Then she pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening, a painful blast that left her ears ringing. And the heat that seared along her rib cage had her crying out.
But even over the noise and pain she could hear Mr. Hartsinger screeching. Had she shot him? Her purpose in discharging the gun had been to render it useless, but if she’d managed to wound him in the process, all the better.
“Mirabelle!”
She heard Whit call for her again and the unmistakable bang of a carriage door being flung open. Then came the blessed relief of Mr. Hartsinger being flung away. But she didn’t open her eyes until Whit’s strong, familiar hands lifted her up to a sitting position.
“Where are you shot? Mirabelle, where—” His eyes found the rip in her clothing and the burn mark on her rib cage and he swore, low and viciously.
“I’m not shot.” She glanced down and squinted. “Well, maybe a little.”
He ran shaking hands along the wound. “It’s not bleeding. You’re not bleeding.”
“No. I aimed away.”
“You—?” He swore again and, though it was a bit hard to tell, she thought he shook his head. “Where else are you hurt? Mirabelle. Sweetheart, look at me.”
She’d like to, she thought, if only he would be still a moment. But he kept moving, running unsteady hands over her—her arms, her back, her face. And he kept shifting his head to kiss her—her eyes, her mouth, her hair. Because trying to pin him down made her dizzier, she simply wrapped her arms around him and burrowed in.
He followed suit, gripping her so tight she might have protested if it hadn’t felt so right.
“You’re all right,” he breathed. He lifted her up and out of the carriage, and pressed his face to her neck. “I heard the shot. Tell me you’re all right.”
She nodded against his chest. “I’m all right.”
She felt a tremble go through him before he pulled back and framed her face with his hands. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
He brushed his thumb gently beneath the broken skin of her cheek. “I was late.”
“No, my uncle did that,” she explained, feeling a little steadier. “You were just in time—”
“I was late,” he repeated, and she realized he wasn’t referring to just that night.
“You’re here now,” she whispered. And because he was, and because he seemed to need it as much as her, she wrapped her arms around him a second time.
“I want to go home, Whit,” she said into his coat. “My head hurts. Will you take me home?”
“I will, sweetheart.” His fingers feathered gently through her hair. She felt him tense when he found the knot where the butt of the gun had struck her.
“I am all right,” she assured him. “I just want to go home.”
“And I’ll take you, darling, I promise.” He set her gently on the carriage step. “But I need just a moment. Can you wait just a moment?”
She nodded, expecting him to do something with the horses and carriage. Instead, with rage in his eyes, and his features set in hard lines, he reached inside and grabbed Hartsinger’s weapon. “Stay here.”
She didn’t stay. How could she, when Whit was marching off with a pistol in his hand? She followed him around the side of the carriage, annoyed that she needed to use it for support. In the dim moonlight she could make out someone standing over two men on the road. The first, whom she assumed was the driver, was holding a bleeding arm.
And the second, whining loudly and dabbing at a nasty gash along his shoulder, was Mr. Hartsinger.
“She shot me. The chit shot me,” he trailed off nervously as Whit strode past and retrieved fresh shot from the back of his saddle. “Miss Browning has been legally signed into my care. This isn’t your concern, Thurston.”
Whit loaded the gun and stepped forward to stand over Hartsinger. “Do I appear unconcerned?”
Though Mirabelle found the sight of Hartsinger cowering on the ground gratifying, the uncharacteristically frigid tone of Whit’s voice sent chills up her spine. He didn’t really mean to kill the man, did he?
Hartsinger certainly seemed to think so. “Consider what you’re doing, man! It would be murder! You’ll hang—”
“I’m an earl,” Whit reminded him.
That gave Hartsinger pause. Peers of the realm weren’t sent to the gallows. “You’ll be banished!” he tried instead. “The authorities will—”
“Difficult for a man to report murder,” Whit interrupted, priming the pistol and aiming it squarely at Hartsinger, “with his head stuck on a pike.”
Mirabelle started forward. “Whit, no!”
He flicked a glance in her direction. “Don’t you want his head stuck on a pike?”
Oh, rather. “But he’s the accomplice.”