Page 65 of Beguiling the Baron

Chapter 43

Horrified, Tia stood on shaky legs, then lurched forward through the dust and rubble, casting about for any sign of Hal’s bottle-green jacket.

“Hal! Hal!”

No answer. She screamed for help, hoping one of the gardeners was within earshot. In response to her shout, the sharp-eared dogs started baying. Someone from the house must soon realize something was wrong.

She tripped once and fell, bruising herself badly on some broken masonry, adding to the rents in her skirt and the bloody scratches on her hands. But there was no pain, only terror. Where was he?

A piece of dusty cloth poked out from a pile of boulders. Frantically she pushed them aside and dragged at it, but it came away in her hand, along with a splintered wooden frame. When she peered into the gap she’d created, a dead face leered back at her and she let out a horrified shriek.

The image swung into focus. Not Hal, but the veiled face of Mary’s marble statue, damaged by a multitude of cracks.

Her heart pounded painfully, and she gulped in several breaths, willing herself not to faint. She must continue searching—every second counted. Her blood beat so loudly in her ears she could barely hear, but she yelled again for Hal, then stilled to listen for any response.

Suddenly, a few yards away, the rubble began to shift and slide. She scrambled across to the spot and threw herself into the task of scraping, dragging, and rolling the stones away. Something shifted underneath, dusty but animate, pushing its way back to the surface.

Hal.

“Oh, thank God you’re alive.” But he was a dreadful sight, his clothing torn, his pale face gray with dust, his eyes shocked and unseeing.

“Are you hurt? But you must be—your poor head.” She choked down her panic—she must be strong for him now, stronger than she’d ever been.

Blood gushed from his temple, staining his battered shirt front, and he was coughing so hard as he dragged himself upright, she feared he would suffocate on the spot.

She rolled away more rubble, trying to clear a space around him so he could sit in comfort. He drew a hand across his mouth and uttered a hoarse, unintelligible sound.

“No, don’t try to speak. Save your breath.” She stood and screamed, “Help! Help us, somebody!”

Hal broke into another violent fit of coughing, so she knelt again and banged on his back to ease the spasm. It gave him enough relief to try extricating himself from the shattered masonry that covered his legs, but he could only move slowly, like a man emerging from water.

Tia clutched at his shoulders, blew dust from his hair, pressed her handkerchief against his flowing wound, and murmured words of comfort in his ear.

His head swiveled around, his pallid eyes roving over her body, her anxious face. “Tia, you’re hurt.” His voice was a painful croak. “Go and get your cuts seen to.”

“Not so badly as you. Hal, you look an absolute fright.”

“I don’t feel too well, I confess.”

“I think I hear running feet. Help is coming.” Thank heaven.

He took her hand, brought it to his bloodied lips, and kissed her fingers as he met her eyes, though he was struggling to focus. He murmured, “It seems I have become a victim of my own folly.”

Then he fainted.

The gardener’s boy ran up as Tia fought not to lose consciousness herself. “Quick, get to the house and send two strong men down here with a door or a tabletop. Lord Ansford needs a stretcher. Send the fastest footman for a doctor—no, send a groom on the fastest horse. Tell Lynch, tell Symons, tell everyone.”

She had no idea if her commands made any sense, but if they didn’t, surely one of the people she’d sent for would be able to take charge.

Nausea and confusion threatened to consume her as she settled next to Hal, who remained unconscious. Tia cradled his head gently in her lap, making it easier to staunch the bleeding.

He mustn’t die, please God, he mustn’t die. There was so much she needed to say to him. There was so much they needed to share.

The discovery of the sculpted memorial had unsettled her horribly, but she’d have grown used to the idea in time, wouldn’t she? And what he’d told her about artists was probably correct. After all, she had no experience to inform her judgment. She’d known long before they met, he was obsessed with his first wife, so why should she be so upset to discover he’d sculpted the late Lady Mary?

Hal was clearly a man of varied and exceptional talents. And there was no reason for her not to respect the fact.

When Tia examined her heart, she found her reason for reacting so negatively was jealousy. How foolish of her, to be jealous of a memory. The late Baroness Ansford had nothing to give her husband. But she, Miss Galatea Wyndham, had a whole lifetime of loving to offer him.

She brushed her free hand across Hal’s hair, attempting to extract some of the larger slivers of rock to keep them from digging in and cutting him. His breathing was very ragged, but his eyelids were moving. He must be coming out of his swoon, giving her reason to hope.

He was a strong, healthy man—he would recover. He simply had to. For how else could she tell him she’d been a complete idiot to upset herself so about his sculpture? How could she show him how much she loved him and wanted to be his wife?

Right there, she swore she’d never leave him, however broken he might be, however badly injured.

She simply couldn’t do without him.