The big portal to the stables opened. "Angelique!"

Lachlan? Through the crack, she saw him, his hair bloody, but could only emit a moaning sound behind the gag. Watch for Girard!

She yanked at the tightly tied trip of material, unable to slip it from her mouth.

"You bastard. Where is Angelique?"

A shot exploded, deafening. Lachlan's arm jerked and a red stain appeared. He rushed Girard, sword in hand. Blades clashed. She eased forward, trembling hands clutching her dagger grip, slick with Girard's blood. Lachlan made two strikes, one against Girard's sword, flinging it aside, and the next to Girard's throat. Blood spurted from the wound and he fell, clutching his neck. His eyes, full of hatred, sought out Angelique. He had looked at her thus before, in France. But this time he would never open his eyes again.

Lachlan turned, his wild gaze finding her. "Are you well?" He rushed to her, took the dagger from her stiff hands and cut off the gag.

She locked her arms around him. "Oui. But you are badly hurt." She pulled back and observed his bloody hair and shirt. "You were shot in the head?"

"Just a graze I think."

Blood soaked his torn shirtsleeve and dripped from his fingers like wine.

"Girard shot you in the arm. Mère de Dieu, you are losing a lot of blood!"

"Aye, but I shall live." His face looked far too pale.

"We must get you to a physician."

"Gwyneth is a healer." His voice sounded raw and breathy. He blinked his eyes hard and, with his good arm, caught at the stall door. "God's bones." He sank toward the floor and closed his eyes.

Panic clutched at her throat. "Lachlan!" She dropped beside him and ripped his sleeve. Heavens, such a hole blown in his upper arm and him a free bleeder. She found the discarded gag and tied it above the wound. She had heard this would slow bleeding.

The outside door thumped. Kormad, bloody and evil-eyed rushed toward her.

Her dagger lay by Lachlan's limp hand. She seized the weapon and drew back.

"Aha," Kormad howled. "I shall kill you if 'tis the last thing—"

She flung the dagger. It stabbed into the target—Kormad's throat. He went down, clawing at the knife, pulling it out, but blood poured from the wound.

He growled, crawling toward her a few feet, then he sank into the straw.

Shaking, she snatched Lachlan's sword, intent on protecting her husband with her life. Kormad didn't move. She examined Lachlan again. His breath was warm against her hand, and the bleeding less. "Mère de Dieu, help me."

Men rushed into the stables. Her heart slammed into her throat. Not more Drummagans.

"Where's Lachlan?" Alasdair asked, bloody sword in hand, his clothing spattered red from the skirmish.

"Grâce à Dieu. Here! He needs help. He has lost a lot of blood."

"See to them," he told the MacGraths following him and motioned to the two dead men on the floor. He knelt by Angelique and held his hand before Lachlan's nose.

"Fergus, help me with him." The two large, dark-haired men lifted Lachlan and carried him across the windy barmkin littered with bodies and into the great hall. She followed, in a fog, not trusting her trembling legs but she remained upright.

"Gwyneth!" Alasdair called.

"Oh, dear heavens." She rushed forward, glancing at Angelique. "You are well?"

"Oui."

The men lay Lachlan before the fireplace on the floor. Gwyneth ordered the servants about like a small army of her own. They already had boiling water, herbs and whisky nearby.

All Angelique could do was pray and wipe at her own tears, her hands and clothing covered in blood.

"I'll need to remove the lead ball, then we'll have to cauterize the wound," Gwyneth said.

"Aye, let's do it," Alasdair said.

"Are you hurt, Ange?" Camille suddenly stood before her, touching her face.

She shook her head, her whole body starting to tremble.

"Come, I will help you clean up," Camille urged.

She shook her head again. She could not take her eyes off her husband. His pale, still face. Wake up, Lachlan!

Unable to hold herself upright any longer, she sank to her knees. Kneeling by her, Camille clutched her in a fierce embrace and murmured comforting words in French.

When Gwyneth removed the lead ball, blood again ran from Lachlan's wound.

"No, he cannot lose more blood! He is a free-bleeder," Angelique cried.

"Help her upstairs," Alasdair murmured to someone.

"No! I must be with him."

"Shh. We shall clean you up." Camille and two other women forced her toward the stairs. When she resisted, someone lifted her, a dark MacGrath warrior, and carried her up the steps to her bedchamber—no, Lachlan's bedchamber. The man lowered her into a chair before the hearth and left. Camille talked fast to everyone. The servants brought a basin of water.

Camille knelt beside her. "Heavens! Look at your hands, Angelique."

They were scraped, raw and bloody. "It matters not." No, nothing mattered if Lachlan did not open his eyes.

Camille washed her hands in warm water and soap that scalded like lye against her skin. She ground her teeth but said nothing. It was but a small punishment for the stupidity of letting herself be captured and used to draw Lachlan out.

While another woman wrapped bandages around Angelique's hands, Camille stroked a wet cloth over Angelique's face. Her hot tears streaked down the cool, damp skin of her cheeks.

"Shh. He will be well, Angelique. They know what they are doing."

"He must live," she whispered. "Pray, Camille."

"Yes, we shall pray."

"I cannot lose him."

I love him and I did not tell him yet.

***

The next day Angelique sat alone by Lachlan's bedside. She stared at his ashen face, her eyes scratchy from lack of sleep and the salty tears. The bleeding had stopped yesterday once they'd cauterized the wound. He had not even awakened during that horrible pain. Gwyneth had redressed his wounds this morn and done all she could for him.

Angelique moved to the side of the bed and sat by his hip. She touched his face, willing him to open his eyes. Their golden whisky color and his teasing expression she yearned to see above all else. His beard stubble had grown scratchy during the night. She relished even this small sign that he lived. His breath puffed softly against her hand.

"Stay with me," she whispered in French. "I am sorry for not believing in you. I was wrong about you. You are the best of men, honorable, faithful and noble."

He remained unmoving.

"Je t'aime. I love you."

Still no response.

"Do you hear me? Wake up." She jiggled his good hand as she squeezed it. Mère de Dieu, how could she fall in love with him, only to lose him in the next instant? How could fate be so cruel? She pressed his hand against her face and burst into tears. Great wracking sobs. What was wrong with her? She never cried like this. All the pain in her life had gathered behind her eyes and in her throat, almost choking her.

"Dear heavens, what's happened?" Gwyneth bent over Lachlan to examine him.

Though Angelique wanted to stop crying, she couldn't. She dropped to her knees by the bed and tried to pray silently despite her tears.

Sweet Mother Mary, I love him. Do not take him from me, I beg of you. I have done much to be sorry for in my life. But I pray you, let him live.