He groaned in pain as Sloane struck back, and I staggered toward the doorway. That was when an arm grabbed me from behind.
How I’d missed the sound of feet running up the stairs, I didn’t know, but I struggled against the man’s grip.
“Kiera, it’s me,” Gage’s familiar voice shouted in my ear.
I nearly collapsed in relief.
“Come. Let’s get you out of here.”
“No,” I protested, pushing away from his chest. I could still hear the thwacks and thumps of men fighting in the chamber beyond. “We have to help Will. He’s been shot.”
“I’ll help Will. You need to get out of here,” he protested and tried to turn me toward the stairs.
I staggered unwillingly down a step, but turned back as soon as Gage had released me to rush into the chamber. He glanced back over his shoulder and shouted, “Go!” But I still didn’t listen.
I stepped forward to watch as Gage drew a pistol from the waistband of his trousers and pulled back the hammer with a click. Sloane and Will were locked together in combat and it was almost impossible to tell them apart in the gloom. Gage waited for the men to separate long enough for a clear shot, exhibiting far more patience than I had. Will was battered and bleeding from a gunshot wound, for heaven’s sake. I was about to open my mouth and scream at him when Sloane landed a blow to Will’s torso that sent him crumpling to the floor. His target clear, Gage fired his weapon. The flash of the miniature explosion momentarily blinded me. We heard a thud and a grunt, and Dr. Sloane stumbled back against the wall. But rather than fleeing the scene as Gage yelled to him to do, Will pushed to his feet and lunged at Sloane.
That was when I heard the ominous crack, too loud to be bone on bone or even a pistol report. The two men paid it no heed, continuing to slam each other into the outer wall, the one with the two-foot hole in it. As I watched, the stone began to fissure, breaking apart.
“Will!” I shrieked and leaped forward, trying to warn him.
Gage had moved forward a few steps to help Will, but stumbled to a stop as the wall began to collapse. He wrapped his arms around me as I tried to move past him.
“Will!” I shrieked again, fighting to break free of Gage’s hold.
With a deafening roar, the wall and part of the floor and ceiling crumbled before our eyes in a cascade of rocks and debris, swallowing Will and Sloane.
I screamed and crumpled to my knees. Then I started to cough and choke as the collapsing rubble sent up a plume of dust, enveloping Gage and me. He sheltered me as best he could, gathering me in his arms and covering me with his body. I wheezed and sobbed against his chest, clinging to him.
The castle shifted and rumbled, threatening to send more of its stones crashing down and bring us with them. But I didn’t care. All I knew was darkness and heartache and Gage’s strong arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Will’s funeral was held three days later, a gray and gloomy day fitting to the occasion. The fine autumn weather we had enjoyed earlier in the week was broken, and winter fastened its grip on the world and on our hearts. Most of the leaves had fallen during the rainstorms that followed the night of Will’s death, and I fancied the trees and the sky were crying for Will, too.
There were few guests. Few that were welcomed, anyway. Gawkers and newspapermen lined the perimeter of the cemetery, eager to see the ornate coffin of the war hero gone mad, the fallen laird of Banbogle, whose death had been foretold by a howling dog, like so many of his Dalmay ancestors before him.
After the service, we retired to Dalmay House for tea and a selection of savories none of us seemed to have much of an appetite for. We gathered in the drawing room, where I curled up in a wingback chair by the windows, watching the rain trail down the glass in tearful streaks. I knew the others were concerned for me—I could see it in their faces, hear it in their voices—but I could find no words to reassure them. So they hovered about me, as if they thought their presence might comfort me when all it did was remind me of their worry and make me want to burrow deeper inside myself.
Philip and Alana, who had arrived late the evening before, sat on a settee a few feet from my chair, listening to Gage and Michael explain some of the details they had yet to hear. Alana asked specifically about the hound, and Michael explained the legend. His voice was hoarse with grief and fatigue.