And then as suddenly as it’d begun, it was over. The walleyed man and his cohort scrambled to their feet, caught the third man with the bleeding side under his arms, and ducked across the street, nearly under the noses of a team of horses pulling a heavy cart. The driver yelled abuse. Lord Hope took one running step as if tempted to give chase, but then he stopped himself. He sheathed his knife with a disgusted look.
He turned to her, his expression still savage, but all Beatrice could see was his left hand, dripping blood to the ground.
“Why didn’t you go in the house?” he demanded.
She looked up dazedly. “What?”
“I gave you an order. Why the hell didn’t you follow it?”
His wound was all she could think about. She raised her own right hand to catch his. But something was wrong. Her hand was already bloody.
“Beatrice!”
She frowned at her hand, confused. “Oh, blood.”
And then the world did a dizzying spin, and she knew no more.
Chapter Nine
“I am the Princess Serenity,” the lady said as Longsword set her on her feet. “My father is the king of this land, but there is an evil witch who lives in the mountains near here. The witch told my father that if he did not pay her a yearly tribute, she would destroy him and this kingdom. My father paid the tribute last year, but this year he refused. The witch sent that dragon to steal my father and bring him to her. When I rode out with a party of knights to rescue my father, the dragon came and killed all save myself.”
Princess Serenity laid a small white hand on Longsword’s arm. “The witch will kill my father on the morrow if I do not rescue him. Will you help me?”
Longsword looked at the dead dragon, at the white hand on his sleeve, and into Princess Serenity’s sea-blue eyes, but he had decided on his answer before she had ever spoken. “I will help you. . . .”
—from Longsword
“Beatrice!” Reynaud yelled again, though he knew she couldn’t hear.
She’d fainted, slumping to her left side on the steps. A palm-sized bloodstain on her right side and back was revealed, and the sight filled him with irrational terror. He’d seen far more blood in battle—had seen horrific wounds, men without arms or legs, bodies blown apart—and not lost his composure. Yet his hands shook as he reached for her. She was as light as a child as he lifted her in his arms. He felt the wet fabric against his fingers; the blood was soaked into her skirts as well, and for a moment he froze, afraid she was dying. Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. He was too late.
No. No, this woman could not die. He would not allow it.
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.