Page 32

T hey drove through the park slowly behind others riding or in their carriages. The sun had made a weak attempt to shine, and with it, people had come out to walk and be seen, which was something many society members relished. Patrick had never been one of those.

“Would you like some cake?” he asked Sophie, who, like other women he’d taken driving, knew how to be quiet while he navigated the traffic. “If you are not still angry with me, that is?”

“I am not angry; I am just not used to men buying me gifts,” she said.

“Perhaps you could try getting used to it?” Patrick said, looking at his beautiful companion.

“I’m not sure that’s possible.” She smiled at him. “But thank you for my gifts and for taking me to that shop.”

“You are welcome.” Also, like some of the women in his life, Sophie did not hold a grudge, it seemed.

He pulled up not far from a cake house. When his man took the reins, he helped Sophie down.

“I am going to walk there,” she said, pointing to the tree-lined path just to the right.

“Very well. I will meet you there with cake shortly. But do not go out of my sight.”

She waved her hand at him, which Patrick guessed meant she would do as he asked. He then went to purchase cake.

She was no longer the countess to him but Sophie, and today he’d found her undemanding company. She did not need him to flatter her like a woman born into this life would have. Everything was a new experience, and he realized he wanted to share those with her.

“Coulter, those horses I outbid you for are wonderful,” the Duke of St. Brides said, joining him in line for cake.

“Really? I pulled out of the bidding, as I felt they were too short in the back,” Patrick lied.

The duke smiled. “No, you didn’t. You pulled out because someone was saying rude things about the Countess of Monmouth, so do not try and fool me.”

He liked the duke usually. They hunted together, and he often went to his house during the winter. He may have to rethink that now.

“Go and annoy your wife, St. Brides,” Patrick said after placing his order.

With a plate of cake, Patrick went to find Sophie, who was not, as he’d told her, where he could see her.

Moving along the path that wound through the trees, he looked left and right. Where the bloody hell was she? Lowering the plate, he started running as he heard her scream.

“Sophie!” he roared as panic clawed at his throat. Sprinting off the path, he ran deeper into the trees, away from people. Away from help.

He heard the snap of a branch ahead and then the thud of feet. Someone discharged a weapon once and then again. Heart pumping, he crouched and ran, dodging through the trees.

“Sophie!” If she was in danger, if those shots were aimed at her, then maybe he could lure them away from her and after him.

“Patrick!”

He whipped his head to the right and saw her running toward him from behind a tree.

“Don’t stop… bullets!” Sophie gasped.

He didn’t hesitate. Running at her, he bent and threw Sophie over his shoulder and sprinted back the way he’d come.

The distance was not great, but to Patrick it seemed like miles until finally his feet hit the path. He didn’t stop but kept running back to the phaeton.

“Get on, Teddy!” he roared when he reached it. Ignoring the odd looks they were receiving, he threw Sophie into the seat and ran to join her. Seconds later, they were galloping for the gates.

“Are you all right?” he inquired. Shooting her a look when she didn’t answer, he saw Sophie was clutching her arm. Her glove was soaked in blood.

“You’ve been shot!”

“Get us home, Patrick. Hurry,” she said.

He urged his horses on as the panic inside him rose. She would be all right; she had to be. He drove around carriages and horses. People ran to get out of his way as Teddy yelled for them to stay clear.

“We are nearly there, Sophie. Hang on!”

“I-I’m all right. It is only my arm,” she said, but her voice was weak.

Only her arm? He knew at least ten women who would have fainted by now.

He stopped outside his town house. Jumping down, he ran to Sophie. Lifting her into his arms, Patrick sprinted to the front door.

“Why are?—”

“My house is closer. Fletcher!” he yelled, kicking the door with his foot. It opened seconds later.

“My lord?”

“Call for the doctor at once. Someone shot the countess. Is Lord Sumner here?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Instruct him and Mrs. Lilly to come to my rooms with water and bandages.”

Patrick did not wait to get confirmation of his orders; he ran up the stairs to his rooms. Her head was now lying on his chest, and he could almost feel her losing consciousness, or was that just him panicking?

Entering his room, he went to the bed and pulled the blankets back. Patrick then lowered her to it. Her sharp inhale told him how much pain she was in.

“Scream if you want, Sophie.” He untied the bow under her chin and threw her bonnet across the room. Next, he stripped off his jacket.

“I d-don’t need to scream,” Sophie whispered with a ghost of a smile on her pale face.

“You have no need of bravery around me,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. “Now I need to cut off your lovely coat.”

“Oh dear, really?” she whispered. “Letty loves it.”

Patrick pulled the knife out of his boot. He then slit her cuff. “She will understand. I will try not to hurt you, Sophie.”

“I know,” she said between her clenched teeth. “Not your fault.”

“What?”

“This is not your fault.”

“Why did you say that?” Patrick asked.

“I know you are honorable,” she said and then hissed with pain as he moved her arm. “I know you n-never want those in your care hurt.”

“You can’t know that about me,” he said, but her words were the truth. “I should not have let you out of my sight.”

“You told me not to,” she whispered. “But I heard a woman calling my name and went to see who it was.”

“Jack Spode,” Patrick hissed. “It had to be him who shot you or had someone shoot you. I’m killing him.”

“I might do it first.”

“Then we will do it together,” Patrick lied, because she would never get near that man again.

He exposed the wound. It was still bleeding. Lifting the arm, he looked beneath and saw the bullet appeared to have gone through the fleshy part.

She could have been killed. Deep, searing rage surged through him at the sight of that jagged hole.

“Patrick!”

“Stephen!” he roared as his friend ran into the room with his housekeeper on his heels. “They shot Sophie.”

“Patrick, I feel odd.”

He went cold as Sophie’s eyes rolled back in her head.

“’Tis best that she has slipped into a faint, my lord. It will make the stitching and binding easier,” Mrs. Lilly said.

Faint! The word seemed to vibrate off the walls inside Patrick’s head.

Of course she was right. Sophie had fainted, he realized, fighting to refill his lungs with air.

He could still see the gentle rise and fall of her chest; she was alive and breathing.

Get a grip, man. Sophie needs you, he counseled himself, as you need her.