But he had been compelled to move forward to ascertain what had happened, willing with each moment as he had never willed before in his entire life that it had not been Phillipa who had fallen.
He willed and hoped and bargained.
Oh, how he'd prayed as he had forced his shaking body laced with pain across the foyer of his ancient castle. A castle that had seen civil wars, Scottish invaders, and a host of volatile ancestors.
When he’d raced through the great hall, he’d met Clara's white-faced visage, and he’d grabbed hold of her, hoping that with his sister’s able assistance, he would be able to cover more ground quickly.
She had held him with the strength of the most powerful rock and pulled him towards the room from which the shot had been fired. When he had spotted Phillipa above the body, pressing her own gown into that seeping wound, his heart had slammed. Not with horror but with relief.
So much relief had echoed and boomed through him that he had not known if he could tolerate it. The world had raced, his thoughts spun, and the room seemed to sway like the ships he helped command.
But she was alive. Alive.
The idea that he had ever thought anything else could possibly matter was absurd.
In that moment, he had known that he would do whatever it took and thank whatever God, whatever source he had to, for Phillipa's safety.
He'd also known in that moment that he could no longer play a fool.
And he had been playing a privileged, indulgent fool.
In that moment, knowing that Adams had been alone with Phillipa with a pistol in the room?
It had been absolutely clear to him that he had been the most ridiculous of men.
To think that he had tried to push her away to protect her from his wounds. The very idea was now clearly absurd.
Men like Adams were the danger in this world, not his wounds.
His wounds were a difficulty, a problem, there was no question. But Phillipa was more than capable of dealing with those sorts of issues.
She was a strong, capable of woman who, while romantic and lovely, was ultimately practical and interested in the realities of this world.
Adams, on the other hand, was a scourge upon the earth, and much to his horror, Anthony had allowed her to be close to that. Without, at the very least, letting her know how much he loved and wanted her in his life.
The knowledge of it nearly undid him.
He was horrified because he had not properly thought out what could occur.
But how could he?
It had not seemed as if Phillipa could be a victim of Adams at first, but now it made perfect sense to him.
Adams was a brutal man but now. . . He was gone.
Bloody hell, Anthony was glad.
He could not feel a hint of sorrow at the man’s passing. The only thing he felt sorry for was the fact that Phillipa had had to do it.
He did not wish her the pain and the dreams that sometimes occurred after such an act, but she had taken it in remarkable stride.
And from what he could see, it was because she understood that what she had done had been righteous. It had been the good thing to do, and she had potentially saved many lives and protected many children by choosing to act boldly and swiftly. And instead of feeling shame or shock at her actions, she almost seemed proud.
He was proud of her too, because she had not fallen into victimhood. She had not allowed herself to be taken. Oh, he would have understood if she had.
Terror was no small thing.
Adams was a terror.
Anthony had seen men quake in battles, but, my God, she had stood up to Adams, and she had saved herself.
It was a stunning thing really.
He'd been so certain that he needed to be strong for her.
Again, he had to acknowledge that he was a fool. A silly, male fool.
It was one of the reasons why he'd been so certain that they needed to part, after all. With his body the way it was, he’d convinced himself that without his previous physical prowess, he was not worthy of her.
But Phillipa did not need him to protect her like that.
She needed a partner, a companion, and someone who saw her and loved her for who she was, and that was exactly what he could and would do.
So, late that evening, they sat before the fire drinking brandy and trying to steal their nerves from the day. He was glad that he was the Duke of Grey because, as the duke, there was no way she was going to meet any serious trouble for this incident.
At long last, in the silence of the night filled only with the crackling fire, he took out the note. He held its light weight in his palm, then pointedly cracked the red wax seal.
He unfolded the thick parchment and opened it flat.
His breathing slowed as he steeled himself for bad news. He prepared himself to read the same words that he always read when the reports rolled in.
The black ink would scrawl the words Joe is still missing.
Though he tried to not let himself hope, he couldn’t help but feel the smallest trace of a feeling. . .
And as he read the boldly inked words, tears stung his eyes. His hand began to shake, and he had to will himself to remain steady.
Today? Today, the note said something different entirely. His man wrote boldly and rather wildly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself, that Joe had been found at an inn in southern France, near the coast.
He was, of all things, a cook’s assistant, working in the kitchen. Not as some sort of cleaning boy, but as someone learning to handle food and appreciate cuisine.
Anthony read on, barely daring to believe the story unfolding in the
