he shrugged. “Your attack on her manservant provided an excellent excuse for me to get them both away from here, allowing me the freedom to search for the letter.” He paused, then added, “And I found it.”
Waverly studied him for several seconds. “Where is it?”
“In my waistcoat pocket.”
A combination of doubt and greed flickered in Waverly’s eyes. “Where did you find it?”
“The sitting room. Hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace.”
Waverly’s shook his head. “You’re lying. I examined that fireplace and found nothing.”
Again Simon shrugged. “You didn’t have the time I did to devote to the task and the hiding place was easy to miss. I’d be delighted to show you the spot if you’d like.”
“Just give me the letter.”
“You told me not to move.”
Annoyance tightened Waverly’s expression. “Don’t play games with me, Kilburn. I could just shoot you then retrieve the letter from your pocket myself.”
“You could…but you don’t want to kill me until you know that I really have it. Because if I’m lying and I don’t, well, then I’d be dead and unable to tell you where it is.”
Waverly’s eyes went flat. “You’ll slowly reach one hand into your pocket and withdraw the letter. If you’ve lied to me not only will I shoot you, but I’ll see to it that your brother and sister don’t live long enough to attend your funeral.”
Waverly’s hand holding the pistol was perfectly steady and Simon knew his aim would be true. And that meant he had one only chance, one split second to save Genevieve and his family. Cold calm settled over him. He doubted he’d walk away from this alive, but he damn well intended to make sure Waverly didn’t either.
With his gaze locked on Waverly’s, Simon slowly reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew the folded piece of paper he’d taken from Genevieve’s bedchamber. Waverly’s eyes glittered and shifted to the letter. The hint of a self-satisfied smile whispered over his lips. Simon held out the paper. Then dropped it.
Waverly’s gaze followed the paper and Simon didn’t hesitate.
16
“HURRY, Baxter,” Genevieve urged as she made her way down the path. Her cottage was just around the curve and she quickened her stride, tension and unease gripping her increasingly with every step. The first mauve streaks of dawn had lightened the sky more than half an hour ago, more than enough time for Simon to have returned home. The fact that he hadn’t twisted her insides with dread.
“More than likely he just lost track of time,” Baxter muttered. “Or-and I hate to say this to ye-but be prepared for the fact that he’s taken off, Gen. Wouldn’t be the first scoundrel to run from a woman after gettin’ what he wanted from her.”
Genevieve shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not like that.” She knew it. In her heart. No man who’d looked at her the way he had, made love to her as he had, touched her, kissed her hands as he had, with complete acceptance-that was not a man who would toss her aside, especially without so much as a goodbye.
“Bloody hell, Gen,
“Not all. You’re not.”
“That’s ’cause I ain’t lookin’ to bed ye. I’ll tell ye this-even though I think yer better off without him, if that bastard’s left without so much as a fare-thee-well, I’ll hunt him down and make him sorry he were ever born.”
“Baxter, you-”
Her words chopped off when the sound of a pistol shot rent the air. She froze and for several shocked heartbeats her mind went blank. Then a single word screamed through her brain.
Before she could pull a breath into her stalled lungs, Baxter wrapped a hand around her upper arm and jerked her off the path and behind a tree.
“That came from just ahead,” he whispered, unsheathing his knife.
Genevieve moistened her dry lips. “Yes. From the cottage. Where Simon is. And as far as I know, he doesn’t carry a pistol.” With icy fingers of fear clutching her, she slipped her own pistol from the pocket of her pelisse. When she stepped forward, Baxter blocked her with an outstretched arm. “You stay here,” he whispered with a frown. “I’ll check things out.”
“I’m going with you.” When his frown deepened, she glared right back at him and repeated, “I’m going with you.”
He muttered something about willful women, then keeping to the shadows, he led the way to the cottage. They approached cautiously, surveying the area, but couldn’t find anything amiss. Until they opened the door.
Genevieve’s heart stalled at the sight of Simon sprawled on the foyer floor, the scarlet puddle surrounding his head widening as blood oozed from his temple. Another man Genevieve had never seen before lay on the other side of the foyer, a knife she recognized as Simon’s protruding from his chest.
“Dear God.” She ran to Simon’s side and dropped to her knees. The bitter, metallic scent of his blood, the sight of it leaking from that ghastly wound, filled her with a terror she’d never before known, terror that threatened to paralyze her. Dragging in a ragged breath, she gave herself a mental slap and tore off her pelisse. Later. She could panic later. She wadded the end of the garment into a makeshift compress which she pressed against the wound with one unsteady hand while her other hand touched Simon’s neck and sought out his pulse. And she prayed she’d feel it.
“This bloke is dead,” Baxter reported from behind her. She heard him rise and approach her. “How is Cooper?”
She located Simon’s pulse and she nearly swooned with relief when she felt the faint, irregular throb beneath her fingertips. “Alive. Bring water, compresses and bandages. And Baxter…” She tore her gaze away from Simon to look up. “Please hurry.”
He took off at a run down the corridor toward the kitchen, and Genevieve pulled in another shuddering breath. “Simon, can you hear me? It’s Genevieve,” she said in voice that trembled with the fear racing through her. A lump swelled in her throat and she forced herself to swallow the sob trapped there. “Please wake up, Simon.”
His blood soaked through the compress with frightening speed, wetting her palm, and she quickly folded over another layer of her pelisse, cursing the stiffness in her hands that slowed her actions. She applied as much pressure to the wound as she could then leaned over him to touch her forehead to his.
“Please, Simon. My darling Simon…you must wake up. If you do, I’ll have Baxter bake you an entire tray of scones. Or a pie. I know how you harbor a weakness for sweets…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. She straightened and folded over another compress, fighting back her alarm at the amount of blood still welling from the wound. She pressed tighter, prayed harder, and again leaned down to feel his shallow breaths feathering across her cheek.
This was all her fault. This never would have happened if he hadn’t been trying to protect her. If she hadn’t accepted that box from Richard. Clearly the letter was what the dead man had been after-what other reason could there be? She should have sent the damnable box right back. Because she hadn’t, Baxter had been injured, and now Simon…God, Simon might die.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, terrified at his chalky pallor. “Please don’t leave me. I just found you. I cannot bear to lose you. I cannot lose another man I love.”
The realization, the irrefutable knowledge, that she loved him filled her with wretched despair and a half sob escaped her. She’d never thought she’d fall in love again. And certainly not so hard. Or so quickly. And definitely not with a man who was bleeding to death before her eyes.
Dear God, what she felt for Simon made her feelings for Richard pale in comparison. How could that be? She didn’t know, but there was no denying it. And the thought of losing him before she could tell him…no.
