Suddenly she coughed. Coughed again. Then gasped for breath.
“That’s it,” Andrew said, patting her sharply between the shoulder blades. After several more choking coughs, her eyelids fluttered open, and she gazed at him with a dazed expression. She blinked, then lifted a shaking wet hand to his cheek.
“Andrew.”
That hoarse whisper was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “I’m right here, Catherine.”
“You were hurt. But you’re all right.”
He most certainly was not. In the blink of an eye he’d nearly lost everything that mattered to him.
Fear flashed in her eyes and she squirmed in his arms. “There’s a man, Andrew. He grabbed me, and must have injured you.”
“I know. He’s-”
Andrew’s gaze froze on the empty spot where he’d last seen their attacker slithering down the rock wall. In his desperate attempt to pull Catherine to safety he’d momentarily forgotten the bastard. Obviously, he’d only been stunned. He quickly scanned the area, but saw nothing.
“He’s gone.” Holding tight to Catherine, he waded to the edge of the spring and gently set her on the smooth rock ledge. By the time he’d exited the water, Catherine had risen to her feet.
“Can you walk?” he asked, alternating his watchful gaze from her face to their surroundings.
“Yes.”
He slipped his knife from his boot, cursing himself for not gutting the bastard when he’d had the chance, but all his thoughts had been focused on getting to Catherine before it was too late. And he’d nearly been too late.
“I hurt him,” Andrew whispered next to her ear, “but clearly not badly enough. I hope he’s off licking his wounds and won’t make another attempt tonight, but I can’t be sure. We’re going to walk as quickly and quietly as we can back to the house. Do not let go of my hand.”
She nodded. Gripping his knife in one hand and tightly clasping Catherine’s wet hand in the other, they started down the dark path. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the house without further incident.
After locking the door behind them, Andrew lit an oil lamp and took a moment to examine the lump on her head. She winced when his fingers gently probed the tender spot, but she assured him, “I’m fine.”
“All right. I want to search and secure the house.” He lit another lantern, then handed it to her. “Stay close to me.” He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight.
“I want to check on Spencer,” she said, her eyes filled with concern.
“That’s first,” he agreed, leading the way up the stairs.
After ascertaining that Spencer was safe, Andrew whispered, “Stay here with him. I want to check the rest of the rooms. Lock the door behind me and do not open it for anyone except me.” He held out his knife. “Take this.”
Her eyes widened, and she audibly swallowed. But she took the weapon, determination gleaming in her eyes.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
Andrew nodded, then left the room. Once he’d heard the lock click into place behind him, he immediately headed toward his bedchamber. After making certain no one lurked in the room, he pulled his pistol and another knife from the leather satchel in the bottom of the wardrobe.
“I’m ready for you now, you bastard.” Dozens of questions buzzed through his mind, the loudest of which was why, but his questions would have to wait.
Slipping the knife into his boot, he carried the lantern in one hand, hefted the comforting weight of his pistol in the other, and set off to search and secure the house.
Catherine stood in Spencer’s bedchamber, clutching the knife, her ears straining to pick up any foreign sound, her gaze never leaving her son’s face, which was gently illuminated by the oil lamp she’d set on his desk. Her wet clothing stuck to her like an uncomfortable second skin, and she pressed her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering. She wasn’t certain if the shivers racking her were more the result of being chilled or due to the shocking fright of this evening.
Spencer stirred, let out a small sigh, then settled, and Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. She’d thought the danger was over, had been convinced that the shooting in London was a random accident and not related to her connection to the Guide and Charles Brightmore, but clearly she was wrong. Dear God, what had she done? Guilt and self-recriminations wrapped a noose around her neck, strangling her. Andrew could easily have been killed. She could easily have drowned. And God only knows what sort of threat her actions had wrought upon her family.
She kept her silent vigil, heart pounding with every creak of the house, praying for Andrew’s safety. When she finally heard a soft tapping on the door, relief wobbled her knees.
“Catherine, it’s me,” came Andrew’s quiet voice from the corridor.
Holding her lantern aloft, she opened the door, quite certain she’d never been so relieved to see anyone in her entire life. He motioned for her join him in the corridor. After she’d done so, he quietly closed Spencer’s door, then clasped her hand and led her in silence directly to her bedchamber. The instant the door closed behind them and they were ensconced in privacy, he set both their lamps on the marble hearth and drew her into his arms.
Catherine slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest, absorbing his hard, fast heartbeats against her cheek.
“The house is safe,” he said softly, his words warm against her temple. “No intruders. I locked all the doors and windows. I woke Milton, briefed him on what happened, and instructed him to tell the rest of the staff in the morning.” He leaned back and tipped up her chin. “I know who did this, Catherine. I saw him. Recognized him. And I swear to you, I’ll find him.”
“Who is it?”
“A man named Sidney Carmichael.”
Catherine frowned. “He attended my father’s birthday party, as well as the duke’s soiree.”
“Yes. He is-or rather was-one of the potential museum investors. I spoke to him just yesterday in London.” His brow creased with a deep frown. “In spite of the dark, I know it was he. I just don’t understand why he would do this. He hadn’t yet handed over any funds for the museum, so he didn’t stand to lose any money.”
Catherine’s stomach twisted. She wished she didn’t have to tell him, but there was no other way. Drawing a bracing breath, she said, “I’m afraid I know why, Andrew.”
His gaze sharpened, but instead of demanding an immediate explanation, he said, “I’m anxious to hear your thoughts, but first we must get you into dry clothing before you become ill. Turn around.”
For the first time she noted that he’d changed into a fresh linen shirt and breeches. She turned and felt him deftly unfasten the row of buttons down her back. After he helped her slip off her damp gown and underthings, she retrieved a nightrail, robe, and slippers. While he carefully settled her wet garments over the back of a wing chair, and tended the fire which had burned too low, she quickly dressed.
After she’d tightened the robe’s sash around her waist, she walked to the fireplace, taking a moment to allow the flames to chase away the last of her chills. When she was warm, she turned to him. The fire cast the room in a golden, flickering glow, gilding his features in contrasting panes of shadow and light. His eyes were serious and filled with questions as they regarded her, yet he said nothing, patiently waiting for her to speak.
Clasping her fidgety hands at her waist, she said, “I’m not certain how to tell you this, other than to simply say it. You are aware that many people are angered by the Ladies‘ Guide and that there is great interest in the author.”