley did not move until the physician finished sewing him back together.

“I wasn’t expecting Haversham to have a knife,” O’Malley admitted. “I felt the blade go deep, and I started to feel numb… Then everything went black.”

“Despite what you think, Papa,” Michaela said, “I know what I know. O’Malley wasn’t breathing and had no heartbeat.”

O’Malley observed the way the doctor listened intently before asking, “Would you tell me more of what you experienced visiting with your father, O’Malley? I’ve always believed in the hereafter, but have never been able to verify my ideas.”

O’Malley told his father-in-law of his family, and the family farm, while the doctor deftly sewed him back together, applied the healing salve, and placed a thick bandage against the wound. “You cannot afford to lose any more blood. Rest and an invalid’s diet for at least a fortnight.”

Garahan and Tremayne finally let go of their hold on O’Malley and stepped aside.

“I’m living proof that a man can recover from dying,” O’Malley boasted. “I’ll only need to rest a day or two.”

Michaela did not disagree with him. He turned to ask why and saw the anguish on her face and the tears that accompanied her pain.

“Forgive me for being glib, lass. ’Tisn’t something I’ll ever jest about again.” He pulled her close and nodded to his father-in-law. “I’ll hold her still while ye take care of the stitches she ripped open.”

“My daughter has always been stubborn,” Colborne admitted, “but she has a forgiving heart.”

O’Malley wiped her eyes with the handkerchief Tremayne handed him. He pressed a kiss to Michaela’s forehead while her father washed his hands and walked back over to inspect her wound. “Me ma prefers to say ‘pigheaded.’”

Colborne chuckled and set out more of the sterilized threads and another needle. “You’ll have to take extra care with this wound, Michaela. It is inflamed and could easily become infected. Lead poisoning is a possibility, as it was a lead ball that did the damage.”

She glanced at her arm and sucked in a breath. “That does look a mess.”

“ Mo ghra , ye shouldn’t have ignored yer wound to tend to me,” O’Malley said.

“I would do it all over again if I had to.” When she leaned against him, he felt her flinch and knew she was trying to ignore the sting of the needle, and the pulling of the threads, as her father replaced the stitches. “You are my life, Emmett.”

“Ah, lass, I’d have no life without ye.” She lifted her chin, and O’Malley saw the love he felt for Michaela reflected back at him. He lowered his head and kissed her gently. Reverently. “I’m thinking ye need to work on yer temper, lass.” Before she could reply, he soothed her with another kiss. It must have worked, because she sighed and tucked her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

Colborne washed Michaela’s blood from his hands and said, “O’Malley, tell me again who was on the farm when you arrived.”

“Me da, grandda, and grandma… Da told me they are me guardian angels.”

“Is Siobhan one too?” Michaela asked.

O’Malley’s laugh filled the room as he pressed his lips to Michaela’s. “Aye, ye minx. Did ye not know cows earn their wings, too?”

Garahan shook his head. “I am still recovering from the thought that I’d lost the only sainted O’Malley cousin I can tolerate, and ye’re laughing, telling me cows are guardian angels, too?”

O’Malley shrugged. “I know what I know, Darby.” He looked at Tremayne and asked, “Have King’s men arrived?”

“Aye, been and gone,” Tremayne answered. “They’ve taken the prisoners to Bow Street for questioning.”

“Aren’t ye going to ask about Haversham?” Garahan asked.

“He wasn’t there when I opened me eyes,” O’Malley said. “I thought Tremayne or Findley collected him and brought him to the stables where the others were tied up.”

Garahan shook his head. “Do ye want to tell him, Michaela?”

She shook her head.

“Lord Haversham,” her father rasped, the depth of his emotion evident on his face. “Can you ever forgive me, daughter? I have never so misjudged a man before.”

“Yes, Papa. I can.”

Colborne turned to Garahan. “What happened to the man?”

“Michaela wasn’t strong enough,” Garahan said. “So I pulled the knife out of Emmett’s back while Michaela pressed the stack of linens to the wound.”

“Wise decision,” the doctor replied. “What about Haversham?”

“When I turned around with the knife he’d plunged into me cousin’s back still in me hand, Haversham lunged for me with his hands outstretched, reaching for me throat. I didn’t have a chance to warn him or move the knife out of the way.”

“I arrived in the kitchen in time to witness what happened,” Tremayne said. “The look of anger and determination on Haversham’s face changed to one of horror when he realized that he’d impaled himself on the knife in Garahan’s hand.”

“Papa, you should tend to Haversham next.”

Garahan shook his head. “No need—he bled out.”

O’Malley felt relief, though his wife seemed visibly upset. “Will there be an investigation?” she asked.

“There’s no need for concern, Michaela,” Tremayne said. “I’ve spoken to King’s men. It was agreed, given the location of Haversham’s wound, and what Garahan told them, that it was an accidental death.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” O’Malley said. “I would have hated to have to explain to His Grace that me cousin went against His Grace’s dictate that we may use force to subdue a prisoner, but never kill anyone.”

Garahan shuddered. “Aye, His Grace has a wicked punch. Ask this one’s brother Patrick when ye meet him, lass.”

Tremayne nodded. “I have heard that particular tale before. His Grace would do anything to protect his wife and family. Before you worry unnecessarily, Michaela, Haversham would likely have been sentenced to hang for attempted murder.” He turned, nodded to O’Malley, and added, “He nearly succeeded.”

“Ah, but I’m still here,” O’Malley reminded him.

Tremayne grinned. “Coventry will be here in a moment—”

“Where in the bloody hell are O’Malley, Garahan, and Tremayne?” a deep voice bellowed.

“Ah, there’s the captain now.” Tremayne chuckled. “In here, captain!”

Coventry stepped into the room, and his head swiveled from left to right as he took in the pile of bloody bandages by the pitcher and bowl, the fresh bandage on Michaela’s arm, and the thick one wrapped around O’Malley’s back.

“I take it your injuries have something to do with Haversham’s death?”

“Aye,” O’Malley, Garahan, and Tremayne answered simultaneously.

Coventry stared at the ceiling. “God help me, if the three of you are in agreement, that means you’re covering for one another.” He shook his head and asked Michaela, “Would you please tell me what happened?”

“Of course, captain.” She laid a hand on her husband’s arm and said, “It all began when O’Malley carried two little moppets, who were clinging to him like a vine, into my rooms proclaiming to have rescued them from a brothel…”

Coventry shook his head, turned to Tremayne, and asked, “Is there any rum left in your flask? I have a strong feeling it will take O’Malley’s wife a while to get around to telling what happened here today.”

Tremayne grinned. “A few sips will make for a better tale.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his flask, and handed it to Coventry.

“Now then, as I was saying,” Michaela continued, “the two little ones had their arms wrapped around his neck and were holding on for dear life. They knew what I sensed in that moment… Emmett O’Malley was a man I could trust to protect me with his life.”

O’Malley grinned. “Ah, lass, I would give me life for ye.”

Garahan groaned. “You nearly did, so don’t start that again!”