Page 25 of To Love a Beast

By the time he reached Timens's side, Lightfoot was conscious and arguing with the butler about being able to walk. Never had he been so happy to hear the two of them bickering.

"Stubborn-headed dandy. You can't even sit up on your own, I'm not about to let you try walking."

"Well, if you'd quit . . . " A groan interrupted. ". . . torturing me by pressing handkerchiefs into my wound for two seconds and help me sit up, maybe I could get . . . out of the dirt."

"I'm rendering aid, you fool." More concern than heat colored the butler's response.

"What you're doing . . . is getting blood . . . all over my favorite jacket."

Everett dropped to his knees beside Lightfoot, angling his head away from the sunlight as pain shot through his right eye.

He bent over his friend, not liking the ashen pallor of his valet's complexion but smiling anyway.

"Stop worrying about your clothes, you peacock, and let us carry you into the house."

Lightfoot shifted his gaze to Everett's face and grimaced. "Ah, Griff. The strangest thing happened. A bullet somehow found its way into my arm."

"So I see."

Everett slid his arm behind Lightfoot's back as he shared a look with Timens, who did the same.

"What do you say we take a closer look at that inside?"

Lightfoot moaned as Everett and Timens lifted him into a sitting position. Once up, his face paled even further, and he almost passed out. He gritted his teeth, though, and managed to hold on to consciousness.

"I think," he gasped. "I need a minute . . . before we move again."

"I can carry you," Everett offered, but Lightfoot waved him off.

"Not in front of the women," he whispered. "Don't want to . . . scare them."

Timens made a scoffing sound. "Too late for that, old boy."

For a barely conscious fellow with a hole in his arm, the heat of Lightfoot's glare was impressive. "All the more reason to give a show of strength. To reassure them." He turned to Everett. "My legs still work. Just got to get my head to cease swimming."

Timens caught Everett's eye. "He took a pretty good knock to the back of the skull when he went down."

"Help me get him up. I can walk him in while you ride into Graham to fetch the doctor."

Timens nodded and together, they pulled Lightfoot to his feet without too much jostling. Everett stretched his friend's uninjured arm over his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him upright.

Everett took on the majority of Lightfoot's weight then released Timens to his fetching duties with a nod. After the butler scurried toward the carriage house, Everett tilted his head toward his valet. "Ready?"

"Not really, but it beats returning to the dirt."

Everett grunted as he dragged his friend toward the house. Lightfoot managed to help him for the first ten feet or so before he began to slump, growing heavier with every step. Worried the valet might have lost consciousness, Everett jostled him slightly when they reached the bottom of the porch steps.

"You know," he said between clenched teeth, "this would be a good time for you to start living up to your name."

A weak but decidedly lucid chuckle exhaled from the man at his side. "Sorry, Griff. It's . . . the extra lead. Makes me . . . heavy."

The weight dragging on Everett's body might not have lessened, but the weight on his heart did. If Ray could joke about the situation, it couldn't be too dire.

At that moment, Miss Rosenfeld ran down the steps, arms outstretched. "Let me help you."

"Don't touch his arm," Everett warned.

She halted, obviously at a loss as to how to help without touching him.