A Masquerade in the Moonlight(141)
“Don’t shoot, aingeal. One extra hole in this body of mine is enough for me,” Thomas said coolly as he sagged slightly where he stood, pressing a hand against his left side. “He was standing too close to miss me. And would you happen to have anything handy about you to tie up my wound? Much as I hate to mention it, the thing’s bleeding fair to drain me dry.”
Marguerite laid down the pistol and ran around the desk, pausing only a moment to look down at the Earl of Laleham’s unmoving body—to see the knife hilt visible in the center of a dark, spreading stain on his chest—before throwing herself against Thomas, standing on tiptoe to kiss his face over and over. “You idiot! To throw yourself against his pistols! You sweet... adorable... brave idiot!”
Thomas winced, and she stepped back, realizing she was probably hurting him. Her hands shaking with nerves, she began pulling her shirt free from her breeches, planning to rip a strip off the bottom of it to use as a bandage. “Not really, aingeal. I just couldn’t be sure you were as good a shot as you said you were. But it was nice of you to distract him for a moment.”
“Oh,” Marguerite said quietly, cocking her head to look up at him. “I believe I’m insulted, but as you’re injured, I’ll forgive you. How did you know I’d make a move for the pistol?”
“I didn’t. I only hoped. Come to think of it, I should be glad you didn’t shoot me. How did you know that I was lying to Laleham?”
Marguerite smiled and batted her eyelashes at him teasingly as she helped him out of his jacket in order to tend to his wound. “Oh, well that was simple. You had to be lying to William. I’m a lot of things, Thomas Joseph Donovan, but I am not a miserable bed partner!”
“That you’re not, darlin’,” Thomas answered, grinning down at her. “That you’re not. Lord, how I love you! Here now—take a care pulling off my shirt. I’m an injured man, you know.”
“I heard a shot! Tommie? Where are you, boyo?” Dooley burst into the room, the tail of his nightshirt barely covering his spindly Irish calves, waving a pistol above his head so that Thomas stepped in front of Marguerite, probably to protect her if the thing went off. “Well, heyday!” he exclaimed as his bare foot collided with Laleham’s body. “You could have waited for me, boyo. Now what am I supposed to tell Bridget, I’m asking you—that I was snoring m’head off while you were playing the hero? You’re bleeding? Good. Serves you right for having all the fun without me.”
Marguerite covered her laugh with a cough as Sir Gilbert and Finch came into the room, then sobered as she remembered what William had said about Marco. “Donovan—Marco! We have to go to Laleham Hall.”
“Whatever for, sister of my heart? To watch it burn, as all evil things must? Ah, Donovan, I see you have not disappointed me. But I’ll take him now.”
At the sound of Marco’s voice coming from the doors to the garden everyone turned to see her childhood friend standing in the room. His red, full-sleeved shirt and the patterned head scarf tied around his head above that single, distinctive eyebrow made him look every inch the Lord of Egypt. A very alive Lord of Egypt.
Deserting Thomas where he stood—for no matter how he had complained, he had suffered only a flesh wound and didn’t need all her sympathy—Marguerite raced across the room and launched herself into the Gypsy’s arms. “William said he killed you.”
“Not me, my sister. It was Giorgio he shot. And one shot would never be enough to force the life from such a clever rascal as that infant, although I was kept busy tending to him, allowing the earl to slip past us.” He walked over to Laleham’s lifeless body and, after staring down dispassionately for a moment, spit on it. “That’s for Giorgio,” he said before giving the body a kick. “And that’s for Geoffrey.”
He then turned to Thomas, smiling, as if forgetting that the Earl of Laleham lay dead just behind him. “Giorgio says for you to think about a Gypsy wedding. He’d like three goats and a fat sow for our sister’s bride price, as he has decided he’s owed something for having taken a ball in his shoulder. It’s only a small hole, but Giorgio is insistent. Three goats and one fat sow. Me? I ask only to dance with my sister one last time.”
Marguerite felt tears stinging her eyes and looked to Thomas, wondering what he would say to such an idea.
“Sir Gilbert?” Thomas asked. “Arc you agreeable to Marco’s suggestion? This might not be the best time to apply to you for her hand, but I do very much want to marry your granddaughter.”