Page 47 of Scandal with a Sinful Scot

By God, revenge was sweet indeed.

* * * *

Abbie looked about frantically. Since they were surrounded by woods, the shot could have come from anywhere, though it appeared the sound had come from north of where they stood. They were exposed here, on open ground.

Megan stood by, wringing her hands. “Mama, what should we do?” she cried.

Abbie laid her head against Garrett’s chest. His heart still thumped with a strong beat. Thank God. She tore off his wool muffler, bunched it up, and held it to his wound. Pressure would stem the bleeding. She’d learned this much from her physician husband. “Listen to me, Megan. Calm yourself. You must ride immediately to Wollstonecraft Hall. Inform Martin, the butler, about what has happened. We need a wagon and footmen, and the physician should be called.”

Megan’s eyes widened. “But—”

“Go, Megan,” she urged, “and tell them to bring weapons in case they are needed.”

Her daughter glanced worriedly at Garrett, then mounted her horse and set off at a brisk gallop. Please God, let her be safe. She was taking a chance asking Megan to do this, but if the person who fired upon them was still out there, Abbie would rather the perpetrators fire on her and Garrett. At least a moving target was harder to hit.

And they had been fired upon. Abbie had heard and felt the bullet dash past their heads, far too close to be accidental. When Garrett moved in front of them, he took the impact of the second bullet. Oh, my love. He’d done it to protect them.

There was too much blood. From a shoulder wound? The slug must have hit a major vein or artery. Abbie pressed harder as her frightened mind struggled to remember things that Elwyn had told her or something she’d read in one of his medical books. On the rare nights she could not sleep, she’d often read them.

Think, Abbie. The subclavian artery was in the shoulder, which fed to the main artery in the arm—she couldn’t recall the name. That could explain all the blood. Was bone shattered? The artery or veins destroyed? Nerves and tendons damaged beyond all repair?

Garrett groaned, his eyelids fluttered. “Abbie…” he croaked.

“Yes, I’m here. Stay with me. Help is on the way,” she soothed as she pressed harder on the wound.

“Safe…”

“We are safe. Do not worry.”

He clasped her hand. “Love…you.” His eyelids closed and his grip slackened.

“Garrett!” Again, she listened to his chest. Still beating. He was a strong man; he would fight this. Interminable moments passed. Silence surrounded them, except for the haunting, hoarse screech of a hawk circling overhead. Finally, the unmistakable sound of thundering horses’ hooves filled her hearing. Four men on horses galloped toward them, followed by a wagon with three others riding on it.

An older man pulled up on the reins, halting the horse before her. “MacAdam, ma’am. The head groom. What direction did the shots come from?”

As he spoke, the men from the wagon jumped down and rushed toward them.

Abbie pointed toward the cluster of trees. “There, I believe. My daughter?”

“Miss Hughes is well, and bravely explained in detail what occurred. Martin has sent for the physician in Sevenoaks, and sent word to the earl’s personal physician in London. He also sent a runner to Carrbury. The earl and viscount will want to be informed. As would Master Riordan.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

It took five men to lift Garrett and carry him toward the wagon. Abbie followed behind and one of the men helped her up. She knelt beside Garrett and continued to hold pressure to the wound.

“Do you believe it was deliberate, Mrs. Hughes?” MacAdam asked. “Miss Hughes was not sure.”

“Yes. The first shot sailed over our heads, far too close for comfort. The second hit Garrett when he moved in front of us, to protect us.”

“Thank you. Lads, take the wagon to the hall. Quickly now. Inform Martin that Jacob, Samuel, and I will search the woods.” MacAdam pulled his rifle from the saddle. “Off with you!”

They had tied Patriot and the gelding to the rear of the wagon, and with a snap of the reins, they lurched forward, the pace growing quicker as the horses built up speed. Garrett mumbled as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Hot tears clustered on her lashes, but she blinked them away. She must stay in control—Garrett’s survival depended on it. The ride was rough, and Abbie almost lost her balance more than once as the wagon hit ruts in the semi-frozen ground.

Once they arrived at the front entrance of the hall, she was swept up into a beehive of activity, with Martin efficiently and confidently giving orders to all and sundry.

As she was being assisted from the wagon, Martin rushed to her side. “We shall place Master Garrett in the morning room, Mrs. Hughes, as it is on the main floor and there is a chaise large enough to accommodate him.”

“Yes.” She followed Martin and the footmen as they carried Garrett inside. He moaned twice, still wandering in and out of awareness. Abbie slipped out of her coat as the footmen did the same for Garrett. “Remove his shirt as well; tear it off, if you must.”