The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(60)

The man’s eyes rolled up, but he was clearly as tough as old boots, for he still managed to heft the rifle and swing the butt at Javan’s head. Swearing, Javan seized it in both hands, bouncing as the gunman bucked beneath him in an effort to dislodge him.

“I don’t have time for this,” Javan said between his teeth, and brought up his knee sharply between his opponent’s thighs. As the shock jerked the gunman’s body into an attempted ball, Javan snatched the rifle and swung it sharply into the gunman’s head. This time, he went out like a light.

Javan had no time for triumph. Taking the rifle with him, he began to run down the hill, whistling for his horse as he went. Now, at last, he could observe what had happened below. But if he’d hoped to see the curricle trundling on in blissful ignorance of the events on the hill above, he was doomed to disappointment.

The gunman had let off a shot, and it seemed he was good. For the horses and curricle stood still on the corner, and the female passenger lay spread out in the road.





Chapter Seventeen





The explosion had come out of nowhere. One moment, Caroline was admiring Richard’s skill in taking the corners on the appalling road, and the next, over the top of the pounding hooves and the rumbling wheels, an almighty crack sounded. At the same time, her arm jerked of its own volition, spinning her against the side of the curricle, and the horses screamed in fright.

“What the…?” came Richard’s voice, then, “Dear God, Caroline!”

Somehow, he must have got the horses under control, for a moment later, she was lying in the road, with him looming over her.

“What happened?” she asked blankly. “How did I get here? Did I fall out?”

“Sort of,” Richard said hoarsely. “It’s as well I managed to halt them first. Be brave, my dear, I’m afraid you’ve been shot. It must be highwaymen, and one of them is running toward us.”

As he spoke, he produced a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat. She could make that out although the fringes of her world were growing misty. It seemed to take a long time for his words to penetrate.

She frowned up at the sky. “I’ve been shot?” She turned her head toward the sudden, galloping pain in her arm. There was blood. “Oh dear, so I have. Am I going to die? I mustn’t! Who will care for Peter? And I must not abandon Rosa. Oh, where is he?” Sudden, weak tears filled her eyes because she would die without seeing Javan again, without telling him…

“Oh, put the pistol away, you lummock, it’s me,” said an irritable voice, surely in her imagination, for it sounded like his. Hasty footsteps sounded on the road, and his face swam before her misty eyes.

“Help her,” Richard’s voice pleaded. “I don’t know what to do.”

Caroline smiled, reaching urgently for Javan with her good arm, because even if he wasn’t real, she wanted his presence so much. But the skin of his neck was warm and firm under her hand, his deeply scarred face frowning and desperate.

“I have you, Caroline,” he whispered, his rough fingers gentle and soothing on her face. “I have you. Hold on.”

Enchanted by the warmth of his voice, she let the happiness explode within her. She tugged him closer, gasping his name as she pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” she whispered.

She felt the aching, tender response of his lips for a bare instant. And then, his voice, “Then you’d better let me see that wound, so I can remind you of the fact for years to come.”

“Years,” she said blissfully. “Am I dreaming, Javan?”

“No, but I need somewhere cleaner and safer to get the bullet out of you.”

His hands were beneath her, swinging her up across the sky, and then she seemed to be back in the curricle with Richard. She tried to ask where Javan had gone, and then she saw him on horseback, riding beside them. The world sped up and vanished into blackness.

*

When she woke, she was between crisp sheets. She had a memory of excruciating pain that went on and on, relieved only by the sweetness of Javan’s voice. She’d trusted him to make it stop. She must have been dreaming. The fierce ache in her arm told her it hadn’t all been imagination. And behind that was some nagging worry that she had something important to do.

“Javan?” She turned her head on the pillow, searching.

A silhouette by the window stretched into the shape of a man springing to his feet. He strode toward her and she saw with wonder that it truly was Javan.

“It is you!”

“It is. How are you?”

There was something incredibly wonderful in him sitting on the edge of her bed. He touched her forehead, no doubt feeling for fever, and then moved on, stroking her hair.

“I’m well, I think,” she replied, “though my arm hurts. Was I truly shot? And how in the world did you come to be there?”

“I was trying to catch up with you, came across that fellow with a rifle. I shall never forgive myself for not stopping him in time.”

“I thought I might die,” she remembered. “And it seemed so cruel without seeing you again, and then you were there.”

He took her hand, his fingers curling around hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m afraid I’m a mess of a human being. I didn’t quite understand until you left how much you mean to me.”