“I would never leave you here,” he returned calmly, before addressing her captor once more. “As the leader of the Special League, I believe I may be of far more use to you than Miss Hilgrove could ever be.”
The man whistled. “Well, if it is not the high and mighty Duke of Westmorland. I knew she was your whore, all along. Looks as if my luck has gotten better.”
“Yes, it has,” Benedict agreed evenly. “I will make a bargain with you. Release Miss Hilgrove. Let her go, and I will go with you, wherever you wish to take me. I will answer all your questions, tell you anything you want. All you have to do is promise me that Miss Hilgrove can go free.”
“No, Benedict,” she denied, scratching at the man’s arm, frantic now. “He will kill you!”
“I expect he will.” Benedict was calm. Unemotional. “I will happily trade my life for yours.”
I would give my life for hers, he had said of his sister. That is the truest definition of love, is it not?
He was making the same offer for her.
But no. Benedict did not love her. He had never spoken the words…
“No!” she cried out, attempting to get away from the man, to no avail. He was far stronger than she was. And the barrel of his pistol remained a cold and hard presence, jabbing viciously into her temple.
“Fair enough,” her captor said. “Lower your weapon and kick it to me, and then I will let her go.”
“I want your word that the lady goes free,” Benedict said, solemn.
“No,” she said again, tears blurring her eyes. She would not allow him to trade his life for hers. “No, you must not!”
“You have my word as a gentleman,” said the man.
He had no word as a gentleman, Isabella was sure. “Do not trust him, Benedict!”
But Benedict was already slowly lowering his pistol to the floor. He stood, leaving the pistol at his feet.
“Kick it to me,” instructed her captor.
Benedict gave the gleaming pistol a nudge with the toe of his shoe, sending it skittering across the smooth surface of the hardwood floor.
The man released her suddenly, giving her a shove that sent her tumbling to the floor. She caught herself on her hands and knees as two loud pops reverberated through the chamber in rapid succession.
Terror coursing through her, she rose to her feet, spinning about. The man who had been holding her captive slumped to the floor, bleeding from the head. But Benedict still stood on the threshold, his face starkly white, a smaller pistol in his hand that he must have had secreted somewhere else on his person.
He had saved them both, acting fearlessly.
“Benedict!” Relief washed over her as she rushed forward.
But before she could reach him, he fell to his knees, his hand going to his chest. “Isabella,” he gasped. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine.” She was at his side, clutching him, watching as all the color drained from his high cheekbones. “Benedict, what of you?”
Beneath her palm, something was warm and sticky. She drew her hand back and found it coated with blood. Dear, sweet God. He had been shot.
“I think…he got me, Isabella.” His breathing was ragged, his voice tense.
Blood seeped onto his white shirtfront, a hideous blossom visible in the gap between the lapels of his greatcoat. “I need to go get you help, my love,” she said, clasping his face, forcing his gaze to hers. “Stay with me, Benedict. I will be back in a moment.”
Thank heavens she had asked the Bainbridge driver to await her. He should be close, and between himself and the footman Bo had sent along for extra protection, the two of them would be able to heft Benedict into the carriage. She needed to get him out of here and into the care of a physician as soon as possible.
“Isabella,” he whispered, wincing, as if he found the act of talking too painful. “M-make sure he’s d-dead.”
Bile rose in her throat as she lifted her gaze to the man who had so recently held his pistol to her head. He was lifeless and still, a rapidly growing pool of blood surrounding his head.
“I think he is,” she reassured Benedict.
But he did not hear her. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor as well. Desperate to save him, she raced from her school.
Chapter Nineteen
Benedict woke to utter darkness. Pain seared his shoulder.
Horror gripped him, cruel and unmerciful.
Where the hell was he? What the hell had happened? As lucidity returned to him, with it came the last memories he recalled… Isabella, a gun pressed to her head and a madman’s arm around her throat, the terror in her eyes. The desperate need to save her, even if it meant sacrificing himself. The risk he had taken, reaching for his hidden derringer, the explosion of agony in his shoulder as the man’s bullet buried itself in his flesh.
His heart was pounding, panic making his breaths come in ragged gasps. Where was Isabella? He had lost consciousness with the bastard still on the floor of her school.
“Benedict?” the sweetly melodious voice was unmistakable.
“Is-Isabella?” he rasped, his throat sore and dry.
He attempted to reach for her with his uninjured arm, but met with only emptiness. His arm shook. He was astonishingly weak, he realized.
“Hush,” she said soothingly.
There was the unmistakable sound of a lucifer being struck, then a flare. An oil lamp lit the room with a warm, flickering glow. By God, he was somehow in his own chamber at Westmorland House. And Isabella was in a chair at his side, her beautiful face a study in worry.
She brought a cup to his lips, and the miracle of cool water hit his parched palate. He was so bloody thirsty. He drank greedily, great gulps, until she removed the cup before he had finished.
“Slowly,” she ordered firmly, laying a hand on his brow. “You are not feverish. That is a good
