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He knew he had hit Bidenden, but the impact of the bullet hitting his arm had made him close his eyes, and he’d missed what happened. He forced them open now as he staggered toward the other end of the room to look. There was a lot of noise going on around him, but it was as if it were all muffled, and his sight had narrowed to a tunnel. There was a body on the floor and—his progress was halted by a big body on his right side coming in and wrapping an arm around his torso to hold him up, and Cecey was there in front of him, tears on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry!” he mumbled.

The door burst open, and Reynolds and James rushed into the room.

Rick waved a bloodied hand at Reynolds and said faintly, “I think we need a doctor. Rather a lot of blood and bodies.” Then his legs gave out, and everything went black.

When Rick came around, he was in a bed, naked, and his shoulder ached with a dull, throbbing, fiery pain. He discovered his wound had been bandaged, and, well—he was still alive. That was something.

He opened his eyes and found Reynolds bending over him. “Ward,” he said thinking of the knife wound his brother had sustained. “Is he all right?”

“Yes, my lord. We put him to bed in the green suite. “His wound is deep but not life-threatening. But he did lose a deal of blood.”

“He was supporting me, the bloody fool!” muttered Rick. “Stubborn as an ox!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I did kill him, didn’t I?” he asked abruptly.

There was a pause and then, “Yes, Rick, you did. He lingered for a bit. But by the time the doctor arrived, Bidenden had bled out, despite our best attempts to staunch the bleeding.”

Rick swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Victor.”

The other man nodded and gripped his good hand briefly.

Rick cleared his throat and asked the question he was dreading the answer to. “Is Her Ladyship—does she want to see me?” He had hoped to find her by his bedside when he woke. The fact that she wasn’t here—well, he didn’t know what to think.

“Yes, my lord. She went to change her clothes. She was all covered in blood, between the viscount, you, and Lord Hereward . . .”

“Of course!” He smiled and then wondered why she would be covered in Bidenden’s blood.

The interconnecting door between their bedrooms opened and Cecey appeared in a green silk gown that matched her eyes and took all of Rick’s attention. Reynolds tactfully left the room quietly as Cecey approached the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, coming closer but stopping just out of reach. She clasped her hands in front of her as if afraid to get any closer. His heart sank.

He gave one of his lopsided smiles and said, “I’ve felt better.”

“You look awful,” Cecey said candidly. “Bruised and battered. Reynolds said you looked like you had been in the ring and lost.” She bit her lip and then added softly. “I saw the marks on your wrists and ankles—they kept you chained up like a common criminal!” The last word was spoken with vehemence.

“It’s over now. Let’s not speak of it. There are other things to address,” he said struggling into a sitting position.

Alarmed, she said, “Don’t strain your shoulder; you’ll make it bleed again!”

He shook his head. “I need to sit up. I can’t address you lying down.”

She darted forward to rearrange the pillows behind him, and he sank back into them with a muffled grunt. His shoulder was throbbing like the devil, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but what he had to say to her.

He cleared his throat. “Cecelia, I owe you a profound apology. Words cannot express how much I regret—how sorry I am for leaving you like I did.” He watched her face as she stood again just out of reach, hands resting, he noted, protectively on her belly. Her expression was difficult to read, composed and guarded he supposed, and who could blame her?

He forced himself to continue, “There is no excuse for what I did. It was cowardice, pure and simple. And not the first time I’ve done that to you.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and went on doggedly. “But I promise you from the bottom of my heart it will be the last. I will never willingly leave you again. I don’t expect you to believe me or forgive me—yet. But I hope that with time I can regain your trust. I don’t deserve it. I know that.” He stopped again, because his voice was threatening to crack. Tears, which he never shed, stung his lids. He fought for composure and, having mastered his voice finally, went on.

“It wasn’t until I was confronted with the prospect that I might die without ever seeing you again, that I realized just how very much I love you. I had some inkling of it after your carriage accident, when I thought I’d lost you. But I don’t think I fully comprehended my feelings even then. I am a dunderhead. A selfish, thoughtless, weak man!” His voice cracked. “It was my fear of my weakness that made me run. There is no excuse for it.” He stopped because he was crying now. “Oh God, Cecelia, I am so sorry. You deserve someone so much better than me!”

He stopped as his voice gave out, and he held out his good hand to her wordlessly.

Swallowing, he whispered, “Can you ever forgive me, sweetheart? I wasn’t ready for marriage and fatherhood when we were pushed into this, but I recognize now what a gift you are, and I promise I will do my damnedest to earn the right to your forgiveness, if you will just give me a little hope?”

Cecelia swallowed and said, “I was very angry with you. It hurt. I can’t pretend it didn’t.”