Page 3 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
The carriage rolled at last to a stop, and to her utter shock, Mr. Wycombe rose, kicked the carriage door open, and jumped out. “Darling,” he said, throwing out his arms in a bizarre parody of enamored exuberance. “Lovely to meet you at last.”
Imogen stumbled to a stop some yards away, blinking in surprise. “Lizzie,” she said, her face growing quite pale. “What on earth have you done?”
Lizzie stumbled out of the carriage, her arms trembling with the exertion of holding the pistol aloft. “I have retrieved your Mr. Wycombe. You’ll be married the very moment we reach Scotland.”
But Imogen was shaking her head, backing away, her face drawn in distress. One hand clutched at her throat, as if to pry loose the words that had thus far failed her. “Lizzie,” she said, finally, in a horrible little whisper. “This man isnotMr. Wycombe.”
“Of course he is! I found him at the house party. I sent a note in with the footman. Hecame.” Hehadto be Mr. Wycombe. Didn’t he?
But there was a terrible smirk spreading across the face of the man with whom she had so recently shared such a long carriage ride. He hadknown! All this time, and he hadknown—she had called him Mr. Wycombe, after all, and he had not bothered to correct her!
Would she have believed him if he had?
Oh, no. Oh, no—no, no.No. This had all gone terribly, horribly wrong somehow.
“Whoareyou?” The words came out only a breathless wheeze; she tried to back up a step as he approached, tried to loosen her cramped, tingling fingers from around the pistol. Instead she fell against the side of the carriage, slid down as her knees collapsed beneath her—and the gun, clamped within the tight vice of her fingers, discharged.
The harsh report seared the air, burned her ears, and the man—who wasnotMr. Wycombe—jerked in surprise. Across the dove grey fabric of his coat, there high upon his arm, a stain of red began to spread. Hissing in pain, he slammed his hand over it to stanch the bleeding.
“I am Lucas Godwin,” he said, in a seething whisper, “Marquess of Ashworth. Andyou, Miss Talbot, are going tohang.”
Chapter Two
Chaos. In the cold light of dawn, with the ear-splitting thunder of the pistol still echoing into the distance, the man—themarquess—that Lizzie had abducted, began a slow descent to his knees as chaos erupted in the yard.
She’d shot him. She’dshothim! A queer sort of panic quivered through her veins, freezing her blood, which slowed to a sluggish pulse. Willie came down from the driver’s seat of the carriage, his aged body moving slowly in deference to his aching joints. “Cor, Miss Lizzie! Didn’t think you had it in you.”
She hadn’t, though. At least, she hadn’tmeantto. Her breath whistled through her clenched teeth and she pitched the pistol aside as if it had burned her hands. Trepidation brought her scrambling to her feet, and she could feel herself paling, whitening, with every step she took toward the man whose life’s blood was presently dripping through the tight clasp of his fingers.
He breathed in furious puffs of breath, but those blue eyes found hers, bright and vivid and scalding with fury, with disdain. He would have strangled her then and there, if he could have mustered the strength.
In a tight, tinny voice, she heard herself saying, “Here, now, Mr.—er, my lord. Can you stand?”
“Of course I can’t fucking stand! You’veshotme!”
The shout made her cringe away, but she contented herself with the fact that there seemed to be nothing at all wrong with his lungs at least.
“In thearm,” Willie provided scornfully.
Carefully, as if she were approaching a rabid beast of the wild, Lizzie pried up his fingers, searching the outer muscle of his arm, solid beneath the once-fine wool of his coat, for—there. The feathery feeling of torn fabric coupled with the wetness of blood. The ball had blown straight through the fleshy part of his upper arm. At least she would not have to dig it from his flesh.
“Imogen,” she said, hearing the distant inflection of her own voice. “I need you to make up Papa’s bed for—er, the marquess. And Willie, you must help me carry him.”
“I won’t be carried like a bloody child!” It was a hiss through lips gone chapped and dry. The hay strewn across the ground was stained red now, blood sinking into the dry earth beneath it.Too much blood. The bleeding would have to be stanched as soon as possible.
Probably they could not lift him between them, anyway. He was tall, sturdy—and she and Willie were anything but. “Then help me help him to his feet,” Lizzie corrected.
With a scoff, Willie slipped his hand beneath the marquess’ good shoulder, hefting him to his feet once more. The marquess stood like a newborn fawn, on tottering legs. He gave a wrenching groan as Lizzie took up a position on his bad side, supporting him. “It’s not enough to shoot me?” he inquired tightly, his jaw working with strain. “Must Isufferbefore I pop off?”
“You’re not going to die.” Not if she had anything to say of it. They urged him forward, one slow step at a time, and each of them had to pain him terribly.
“You had bestpraythat I do,” he snarled. “By God, I willrejoicewhen the hangman stretches your pretty little neck.”
Lizzie swallowed down a flutter of fear. Imogen had darted off ahead of them only moments ago, but at the pace they were going, Lizzie had no doubts but that the bed would be prepared long before the time she and Willie made it to the room with the marquess in tow.
“P’raps we ought to leave him,” Willie said, struggling beneath the weight of the man.
“No,” Lizzie said.
