Fortunately, form, grace, even believability, had not been Evie’s ultimate goals. She wanted a distraction, and that she accomplished quite well.
Herbert laughed, and from slitted lids, Evie saw his feet turn toward her.
Then he swore, and there was a flash of tangled arms and legs as McAlistair lunged into Herbert, sending them both crashing to the ground.
She scrambled up to her hands and knees, and heard herself cry out in terror when the gun went off. But the bullet flew wide, shattering a glass platter on a shelf behind McAlistair.
The struggle lasted only a moment, just long enough for Evie to crawl over and snatch the pistol that had fallen from Herbert’s pocket and gone skittering across the floor. And just long enough for McAlistair to land one hard punch to Herbert’s jaw, rendering her newly obtained weapon unnecessary.
Herbert was out cold.
She remained where she was, shivering and panting, while hideous visions of McAlistair dying before her eyes danced through her head.
Not dead, she told herself firmly, raking her eyes over his crouching form.
He’s not dead.
“You’re all right,” she heard herself whisper raggedly. “You’re all right.”
“Are you hurt?” McAlistair demanded.
Her lungs felt too small, her knee throbbed like the very devil, and her heart was pounding hard enough to qualify as torture. She shook her head, tossed the gun aside, and scrambled over to throw herself around him.
She was shaking uncontrollably and knew her attempts to bring him near were awkward and clumsy. She didn’t care. She couldn’t help it. Burying her head in his shoulder, she grasped at his back, his shoulders, his waist.
McAlistair crooned in her ear, “Shh. Easy, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
She struggled against him. He wasn’t close enough. She couldn’t bring him close enough. And he wasn’t helping. He’d only put one arm around her shoulders in a half embrace.
“Hold me,” she pleaded.
A low groan rumbled through his chest. “Evie.”
“Hold—”
“Sweetheart. My arm.”
She unwound herself from him in a trice, her eyes jumping to his left arm. He was holding it protectively at his side, and blood had begun to seep through his upper sleeve, turning the green fabric a horrifying dark brown.
Fear, thick black waves of it, swamped her. He was bleeding. He’d been shot. He could die.
“No,” she heard herself say. “No, it hit the platter.”
“Caught me first. But it’s—”
She wasn’t listening. She flew to her feet, the pain of her knee forgotten, and snatched a clean rag from the table. Dropping down beside him, she pressed it to his wound. Tears gathered and fell as the white cloth turned crimson.
“I need more rags.”
“Evie, sweetheart. It’s only a scratch. I’ll be all—”
“It’s not a scratch,” she choked out on a hiccup. In her mind, it was an enormous gaping wound, and it was bleeding rivers of blood. “You need to lie down. You need a physician. You need—”
“Bleeding’s slowed.”
She blinked, hiccupped again, and looked at the cloth. He was right; the flow of blood had diminished.
Letting out a tremulous breath, she dashed tears away with the back of her hand. “You still need a physician.”
“Right now I need some rope for Herbert.”
Sniffling, Evie drew back a little to look down at the still-unconscious footman. She noticed for the first time that her knee was wedged solidly into Herbert’s side.
Good.
“There should be some rope or twine about.” McAlistair said. “I need you to find it.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The quicker Herbert was tied up, the quicker she could find help.
Before she had the chance to stand, Mr. Hunter came charging into the room, half dressed and wielding a gun. Mrs. Summers followed directly behind him, a large silver candlestick at the ready. She took one look at the scene before her and, tossing the candlestick aside, dropped to her knees beside Evie. “Evie! Are you hurt? Are you—”
“No. McAlistair.”
McAlistair shook his head at Mr. Hunter’s and Mrs. Summers’s concerned glances. “Just a scratch. Bleeding’s nearly stopped.”
“It’s not a bloody scratch,” Evie berated. But there was no edge to her tone. Relief had taken it away. It wasn’t a mere a scratch—the man wouldn’t move his arm, for pity’s sake—but it no longer looked to be life-threatening, either. “It needs to be seen to.”
“Mr. Hunter can look at it, after we’ve taken care of Herbert.”
“Who the blazes is Herbert?” Mr. Hunter demanded.
“John Herbert.” Evie accepted Mrs. Summers’s assistance in standing. “A footman at Haldon. He…I…”
“Herbert’s grievance was with me,” McAlistair told the group. “Mr. Hunter, get me some rope. Mrs. Summers, take Evie upstairs.”
Mrs. Summers slipped an arm around her shoulder and coaxed her toward the door. “Come along, dear.”
“But—”
“Pour a bit of brandy in her,” Mr. Hunter suggested.