“What the hell-” he exclaimed as Drummond stepped out into the drizzle, a man’s body gripped in his arms.
“Keep the rain off him!” Drummond ordered. “My house. Then the doctor. Bring him back as soon’s you can!”
Braddock slammed the inn door shut behind them and tilted the umbrella over the burden Drummond carried, recognizing the man from London and swearing in surprise under his breath. But one look at Drummond’s face and he said nothing, keeping pace as best he could.
Drummond paid no heed, concentrating on walking back the way he’d come barely ten minutes before. “You’ll live. Do you hear me?” he said once to Rutledge.
Ahead they could see the house door wide open and Drummond’s sister leaning out into the wet night, a lamp in her hand. The flame danced and shifted, then burned stark and straight.
He saw it, a beacon, his grief so heavy that the flame seemed to flicker through his tears.
If Holden had killed Madelyn, Drummond promised himself that he would come back to The Reivers this same night and cut out the bastard’s heart.
“You shall not die!” Drummond silently repeated the words in cadence with each step, a malediction-and a benison.
He moved strongly, steadily, toward the light.
