Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

“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, all men are like that.”

“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. Simon.

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. No . She couldn’t allow that to happen.

She put her lips next to his ear and whispered, “I love you, Simon. Please wake up so I can tell you. Please…”

Baxter returned and they worked together in silence, Genevieve preparing compresses, Baxter applying pressure to the wound. She gently wiped the blood from Simon’s face and neck, her anxious gaze searching for any sign of consciousness, her fingers locating his pulse again to assure herself he still lived.

She didn’t know how many terrifying minutes had passed since they’d entered the foyer. Surely it hadn’t been more than five or six, yet it felt like an eternity. Just when she didn’t think she could stand another instant of silence, Baxter reported, “The bleeding’s nearly stopped. He’s got a hell of an egg on his head-but nothing else. Looks like he were just grazed.”

No sooner had he said the words than Simon gave a faint groan. Genevieve’s gaze flew to his face. His eyelids fluttered, then slowly blinked open. She clasped his hand between hers, pressing it to her chest, just above the spot where her heart beat in frantic thumps.

“Simon, can you hear me?” she asked.

He blinked several times and Genevieve bit back the cry of relief that rushed into her throat when his green gaze met hers. He slowly moistened his lips. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t suppress her half sob, half laugh at his whispered question. Gripping his hand tighter, she brought it to her lips. “Yes, I’m fine.” An outright lie-she was sick with worry, lightheaded with relief, and more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Without turning away from Simon, she said, “I can handle things here now, Baxter. Please fetch Dr. Bailey. And the magistrate.”

Baxter nodded. “I’ll just check the house first,” he said, and then immediately went to do so. As soon as they were alone, Simon whispered, “Genevieve.”

“I’m right here, Simon.”

He frowned, then winced. “Bloody hell, my head feels like it’s been split open. What happened?”

“You were shot.”

He blinked again, then tried to move. He sucked in a hissing breath, slammed his eyes shut and went still. After several slow, deep breaths, he said through gritted teeth, “Waverly?”

“I’m guessing that’s the name of the man who shot you.”