*****
The doctor had done all he could. Her father's life now lay in God's hands. To have come so far, to be so close, only to have him taken from her was too cruel. The candle beside his bed cast the only light in the darkened room and Phoebe felt her mind sliding into sleep. She jerked herself awake. She couldn't sleep. She couldn't leave her father's side. She had to be here, ward off death until her father was strong enough to fight that dark angel himself. He hadn't stirred since he'd closed his eyes before Kiernan and Alistair carried him upstairs. As long as he kept breathing, his strength would increase and, once he was rested enough, he would wake up.
But he didn't wake that night, and when Kiernan returned to the room as dawn once inched across the sky, Phoebe shook her head before he said what she knew he was going to say.
"I won't leave," she insisted. "If you carry me out and tie me up, I'll wrench free even if I leave my skin behind."
Kiernan lifted her from the chair and she struck out at him with her fists. He hugged her tight, then sat in the chair and settled her on his lap. She collapsed into his solid warmth and cried.
Phoebe sat across the carriage from her husband and studied him. Eyes closed, he leaned to the side, shoulder wedged against the corner. The worry lines around his eyes were softened, but she feared he didn't sleep. He had slept little in the last two weeks, perhaps even less than she. They both kept watch by her father’s side while he lay in bed, his soul trapped between this world and the next. Kiernan had hovered over her as if it had been she who lay on death’s door. There had been nights she prayed God would take her instead of her father. Phoebe took a slow, deep breath.
He had spared them both.
She looked out the window. The sun hung just above the trees in the west. Soft orange veiled the evening sky. Was the sky as beautiful in America? Phoebe smiled gently. She would ask her father. Despite Lord Harrington’s death, they all agreed her father was no longer safe in Scotland. Only after Alistair discovered who Harrington had confided in, could she travel to America to visit her father where he was on his way to stay with the duchess' brother.
Alistair. Gratitude welled up in her in the too-familiar desire to cry. His intervention had saved her father’s life, and probably Kiernan's as well. She still couldn't believe that Lord Stoneleigh had been informing Alistair all along of Lord Harrington’s comings and goings, and that it was Alistair who had instructed Lord Stoneleigh to follow him to Scotland. Kiernan had been furious that Regan hadn't told him that Redgrave was there, and that they suspected the real attempt on her father's life was yet to come.
“It was obvious that the assassination attempt at the docks was badly done.” Alistair had laughed. “Harrington would have made a very bad spy.”
Thank God for that small favor.
She shifted her attention back to Kiernan. He had placed himself in harm’s way when he dragged her father into Madam Duvall's—he had put himself in harm's way half a dozen times since meeting her. And yet, he had said he loved her. There, without hesitation, in front of everyone at Madam Duvall's. He hadn't said it since, but she'd recalled the words a thousand times, and still had no idea what to think.
Phoebe lowered her gaze to where his shirt lay open at the neck. He wore no cravat. His arms lay crossed over his broad chest, his coat, unbuttoned, hung at his sides, and his legs were stretched out diagonally across the carriage floor. She glanced out the window. They were at least an hour and a half from her uncle’s estate in Carlisle. Plenty of time… Would Mather and the two men the duke had insisted accompany them guess what was going on inside the carriage?
She carefully pulled the window curtain closed, then set aside the blanket Kiernan had draped over her legs when they left the inn after lunch. Phoebe placed one foot on the left of his legs, and the other on the right, then pulled up her skirts and grasped his shoulders as she straddled him.