“What—” Miss Corning began.
But he ignored her. A man had been hit and was writhing on the top steps of the town house, his blood staining the white stone. It was the young soldier, the one who’d been walking with him. Dammit. It was his man.
And he was still exposed.
“Stay with Miss Corning,” he ordered a nearby soldier.
The soldier in the box had finally dropped down and lay beside them as well. Where was the sergeant? Where were the other officers? They’d all be killed here in the open, caught between the cross fire. Reynaud’s temples throbbed with pain; his heart thundered. He had to save his men.
“Do you understand?” he yelled at the soldier near him.
The soldier blinked at him, dazed.
Reynaud took the man by the shoulder and shook him. “Stay with Miss Corning. I’m counting on you.”
Something in the soldier’s face cleared. His gaze locked on Reynaud’s, just as they always did, and he nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good man.” Reynaud eyed the soldier on the steps, judging the distance. It had been at least a minute since the last shot. Were the Indians still lurking in the woods? Or had they crept away again, silent as ghosts?
“What are you going to do?” Miss Corning asked.
Reynaud looked into her clear gray eyes. “Get my man. Stay here. Take this.” He pressed the hilt of his knife into her palm. “Don’t move until I tell you.”
And he kissed her hard, feeling life—his and hers—coursing through his veins. Dear God, he had to get her away from here.
He got up before she could voice her protest and ran to the steps, keeping his upper body low. He paused by the moaning soldier only long enough to grab the man under the arms. The boy screamed as Reynaud pulled him to the front door, the sound high and animal, a cry of primeval agony. So many were in agony. So many were dead. And all so young.
The third bullet hit the door frame as Reynaud yanked his man through, splinters of wood exploding against his cheek.
Reynaud was panting, but the boy was out of the line of fire at least. The bastard couldn’t shoot him again, couldn’t scalp him as he lay dying. Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. Reynaud shook his head, wishing he could think through the blinding pain. Something… something wasn’t right.
“What is this?” Reginald St. Aubyn, the earldom thief, cried, his face red. He started for the door.
Reynaud shot out his arm, barring the way. “Snipers in the woods. Don’t go out.”
St. Aubyn jerked back his head, staring at him as if he were insane. “What are you babbling about?”
“I haven’t time for this,” Reynaud growled. “There’s a shooter, man.”
“But… but, my niece is out there!”
“She’s safe at the moment, sheltered by the carriage.”
Reynaud assessed the crowd of soldiers gathered by the commotion in the entry hall. Except… except they didn’t look like soldiers. Something was wrong. His head was splitting with pain, and he hadn’t the time to figure it out now. His back crawled with the knowledge that the Indians were still out there, waiting. The lad moaned at his feet.
“You.” He pointed at the oldest. ”Are there any guns in the house? Dueling pistols, birding pieces, hunting rifles?”
The man blinked and came to attention. “There’s a pair of dueling pistols in his lordship’s study.”
“Good. Get them.”
The man whirled and ran down the back passage.
“You two”—Reynaud indicated two practical-looking women—“fetch some clean cloth, linens, anything we can use for bandages.”
“Yes, sir.” They went without a word.
Reynaud turned to the boy but was stayed by a hand on his arm.