The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(104)

Suddenly everything became clear. Well, perhaps not clear, precisely, but far less muddied. Grapling was the villain here. It was just as she’d realized in his carriage—only somehow worse now that she knew the reasons behind his actions. He was the one who’d murdered some poor girl. He was the one who’d arrived with her family’s artwork in crates, who’d stolen her diary and used the contents in whatever sick game he was playing. Fallon might not be the perfect gentleman she had previously thought him to be, but neither was he villainous. Yet she’d painted his heart black in her mind all the same.

She’d wondered for some time now who Fallon St. James was, and she had to admit that, even now, she still wasn’t certain. But she took a step toward him anyway, leaving the cover of the column behind.

She watched as Fallon shifted his weight, his focus on Mr. Grapling. Then movement beyond them grabbed her attention.

Her father lunged forward. “I’ve heard enough. You stole from me, and I’ve come to take back what’s mine.”

No! In the cover of the shadowed perimeter of the room, Isabelle moved forward. She had to do something. She had to help them. Her private thoughts in her diary had caused this, had led this madman to threaten everything she held dear.

Father wasn’t watching the men, only Mr. Grapling. In his inattention to the raised pistols all around him, one of the men cocked his weapon, aiming it at her father. Isabelle leapt forward just as Fallon turned to knock the pistol from the man’s hands. Time seemed to slow.

She saw it all in the span of a heartbeat.

The gleam of victory in Mr. Grapling’s eyes. Fallon’s head still turned toward the pistol as it fell to the ground. The knife in the moonlight that lit the center of the room. Fallon.

Mr. Grapling raised his arm and threw the knife. Fallon didn’t see it as it flew through the air. Fallon. Fallon! Her mouth couldn’t form words of warning fast enough. She dove for the knife. Hot, slicing pain. Silencing pain. A bellow of rage. Grapling’s shocked face. Footsteps. Gunfire.

Fallon. Secure arms holding her. Warm brown eyes watching her. Her name on his lips…

*

The building had erupted into chaotic madness all around him, but Fallon was still. His knees pressed into the wood plank floor as he held Isabelle in his arms. He brushed the hair back from her face and caressed her cheek.

“Isabelle, you’re going to be all right. I’ve got you, love. Stay with me, Isabelle. Stay with me. Dear God, you have to stay with me. Please, Isabelle. Please don’t go.”

Her eyes were already closing. He was losing her.

“Isabelle? Isabelle!”

He could hear his men’s footsteps as they swarmed through the doors. Hardaway had somehow ended up on top of Grapling, pinning the man to the floor with his forearm. Knottsby was in front of Fallon, crouched in front of his daughter. But Fallon didn’t care about any of them. None of it mattered.

“I need a doctor!” he screamed.

“He can’t arrive here fast enough, St. James,” Knottsby said in a low voice that was hollow with fear.

Fallon blinked through the tears that filled his eyes and looked at the knife that still punctured her side, deep red now covering the black of the dress she wore. “Give me a knife and a length of cloth…your cravat.” He sniffed, knowing what he must do.

“You’re going to remove the knife yourself,” her father accused him, already removing his cravat. “She’ll bleed out. You can’t!”

“I have to try,” he said, still looking down at Isabelle, still warm in his arms.

“St. James, let me do this.” Knottsby moved closer, holding the knife in his hands. “She’s not completely gone. If we attempt this… If she wakes when I pull the knife out, you must hold her still. You have to trust me. You can’t do this alone. You need my help.”

Fallon swallowed and looked up at Isabelle’s father. “Make sure the dress is cut back from the wound to prevent infection. If even a thread of fabric—”

“I’m her father. I care for her too. Trust me.”

Fallon nodded, unable to speak through the knot of emotion in his throat. This had to work. He couldn’t lose her completely. She had to live on and find happiness. He only brought her pain. But if she lived, was he strong enough to let her go again, as he had before?

Tightening his grip on her shoulders and bracing her head in the crook of his arm, Fallon looked back down into Isabelle’s ashen face. Right or wrong, he would always love her. And right or wrong, he would never let her go.

Her father ripped the dress back from the hilt of the knife and braced a hand against her rib cage. But then he looked up, stopping. “We can’t do this. We need a doctor. We could kill her.”

Fallon couldn’t speak, but he gave Knottsby a grave nod.

“Where should I take Grapling?” Hardaway asked from what seemed a great distance away.

Fallon was watching shaking hands tie the cravat tight around Isabelle’s waist, putting vital pressure on the dressing, holding it—and the knife—in place and stopping the blood that made his hands sticky and warm.

Isabelle didn’t move. There were no screams of pain or instantly alert open eyes as he tightened the dressing even more. There was only silence.

Knottsby had done a nice job with the field dressing even if it didn’t save Isabelle’s life. Fallon couldn’t have done any better.