The recoil made Laura stumble backwards and drop the pistol. Her ears rang, and the smell of powder smoke — an oddly pleasant bitterness — filled the air.

Down below, Fordham fell to his knees, but he didn't stop moving. Laura turned and fled, stumbling through the yard and onto the road. It was very nearly dark by now, and the sunlight slanting through the woods gave the trees long, clawing shadows. Unable to run any further, Laura staggered down the road. She kept thinking she heard footsteps behind her and turning, terrified it was Fordham, but no one followed. Not Fordham. Not Neil.

Neil.

She stopped and leaned against a tree trunk, her breath coming in rags. He'd been stabbed, hurt. The fire would not spread far in the stone hut, but he still might be burned. She looked back into the shadows of the woods. She ought to help Neil. She ought to go back for him — Fordham was hurt, possibly dead — she would be safe.

Her feet did not move. She stared into the shadows, willing Neil to come walking out of them.

No one came.

* * *

As they came out the gate into the woods, a shot rang out in the distance. Richard felt acid dread sink over him. Without waiting for Mr French to follow, he spurred his horse into a gallop along the road. Trees whipped past his vision, but Richard focused on the road in front of him. It had to be Fordham, he thought. No poacher, no farmer, would be near Neil's woods at this time of evening. He expected at every turn of the path to come across Laura, lying hurt or dead on the ground, and Fordham standing over her.

He rounded a corner and there she was, not lying, but standing still, looking away from him. He pulled up sharply, relief flooding over him, his horse squealing, and swung himself down from the saddle, heedless of the pain that shot up his right leg.

"Laura!"

She turned towards him, her face white, almost grey. He limped forward, using his rifle as a cane, and pulled her fast against him. She was wearing Neil's coat, and her cheek against his neck was icy cold.

"It's alright," he said. "You're alright now."

He didn't know if it was true — she was trembling in his arms and chilled all over, though the evening was warm — but it seemed the right thing to say. He let the rifle fall to the ground and rubbed her shoulders, kissing her hair.

"You're safe."

She wasn't crying, which seemed worse somehow than if she was. She only bent her head against the crook of his neck and took shaky, rattling breaths. She seemed to be trying to speak, but what faint sounds she uttered made no sense to Richard. Behind them came the sound of a horse cantering, and Mr French rounded the corner then reined in his horse.

"Her ladyship, I take it?"

"Yes. She's hurt." Richard stroked Laura's hair, which was gritty with dust and cobwebs. "I don't know where Fordham or my brother are."

At that, Laura raised her head. "Neil. He needs help," she wheezed. "He's been stabbed. And there's a fire—" she broke off choking, seemingly on her own breath. Richard stood back a little to give her some air and noticed for the first time blood staining the front of her dress, half-hidden beneath Neil's coat.

"What's this?" Richard touched the spot gently and found it sticky and half-dried. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

"I'm fine." Laura seemed to be getting a hold of herself now, breathing more deeply. "You have to go and help Neil."

"I can't leave you." Now, Richard noticed in the dim light a livid bruise around her neck. "I need to get you back home to Cavendish."

"No, no I can wait." Laura brushed his hand away. "Fordham's here — be careful of him. He might not be dead."

"We know — what do you mean, dead?"

"I shot him."

Richard stared at Laura. She took a step backwards, pressing her hands over her eyes.

"I took his pistol. I shot him. But he stabbed Neil. And Neil's still there. And Fordham might not be dead."

Richard, who until that moment had not really worried for Neil at all, felt a flash of fear. "Still where?"

"The gamekeeper's cottage. Fordham took me there — there's a cellar in the back. He locked us in for hours. Then he came back with the gun."

Richard didn't know what to do. He rubbed Laura's arm and looked up at Mr French, who was still mounted.

"If you'll condescend to take my advice, my lord," Mr French said, "I think your brother might need you more than her ladyship does right now."

Laura nodded, rubbing her eyes. "You need to go and help Neil. He needs you, now. I don't."

"You need a doctor." Richard looked back at Mr French. "Can you take my wife home, and tell them to send more men to the gamekeeper's cottage? One of the surgeons at least, and two or three others beside."

"And you, my lord?"

"I'll go and find my brother."

"No!" Laura managed to speak above a rasp and then coughed. "Richard, Fordham might still be alive. Don't go alone. Take him with you. I'll wait here."

"No, you won't," Richard said. "I will not leave you alone and unprotected. You're going home with Mr French."

"But Rich—"

"—No. You're going." It was the first time Richard had given Laura a direct order, and he didn't like it, but there wasn't time for argument now. He pushed Laura towards Mr French. "Here, if I help her up, can you ride with her in front of you, do you think?"

"It isn't I, my lord, but the horse who will decide," Mr French said.

"Well let's ask him," Richard said. "Come on, Laura. I'll give you a leg up."

"Richard—"

"—You're going home. You're seeing Cavendish. It's not a request. Now, go."

Laura pressed her lips tightly together in a gesture of mute fury, but she did as Richard asked, stepping on his linked hands and putting her weight heavily on his shoulder. Mr French still had to almost drag her into the saddle in front of him. Richard thought Laura looked doubly furious at the indignity of her position. He didn't much like it either, seeing his wife in another man's lap, but Laura was in no condition to ride by herself, even if she had been a good horsewoman, and Richard didn't think she should be made to walk.

"Thank you for your help," he said to Mr French. "Please, send the men as soon as you can."

"Of course, my lord, of course. I would do the same for any man, you know, lord or labourer."

"Just hurry," Richard said.

Mr French rode off at a slow canter, still talking, perhaps to Laura this time. Richard stooped to pick up his rifle, took his horse's reins in his hand, and started for the gamekeeper's hut.

* * *

The bedroom was in near darkness, with all the candles extinguished and the curtains drawn fast against the last fading light outside. Laura lay — washed, stitched, bandaged, fed — with her head half-buried in a mound of pillows and tried not to think. Flashes of memory — of Fordham falling to his knees, of Neil sinking down against the wall, of Richard walking off with his rifle over his shoulder — kept coming back to her. Despite the hot tisane Cavendish had given her to make her sleep, her heart was beating too fast for her to relax. She did not want to be alone, but Verity's company made her more anxious and Cavendish was too practical to be of comfort, so she had sent them both away.

Noises from below filtered up to her. Voices, the movement of feet up and down the stairs, the opening and shutting of doors. Just as things seemed to fall quiet, something would start moving again — someone would run up the stairs, or one of the children would start wailing in the nurseries above.

A quiet came. Laura waited to see what would disturb it this time. The front door slamming open, and a scream — Verity's. Laura's heart, already racing, skipped a beat or three. She sat up in bed and listened hard — a flurry of raised voices, running footsteps, and one of the children was crying again. The men must be back, Richard — and Neil.

There came the sound of Verity sobbing, then it faded away and another door slammed below.

Laura could bear it no longer. She slipped out of bed and went unsteadily to the door. In the hallway outside, she had the wall to lean against, which made it easier. When she reached the mezzanine, she saw a servant running into the dining room carrying a bundle of rags. Laura made her way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister. She had stiffened up all over from her hour spent in bed and seemed to have a thousand new aches and pains that she hadn't noticed before.

The door to the dining room was opened, and she stopped in the doorway, leaning on the jam and out of breath. Neil was lying on the table, undressed to his trousers, with Verity bent over him with her head against his chest. At first, Laura thought he was dead, because his eyes were closed and his waist was covered in half-dried blood, but then she saw that his fingers were curled through Verity's hair and his lips were moving. He seemed to be trying to comfort Verity.

Behind him, the surgeons were dipping rags into steaming water, and Richard was talking in a low voice with the local sheriff.

"My lady!"

There was a touch at Laura's elbow and she turned to see Cavendish looking almost angry and carrying a cup of a steaming, bitter-smelling drink.

"You need to be in bed!"

Richard and the sheriff looked up and Richard hobbled over, clumsy without his stick, the relief on his face quickly fading to concern. "Laura, what's wrong?"

"I had to — know what happened." It hurt to speak. Cavendish had told her she shouldn't, or she might do permanent damage to her voice, but at the moment Laura didn't care about that. "How is Neil?"

"He'll be well. Now take her back to bed, my lord," Cavendish hissed, slipping past them into the room. "She needs rest! And no, sir, you cannot speak with her! She is not to talk!"

That last was to the sheriff, who had sidled hopefully closer. Richard put out his arm to take Laura by the waist then hesitated. Laura looked at his hands and saw that they were stained in blood, that even his shirt cuffs were bright scarlet.

"Back to bed," Richard said, motioning her back into the hall. "Come on."

Was it Neil's blood, or Fordham's? With Cavendish and the sheriff listening, Laura dared not ask. She hobbled back into the hall, Richard behind her, and they made their way upstairs in silence. In the bedroom, Richard waited until she was back in bed and then disappeared into the dressing room, where Laura heard the sound of splashing water and scrubbing. Then came the thump of Richard throwing off his boots and the creak of the wardrobe doors opening. When Richard came back, he was in a dressing gown over a clean shirt and his hands were scrubbed clean. He sank down upon the edge of the bed next to Laura and rubbed her shoulder.

"You're not asleep?"

She shook her head against the pillow. "Is Fordham dead?"

For a moment, Richard was silent. "Yes."

"Did I kill him?"

"I don't know. When I got to the cottage, the only person I saw was Neil, lying in the yard. Later, when the other men arrived, someone else thought to look for Fordham. They found him dead in the cellar, but the air was poisonous from the smoke. That might have been what killed him."

Laura could tell he was trying to make her feel better about it. Regardless of whether he died from the bullet or the smoke, if she had not shot him, he would not be dead. But somehow she could not feel guilty for it. She did feel guilty about running away and leaving Neil alone in the burning cellar. That had been cowardly, particularly after Neil had saved her life. That had been wrong.

"You ought to go to sleep," Richard said, running his hand down her spine. "Cavendish said you needed rest."

"I can't sleep." She was exhausted, but her mind kept jumping back to the events of the day and reliving them. She did not want to risk dreaming. "Talk to me."

"Of what?"

"Tell me..." She hesitated; it still hurt, but after all that had happened, she had to know. "Tell me about Verity."

Richard's hand, doing circles at the top of her neck, paused. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." Laura turned over on her back so she could meet Richard's eyes. "I didn't this morning, but I do now. How did you fall in love with her?"

"I saw her. It took, I think, one glance."

A lump swelled in Laura's throat, and it had nothing to do with how Fordham had choked her. "I see."

"No, you don't." Richard grazed her cheek with his knuckle. "I fell in love with her despite the fact that I knew nothing about her, and I fell in love with you because I knew you. Do you really think there can be any comparison between the two of you? A love that is ignorant of every dark corner and twisted facet of a person's heart, and a love that is knowing of them?"

Laura's lips trembled. "But you still feel for her, don't you?"

"I do, but it's not like what I feel for you. It doesn't even come close. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I'm sorry I didn't trust you with it. I was scared..."

"...Scared I'd react the way I did?"

"Exactly." Richard gave her a wry smile. "I'm sorry. I hurt you, because I was too... stupid to trust you. Too stupid, the day I married you, to realize that you were already more to me than Verity ever had been, ever could be."

It did not quite repair all the pain in Laura's heart. It would take time as well as words for that, but it helped. She sat up, with some difficulty, and hugged Richard. He pulled her tighter against him and kissed her hair, then he drew back and met her eyes. Hesitatingly, questioningly, he bent his head towards her. She answered him by drawing closer. He took her face in his hands and kissed her again and then once more, lingeringly, then drew back, caressing her cheek.

"After everything that happened today, are you really alright?"

"I think so. Are you?"

He nodded. "Shaken, but you're safe now, and Neil's going to be fine too." He dropped his gaze to Laura's waist. "How about the baby?"

"I've felt him move several times since Fordham attacked me. Cavendish said there's probably no risk to him, as long as I rest."

Richard kissed her forehead. "I need to let you do that then. And you really shouldn't be talking. I can tell it hurts you to speak."

"It's alright, I think I can sleep now." Laura's heartbeat had slowed and a heavy pressure inside her had lifted. She hugged Richard once more, breathing in his scent — right now, of fresh soap and a faint smokiness, either from the fire or the pine trees in the wood. "I love you."

"You really shouldn't be talking."

"That's not the right reply."

"I'm sorry. You're right, it's not." Richard kissed her once more. "I love you too."