Page 35 of The Devil and the Heiress
Her cry of fear rang in his ears as she grabbed for her own strap, holding on to it so tightly that her fingers were striped with white. “What has happened?” she yelled.
“A tree fell, perhaps uprooted by the rains.” A solid thump as the carriage slammed into a bank of trees knocked the breath out of him. Horses cried out in fear, but damned if he could tell what was happening or where they would end up when this was over. He reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from being tossed around the carriage as it whirled. She still held tight to the leather strap, her eyes closed.
Without warning, the carriage tilted, nearly careening onto its side before righting itself again. They were near a river, having crossed a bridge about a mile back. God willing, they were well away from it and it hadn’t curled back around. But the carriage tilted again, this time downward, and he knew they were about to fall down an incline.
“Violet, grab onto me!” he yelled, a split second before the carriage gave an unholy screech as metal and glass snapped and twisted. The vehicle fell in a terrible roll that pitched them around inside like marbles in a child’s toy. He braced himself against the corner to keep his weight from knocking into Violet. God, he would crush her.
A pain, bright and acute, had him seeing a flash of light as it tore through him on the carriage’s second rotation. He fell onto his back, his breath forced out of him in a huff so harsh that his lungs seized. For a moment, he lay there, struggling to draw air as his vision became gray and mottled with flecks of black. When the gray cleared, the sky was filled with the dusky orange light of sundown.
Somehow he had been thrown free of the wildly careening carriage. Despite the pain that lanced through him, he rolled over onto his belly. Behind him the sky was bruised, angry, and black with storm clouds rolling in. Dimly, he became aware of the sound of a terrible grinding, and then all went silent.
Deathly silent.
“Violet.” Still struggling to catch his breath, he pushed to his knees, his gaze scanning the ground to find her. There were only the angry marks, deep gouges in the earth, that the carriage had left behind as it rolled down the hill. “Violet!” Coming to his feet, he ignored the terrible pain in his leg and looked for her frantically. If he had been thrown free, then she must have been thrown as well.
Please, God, let her be alive.
She wasn’t here. He turned in a desperate circle, hopingto see the blue of her traveling costume against the mud and brush of the hillside, but she simply was not there. “Violet!”
There was no reply. In a panic, he stared down at the path the carriage had left. She could not still be inside. He would not accept that as a possibility, yet he started running down the hill. His boots slid over the mud so that he half ran, half tumbled down the incline. By the time he reached the bottom, the carriage lay on its side in a river that had swollen to likely two or three times its normal depth. The vehicle bobbed, not entirely swallowed by the brackish depths, but the rushing water pushed it with a force that was frightening. The strong currents in the middle of the river were about twenty meters beyond the carriage’s current location, and it was moving toward rushing water. If the carriage reached the depths of the open river, it would be swept away in the power of the runoff that swelled the river.
“No! Violet!” Shrugging out of his coat, he ran through the water as fast as he could, heedless of the pain shooting through his ankle. When the water reached his thighs, he dove in and swam. Moments later he pulled himself up onto the side of carriage, fighting with the door to get it open. The windows were all broken, so the water had rushed in to fill up the carriage. He hoped that she was conscious and able to keep her head above the water, but that hope was dashed as soon as he pulled the door open. She lay still and silent, facedown in the water.
“Violet!” He didn’t recognize the cry that tore from his lips. Gripping her with both hands, he pulled her up and turned her to face him. She moved like a rag doll, and her face was slack and tranquil. “Wake up!” Her eyelashes did not so much as flicker. Blood from a deep gash at her temple mingled with the water trailing down her face.
She should have been thrown free. Not him. If anyone deserved death, it was him.
Tilting her head back, he gathered her against him andcovered her mouth with his own, attempting to breathe air into her. She didn’t move. It did not seem to be working. A glance confirmed that the vehicle was being pushed ever closer to the river. He had to get them to the bank. If they were carried into the middle of the river, they were both dead.
Please, God, please.
Positioning her carefully across the side of the carriage, he slid down into the frigid water and gently brought her down into his arms. It was tricky, but he managed to keep her head above the water as he swam the few strokes needed to reach solid footing. Once he could touch bottom, he gathered her into his arms and continued his attempts at breathing air into her. He had no idea if it would work, because he had no clue as to what he was doing. His only guide was a newspaper article he vaguely remembered about the topic.
Settling her onto the bank, he struggled to make out her features in the rapidly fading light. “Violet... please.” His voice broke as he turned her onto her side and struck her back with his palm.
A horrible gurgling sound came from deep within her chest just before water came pouring out of her. Her body twitched almost violently as it sought more air. He held her until the trembling eased and she seemed to breath normally. She had yet to open her eyes, however, and he feared that had more to do with the gash on her head than the water.
Thank God she was breathing. He took a moment to press a kiss to the back of her head. Thank God.
He gently lowered her onto her back, only to realize that she lay there awkwardly. Her right shoulder was raised rather than lying flat. A soft moan fell from her lips when he put his hand beneath her shoulder blade. As he suspected, her shoulder had been dislocated. Working quickly, he tore her dress open down the front, wrenching it down and off her shoulders as gently as he was able. He could work slower now that he was assured she lived, but he was still racing the light, which faded by the second.
Reaching a hand into her chemise, his fingers encountered the smooth skin of her back and roved downward until he reached where her shoulder blade should be. The tendons were pulled tight, and the bone was not resting in the joint as it should. Her shoulder had indeed pulled loose. He did a quick check of the rest of her body. His hands moved down her ribs, her arms, and then underneath her skirt to rove up and down her legs. No bones seemed broken, but he could not be certain. Moving back up her body, he slipped his hand down the back of her chemise again and pressed his palm to her shoulder blade. Then he pulled her arm out and rotated it.
Nothing. Bloody hell! He would have to use more force. Because of his years fighting, he had been responsible for dislocating more than one shoulder, but he had never set one himself. He had seen it done numerous times and had assisted when needed, but always on men, and never on someone as delicate as her. Everything in him rose up in revolt at the force he knew he would have to use.
Gritting his teeth at the pain he knew he was about to cause her, he rotated her arm again, this time with considerable force until he heard a sickening pop and crunch as the tendons gave way. Another moan tore from her lips, and he offered a silent apology.
Gently laying her down, he shrugged out of his waistcoat and tore off his shirtsleeves. He wrapped the shirt around her and tied it to help keep her shoulder stabilized. Then he made a poorly fashioned sling of his waistcoat to keep her arm supported. By the time he tied it off, the sun had completely disappeared and freezing drops of rain pelted his back. He had never seen so much rain in his life as they’d had the past few weeks.
Finally able to raise his head, he searched for some sign of the horses and the driver, but all was silent, save for the steady hum of rain. Had they passed through a town when they had crossed that bridge a mile back? He could not sayfor certain. His thoughts had been too focused on the girl lying near death before him.
There was no way to deny it. Because of him, she had almost lost her life. A sob born of fury, frustration, and self-loathing tore out of him. Had he instructed Peterson to take them on toward Windermere, they would be safe now. But no. His culpability went further back than that. Had he simply taken her to King’s Cross, she would have reached that damned boardinghouse days ago. She would be there now, snug and dry before a fire writing on her manuscript. His own selfishness had intervened to keep her from her fate. His own selfishness had made him put his own desires before hers.
He prayed again. “Let me get her to safety, and I will make things right. I will take her to Windermere and never see her again. Please, if you only help me save her.”
Rising with her in his arms, he moved gingerly up the hillside, afraid that one wrong move would jar her and force her shoulder to pop again. No matter how deliberately he trod, he couldn’t control the mud and rain that had him sliding down for every few steps he took. He landed on his knees, gasping at the pain that shot through his ankle. His bloody walking stick had been lost in the wreckage. He could not have held it anyway while he carried her. There was no question of leaving her behind to go for help. He refused to leave her alone. At the top of the incline, he adjusted her in his arms and started the walk back toward where he hoped a village would be.
Chapter 13
