It had been an hour . . . longer.
Mara could not keep quiet. “Straight and true, as it went in.”
“She would know how it went in, as she fairly put it there herself,” Bourne said. “Look upon your work, you fucking harpy.”
As though Mara couldn’t see it. As though she hadn’t seen her brother plunge it deep into Temple’s chest.
As though she didn’t will it away.
She met Bourne’s hating, hazel gaze. “I did not do this.”
“Of course you did.” This, from the other aristocrat in the room—tall and ginger-haired. When she looked to him, he added, “You did this the moment you set him up for a murder he didn’t commit. Twelve years end here. With this.”
“It was a . . .” Mara trailed off, shaking her head. They did not understand. Few did.
It was a mistake.
She did not say it, because they neither cared to hear her story, nor deserved to. Temple was another tale. Temple deserved the truth.
If he lived, she’d give it to him. All of it.
She would lay herself at his feet and give him his chance at retribution. At vengeance. And she’d give him the truth.
If only he would live.
She moved toward his still form, and was stayed once more by the strong grip of his man-at-arms. She looked to the pile of linen near Temple’s head on the low table.
“You must remove it swiftly, and immediately apply pressure,” she said, deliberately avoiding the gazes of the men in the room, looking only to the surprised eyes of the countess. “You’ll need more linen than that.” Her gaze flickered to the knife. “The wound is deep.”
“You’re a doctoress, now?” The words oozed lazy condescension.
She steeled herself and met the marquess’s eyes. “I’ve extracted knives before.”
“From whom?”
She looked back to Temple. “From whomever.”
The countess was through waiting. “Asriel, you will have to release Miss Lowe. We shall require your strength to keep him down.”
“He is unconscious,” Bourne said.
“If we’re lucky, he shan’t be when we do this. It will hurt. A great deal, I imagine.” Mara closed her eyes at the words, willing them to be true. Willing him to wake. Willing him not to be dead. She watched the men move to hold Temple down—three of them to keep his massive body still—and she tried not to notice the way his skin had gone sallow, life seeping from him on a river of blood.
So much life.
Her throat closed at the thought.
What had she done to this man? What had he done to deserve her in his life? If he lived . . . She bargained again. If he lived, she’d give him everything he wanted and leave him to his happiness.
To some beautiful woman and their beautiful children on his beautiful estate.
She’d give him back everything she took.
If only he would live.
It was the closest she’d come to a bargain with God in a decade. In longer.
The countess looked from one man to the next, then to Mara. “You’ve done this before?”
Mara nodded, thinking of another knife. Another time. More pale skin. “I have.”
“You should do it.”
Mara did not hesitate, moving toward him. Wanting to touch him. Bourne stopped her. “If you hurt him, I kill you.”
She nodded. “It seems reasonable.”
She would do everything she could to save him. She wanted him alive. She wanted to give him everything for which he asked. All the truth.
Perhaps he would forgive her.
Perhaps they could begin anew.
And if not, at least she could give him all she had. All he deserved.
Bourne released her and she moved to the stack of linens, folding them into a haphazard bandage and bringing the bucket of steaming water closer. When the earl and the marquess cut her vicious looks, she stared back, refusing to be cowed. Bollocks to them.
She handed the stack of linens to the countess before hiking up her skirts to kneel on the table next to Temple’s head, placing firm hands on the knife’s bloody hilt. “On my count.” The room stood still. She looked down at Temple, his face pale. “Don’t you dare die,” she whispered. “I’ve things to tell you.”
He did not move, and she ignored the ache in her chest at his stillness.
“One . . .” she counted. “Two . . .” she did not wait for three, instead yanking the knife from his chest, straight and true.
He screamed his pain, bowing from the table, and Mara nearly wept with relief at the sound as the countess leaned over him, flooding the wound with scalding water, to clear away the blood and hopefully, hopefully show a less deadly incision.
Hope was a fool’s emotion.
Temple’s scream renewed itself, the searing liquid burning his skin and bringing forth a new river of blood. Refusing to flinch at the sound, Mara grabbed a stack of linen, covering the wound and leaning all her weight into the cloth, willing the tide to stem even as it soaked through the fabric. Even as he bled.
Even as he died at her hands.
“You won’t die,” she whispered. Over and over. “You won’t die.”
She had to stop the bleeding.
The words were all she could think as she rose above him, pressing as hard as she could, trying to ignore the way he bucked beneath the force, attempting to throw them all off. Even now, she was shocked by the size of him. By his strength. By his will as he roared his anger and pain and his eyes shot open, black as midnight and filled with its demons.
He looked right at her and swore, dark and unhesitating, the muscles in his neck straining.
“You hurt him.” The Marquess of Bourne gave voice to Temple’s look. “You take pleasure in it.”
“I don’t,” she whispered, only to him, to her great duke. “I never wanted you hurt.” She pressed harder on the shoulder, feeling vaguely grateful that the tall, redheaded gentleman across from her was strong enough to hold Temple’s arm down, as she had no doubt that he would like nothing more than to strike her. “I want you well.”
Temple resisted her touch, and she changed tack. “Stop straining,” she said, loudly. As firm as the pressure she exerted. “The more you fight, the more you’ll bleed, and you can’t spare it.”
He did not look away from her, and his teeth remained clenched, but he stopped fighting.
Hopefully by choice.
The linens were soaked through, as she’d expected. He was bleeding profusely, and she would need more padding to soak it all up.
She turned to the countess. “My lady . . . would you . . .”
The bespectacled woman responded without hesitation, knowing what Mara wanted without articulation. She took hold of the bandage as Mara reached for the bloody knife on the table.
“No—” The redheaded gentleman saw her movement first.
Bourne instantly released Temple. “Put it down.”
She did not hide her irritation. “You think I’ll slit his throat with all of you here? You think I’m so hateful I’ve gone mad?”
“I think I’d rather not risk it,” Bourne said, but Mara was already turning away, lifting her skirts quickly—even as the marquess came at her—and cutting away a layer of beautiful mauve underskirt. Bourne pulled up short, and Mara would have enjoyed the look of shock on his face if she weren’t so busy thrusting the hilt of the knife in his direction. “Make yourself useful. We’ll likely need your shirts, as well.”
Later, she would marvel at the speed with which the men responded to her demand, shrugging out of their coats and pulling their shirts over their heads, but in the moment, she added, “His is somewhere in this room, as well. Find it.”