The Dowager's Wager (25 page)

The guests stilled suddenly and heads swiveled as Isabella
glided down the aisle dressed in pale blue satin and lace, her
arrival heralding that the bride was at hand. Alain watched
his friend’s jaw clench and his fists tighten at his sides. Alain
noted how Tristan’s eyes followed Isabella up to the altar
where she took her place on the left side of the aisle. Even
after the crowd aahed at the first sighting of the bride in the
church doorway, Tristan’s eyes struggled to leave Isabella.

Isabella fought the temptation to look slightly to the right
in fear of catching Tristan’s eye. Determinedly, she looked
straight out into the pews, trying to lose herself in the sea of
faces that swam before her, but nothing could shake her consciousness of Tristan’s probing stare. She knew she was
pale. She’d seen her face in the mirror that morning while
Betty conducted her toilette. She was utterly unaware that
her paleness simply served to enhance her ethereal beauty
against the folds of her pale blue bridesmaid’s dress.

A voice in her head that would not be silenced by any
device she had yet created dared her to put a stop to the ceremony, to cross the six feet that separated her from Tristan
and confess her soul to him; that she had wrestled the night
away with her conscience and found in the dawn the ulti mate truth of her heart; she was only marrying Avery
because she was too frightened to marry Tristan, too frightened of the betrayals she might face. If he gave her just one
word of encouragement, she would be his. The voice in her
head begged her to ask Tristan for those words now as the
last minutes of opportunity ticked away. She resisted. If she
could last the hour, there would be no more temptation. In
all ways that mattered, Tristan would be dead to her. She
fought her demons, she would not look at him.

She would not look at him! Tristan’s heart plunged further. This was not his wedding, but his funeral, Tristan
thought as he gazed on the pageantry of the event unfolding
before him with eyes that saw the irony of it all. The occasion was not so much a ceremony of joining, but a ceremony of separation; not so much the beginning of new life but
the ending of an old one. Indeed, he was already dead in the
ways that had come to matter to him. Everything down to his
very clothing symbolized a departure from his former self.
He was not marrying in his military dress uniform. That
avenue of his life was closed to him now, too. His career and
his true love, were both part of his past. Neither was part of
his future.

He was vaguely aware from the stir among the guests that
Caroline had entered the church. Duty required he look at
her with the gaze of an expectant and well-pleased bridegroom but the bride of his heart stood just a few feet away.
He found his stare defiantly fixed on Isabella’s pale face, his
memory taking in the whole of her as she did her best to
hide her trembling hands beneath the abundant bouquet she
carried. What would she do if he risked all and stepped
across the dais, swept her into his arms and carried her out
of the church? His coach was waiting outside. They’d be in
Scotland within days and they’d never have to come home.
In fact, after such action, there could be no other choice.

When he could no longer bear her countenance, Tristan
tore his eyes from her and watched Caroline Danvers come down the aisle, the epitome of the perfect, golden-haired
bride, and take her place next to him.

The reverend intoned the opening words of the ceremony.
Tristan’s eyes fell on the worn Bible in his hands.

Halfway through the ceremony, Tristan’s dazed attention
focused on a growing tension beside him. Alain stirred
infinitesimally by his side. Tristan attributed his movement
as a signal that it was time for the ring. Alain handed him
the ring and Tristan noted his friend had taken the opportunity to readjust himself so that he could now see past
Isabella on the left side and out into the front rows of guests.
Alert now, Tristan divided his attention. With only half of
his concentration, Tristan listened to Caroline recite her
pledge to him while he held the ring in readiness for the giving of his own vows. The other portion of his focus was on
Isabella.

Isabella stilled as she felt Tristan’s gaze on her. Her first,
fleeting thought was that Tristan was going to embarrass her
with some last minute foolishness, then she realized he
wasn’t looking at her but beyond her to someone else.

“Gresham!” An angry voice rang out behind her as stifled
screams emitted from the audience. Alain surged forward,
tackling Caroline to the floor and covering her with his protective form. Isabella pivoted to find the voice, having only
a moment to take in the sight of Middleton with a deadly
pistol raised in her direction. It vaguely crossed her mind
that the shot was not meant for her but that she was in the
bullet’s path, a thought Middleton hadn’t had time to process before he pulled the trigger, firing the shot meant for
Tristan.

“Bella!” Tristan roared, using his whole body to roughly
shove her aside, her scream swallowed in the wake of his
own shout. She stumbled, falling away from him as everything in her world slowed. With horrified eyes she watched
Tristan’s body ingest the full impact of the bullet striking his
chest. He gave a cry as he hit the floor and went still.

“Tristan!” Isabella scrambled across the floor to his side,
her skirt ripping as it tangled with her knees as she crawled
to him, barely aware of Alain launching himself from the
dais onto Middleton and wrestling him to the ground.
Someone rushed forward to Caroline who appeared to have
fainted. She heard Giles directing people out of the church
and away from the mess at the altar. In the ensuing chaos, it
was Chatham and Avery who found their way to her side and
helped her to tear back the fabric of Tristan’s clothing and
ascertain the extent of the wound.

“Tear up your underskirts,” Chatham commanded urgently. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding if it’s possible.”

“Possible? What do you mean?” Panic edged her voice as
her trembling hands began ripping as Chatham ordered.

“The bullet may have hit an artery. There’s so much
blood, too much blood,” Chatham said, his hands probing
the wound for further clarification. “Now, tear me long strips
of cloth. If we can staunch the bleeding, we can bind the
wound long enough to get him to the house.”

Avery took one look at Isabella’s stricken face and galvanized into action. “I’ll go for the doctor and have him meet
us at the manor house”

Isabella thought the waiting would drive her insane as she
paced the Danvers’ parlor. The room was crowded with
Tristan’s friends. Giles and Chatham sat, legs outstretched,
untouched snifters of brandy in their hands. Alain stared out
the window in the oncoming twilight. Avery stood stoically
by the door. In a corner on the sofa, Caroline cried intermittently into a handkerchief, her radiant face blotchy, her
gown crushed and wrinkled.

Several events had transpired while Tristan lay unconscious in the hands of the surgeon. Alain had brought down
Middleton and the local officials had taken him into town to
be held until the appropriate magistrates could pick him up
for questioning. Giles, after organizing the evacuation of the church and seeing to the guests, had the unwelcome task of
explaining to Caroline that her almost-husband was a secret
agent for the crown.

Avery had said nothing after summoning the doctor but
had stood silently watching them all as they waited for the
surgeon’s verdict. He was acutely aware that he was an outsider to these affairs, as was Caroline, regardless of the fact
that it was her house. The two of them were not part of this
tight knit group that waited anxiously for news of their dear
friend. He had no doubt that Caroline would not complete
her wedding to Gresham. Just as he knew with a dread certainty that he would not see his marriage to Isabella come to
fruition in June. He didn’t belong here but he stayed for
Isabella. If the worst should happen, she would need what
comfort he could offer and he would give it freely. A movement in the room caught his eye. His gaze shifted, following
Caroline as she crossed the room to Isabella and touched her
gently on the sleeve.

Isabella felt a lite touch on her arm and heard Caroline
whisper beside her. “Come walk with me”

The two women strolled the hallway, coming to stop by a
window that overlooked the back gardens. At length, Caroline
spoke. “I must speak frankly with you, Lady Westbrooke.
This has been a nightmarish day, this wedding that wasn’t. We
weren’t truly married, you know. He never spoke his vows”
There was a break in her voice as it trembled. “And he never
will, at least he will never speak them to me”

At a loss, Isabella struggled to find comforting words.
“He will recover. He is a strong man. The wedding can take
place later.”

“No. I cannot marry him now that I know,” Caroline
sniffed. “I cannot live with the danger that surrounds him.
I am not naive enough to believe that his enemies will leave
him alone, that there will be no repeats of attacks like the
one today. I haven’t your courage, Lady Westbrooke. Even
more so, I cannot marry a man who loves another. I saw it
in his eyes today that he loves you. When I came down the aisle, every pair of eyes were on me, but not his. He was
looking at you as if you were his life and when he did look
at me, his eyes were dead. I do not want to live with a shell
of a man, knowing that his very sorrow stems from being
with me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Isabella stammered. “I think
perhaps you overrate the situation,” she offered the hasty
denial, thinking to spare Caroline’s feelings. No bride
should discover on her wedding day that the groom favored
the bridesmaid.

“Don’t pretend it isn’t true,” Caroline said with a quiet
sternness that did her credit. “He took that bullet for you.
Middleton realized too late that you were in the line of fire.
Whatever doubts you had about Tristan’s devotion to you,
you can doubt no longer.” Tears threatened to overcome her
after her brave speech. “I will retire privately for a few
moments, if you’ll excuse me?” Caroline turned and fled to
an empty room, overwhelmed.

Isabella walked slowly back to the parlor alone.
Caroline’s words confirmed the truths she had recognized as
she’d knelt next to Tristan on the dais. She and Tristan
belonged together but that knowledge had come too late.
She’d seen the wound first hand when Chatham had pulled
the blood soaked cloth of Tristan’s shirt away from his
chest. She had seen the futility of the white wadding
Chatham had pressed against the gaping hole as pad after
pad of her underskirt had become drenched in Tristan’s
blood. That Chatham had been able to get Tristan stabilized
enough to get to the manor house a half mile away had been
nothing short of miraculous. She did not think she’d get
another miracle.

The surgeon confirmed her worst suspicions when she
returned to the parlor. Tristan would not last the night. The
bullet had been removed and had impossibly missed striking
his heart or lungs, but the extraction and the loss of blood
had weakened him considerably. Already, he was in the
throes of a fever with no strength left to fight it.

“It’s only a fever! Surely you can do something for
him? Give him something to help him fight!” Isabella
lashed out angrily at the doctor, who spread his hands
helplessly against her tirade. “You can’t let him simply
slip away! You can’t give up.” Her eyes were wild in her
desperation.

It was Avery who stepped in when the others were silent,
ingesting their own desperation over Tristan. “Of course, we
won’t let him give up” He had tried for two years to make
Isabella happy. He saw clearly now why he’d fallen short of
the mark. Her heart had never been hers to give, for it had
been given years ago. Her happiness would be his parting
gift to her. He would fight with her for Tristan’s life. He felt
Alain step up beside him, having recovered himself sufficiently to see his sister’s incredible need. “We will fight for
him, Bella, just as he has fought for us”

The group drew watches and set their guard around their
friend, bathing him as his fever raged; pressing a glass of
water between his lips to assuage his thirst, checking his
bandages to ensure bleeding hadn’t begun again. Avery took
Isabella aside and forced her to rest, saying that if Tristan
were to die it would be at the bridge of the night as dark
passed to dawn. He would need her then to fight the ebbing
tides that would tug at his soul and lure him away as surely
as any siren of mythology lured Odysseus. True to his word,
Avery fetched her for the fourth watch.

Isabella was not ready for the sight that lay before her as
she entered the sickroom. Tristan was a pale, lifeless form in
the midst of the big bed, only his dark hair contrasted with
the white linens around him. She thought for a moment that
he’d already slipped away without waking. Alain sat by the
bed, his head drooping in weariness.

“Alain?” Her voice quaked with her unspoken fear. She
looked to her brother for hope.

Alain had none to give her as he rose from the chair near
the bed, his face stubbled, and his voice hoarse as he spoke.
“He is struggling, Bella. You can see how shallow his breath ing is.” He nodded at the covers, which barely rose beneath
Tristan’s chest.

“The fever has him quite thoroughly now. He tried to
leave a few hours ago, I think, but I took his hand and began
to talk to him of our days at school together and all the funny
pranks I could remember. It seemed to help.” Alain paused,
unsure what more to say.

“What is it?” Isabella said, reading the indecision on her
brother’s face.

“I think I called him back because he waits for you,”
Alain said softly. “If you can find him in the fever, I think
you alone could bring him back. Give him something to fight
with, Bella.”