She stared at him, at his face. Simply stared as the scales fell from her eyes. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, the exclamation so quiet not even he would hear. She suddenly saw — saw it all — all that she’d simply taken for granted.

Men like him protected those they loved, selflessly, unswervingly, even unto death.

The realization rocked her. Pieces of the jigsaw of her understanding of him fell into place. He was hanging to consciousness by a thread. She had to be sure — and his shields, his defenses were at their weakest now.

Looking down at her hands, pressed over the nearly saturated pad, she hunted for the words, the right tone. Softly said, “My death, even my serious injury, would have freed you from any obligation to marry me. Society would have accepted that outcome, too.”

He shifted, clearly in pain. She sucked in a breath — feeling his pain as her own — then he clamped the long fingers of his right hand about her wrist, held tight.

So tight she felt he was using her as an anchor to consciousness, to the world.

His tone, when he spoke, was harsh. “Oh, yes — after I’d expended so much effort keeping you safe all these years, safe even from me, I was suddenly going to stand by and let you be gored by some mangy bull.” He snorted, soft, low. Weakly. He drew in a slow, shallow breath, lips thin with pain, but determined, went on, “You think I’d let you get injured when finally after all these long years I at last understand that the reason you’ve always made me itch is because you are the only woman I actually want to marry? And you think I would stand back and let you be harmed?”

A peevish frown crossed his face. “I ask you, is that likely? Is it even vaguely rational?”

He went on, his words increasingly slurred, his tongue tripping over some, his voice fading. She listened, strained to catch every word as he slid into semidelirium, into rambling, disjointed sentences that she drank in, held to her heart.

He gave her dreams back to her, reshaped and refined. “Not French Imperial — good, sound, English oak. You can use whatever colors you like, but no gilt — I forbid it.”

Eventually he ventured further than she had. “And I want at least three children — not just an heir and a spare. At least three — more, if you’re agreeable. We’ll have to have two boys, of course — my evil ugly sisters will hound us to make good on that. But thereafter. . as many girls as you like. . as long as they look like you. Or perhaps Cordelia — she’s the handsomer of the two uglies.”

He loved his sisters, his evil ugly sisters. Heather listened with tears in her eyes as his mind drifted and his voice gradually faded, weakened.

She’d finally got her declaration, not in anything like the words she’d expected, but in a stronger, impossible-to-doubt exposition.

He’d been her protector, unswerving, unflinching, always there; from a man like him, focused on a lady like her, such actions were tantamount to a declaration from the rooftops. The love she’d wanted him to admit to had been there all along, demonstrated daily right before her eyes, but she hadn’t seen.

Hadn’t seen because she’d been focusing elsewhere, and because, conditioned as she was to resisting the same style of possessive protectiveness from her brothers, from her cousins, she hadn’t appreciated his, hadn’t realized that that quality had to be an expression of his feelings for her.

Until now.

Until now that he’d all but given his life for hers.

He loved her — he’d always loved her. She saw that now, looking back down the years. He’d loved her from the time she’d fallen in love with him — the instant they’d laid eyes on each other at Michael and Caro’s wedding in Hampshire four years ago.

He’d held aloof, held away — held her at bay, too — believing, wrongly, that he wasn’t an appropriate husband for her.

In that, he’d been wrong, too.

She saw it all. And as the tears overflowed and tracked down her cheeks, she knew to her soul how right he was for her. Knew, embraced, and rejoiced.

And feared.

His voice had faded almost to nothing; she could no longer make sense of his words.

The fingers that had gripped her wrist so tightly were weakening.

She sniffed, glanced around. “Where the devil are they?”

At least the bleeding had slowed, grown sluggish, but in her estimation he’d lost far too much blood.

Drawing in a breath, holding it, clinging to her sanity and her strength, she leaned forward and brushed her lips across his. “Hush. Hold on to me, keep hold of me — never let go.”

Her voice threatened to break. She sucked in a desperate breath, blinked hard, then went on, “They won’t be long now. I want you to hang on, to stay with me. You have to hold on for me because I can’t live without you.”

She kept speaking, low and steady, willing him to live, yet she sensed him slipping further away.

She barely registered the rush of feet, the swirl of energy as the household descended, couldn’t take her eyes from his face.

He slipped into unconsciousness as they neared.

Then Catriona, Algaria, Richard, and all the rest were there, sweeping around them, taking charge, taking over, gently easing her aside.

It was Richard who closed his big hands about her shoulders and raised her, then drew her away. “Let them have at him.”

She swallowed, nodded, but when Richard handed her over to Mrs. Broom, who gently suggested she come back to the house, she refused with a curt shake of her head. “I’ll stay with him.”

She wasn’t going to let him out of her sight.

Catriona had brought supplies to bandage the wound before they risked lifting him. She and Algaria worked swiftly, cutting away his clothes, then cleaning the wound.

Heather breathed deeply, felt her composure, fragile though it was, firm. With a smile that was more a grimace, she thanked Mrs. Broom, then went forward to the still figure on the ground.

Halting at Catriona’s side, she stated, “I need to help. Tell me what to do.”

Both Algaria and Catriona glanced at her, sharp glances that stripped her face bare, then Catriona nodded. Indicated a set of unguent pots nearby. “The one with the blue lid. It’ll only be temporary, but we need to make what stand we can against infection.”

Heather picked up the pot, loosened the lid, and held it ready.

He’d saved her.

Now it was up to her to save him.

Chapter Twenty

The men of the household carried Breckenridge back to the house on a stretcher. The last of the light was fading from the sky as Heather followed them through the side door into the house. Catriona and Algaria had diverted to the herb garden, seeking extra ingredients for potions and tisanes. Mrs. Broom and Henderson had rushed ahead to prepare Breckenridge’s bed.

Lamps were being lit throughout the house. As Heather crossed the front hall, someone handed her a small lantern. A footman appeared ahead of the stretcher, carrying a large lamp to light the bearers’ way.

The main staircase was wide with a sweeping curve. After carefully negotiating the climb, the men turned toward the turret and Breckenridge’s room on the next floor, only to find Mrs. Broom waiting to wave them to another door along the gallery.

“Ye’ll never make it up the turret stairs, not without jiggling him something fearful. We’ve made up the bed in here instead.”

The room they entered was a bed-cum-sitting room. Two maids were tugging sheets and fluffing pillows on a big four-poster bed. Henderson and a footman were feeding a blaze already roaring in the hearth.

Richard and the other three stretcher bearers carried Breckenridge to the side of the bed closest to the hearth. They laid the stretcher on the floor, then, under Richard’s direction, with Mrs. Broom kneeling on the bed to help settle the patient, they carefully transferred Breckenridge’s long and heavy body onto a plain cotton sheet spread over the covers and pillows.

As soon as Breckenridge was stretched out and settled, the other three men gathered the stretcher and left. Richard hovered by the side of the bed, looking down at Breckenridge.

Heather stood at the foot, her gaze locked on his face.

Then Catriona swept in, Algaria and three older women of the household behind her. Catriona came straight to the bed, circling to halt by Breckenridge’s shoulder. Her hand briefly gripped Richard’s, then she released him. “We’ll handle this from here.”

Heather felt Richard’s gaze flick to her face, then he looked at his wife. “How bad is he? Should I send for Caro and Michael?”

Catriona studied Breckenridge, then held the back of one hand against his cheek. She hesitated, then drew breath and said, “He’s very low. He might not die, but. . yes, I think you should send for Caro.”

“He also has two sisters — Constance and Cordelia.” Heather’s voice seemed to come from far away. “He. . they’re close. Caro will know how to contact them.”

Richard’s gaze rested on her face for a moment, then he nodded. “I’ll send a rider to Michael immediately.” With a nod to Catriona, he left her side. Reaching Heather, he paused, laid a hand on her shoulder, lightly gripped. “He’s alive. While he is, there’s hope.”

Without taking her eyes from Breckenridge’s still, pale face, she nodded.

Richard left.

Behind and about her the three women were setting bandages and bottles, pots and implements, on various surfaces. A footman appeared in the doorway carrying a brazier. Catriona saw him and pointed to the middle of the room. “Set it there.”