The Redemption of a Rogue, стр. 58
“I…I was in dire straits after my husband’s death,” she began. He listened as she told the story, the one he could have recited himself, he’d pondered it so often since she careened into him in that alleyway. Listened as her strength went on display for everyone in the room to see.
Speaking of the murder she’d been witness to was the only time her voice wavered. The only time she hesitated. He felt her pain, her guilt, her horror on behalf of that poor woman, her terror that she would end up the same way. Discarded like trash in the river.
He couldn’t help it then. He pressed a hand to her shoulder, fingers curling there for support as she continued.
“I stumbled into Oscar—Mr. Fitzhugh—and he has been hiding me ever since, trying to help me prove what I know. What I saw. Who I saw. He saved my life,” she finished.
He caught his breath as she lifted her gaze to him. That gaze that had become so important to every part of his life, his day, any moment he was in. This woman had wound her way into his soul since he met her. There was no denying the importance of that as he stared down into her eyes. At least not to himself.
But he couldn’t let her see it. Certainly, he couldn’t let this roomful of people he didn’t trust be a part of it.
He released her reluctantly and backed a step away. “I didn’t do much. But this situation goes deep. Much deeper than one murder.”
Willowby nodded with a small glance toward his wife. “The War Department suspects as much. Between what we’ve gleaned and what help we’ve had from Mr. Barber and Mr. Huntington’s sources, I think we’re close to uncovering the mastermind behind this…ring of blackguards.”
Oscar tensed. Uncovering. That meant they didn’t know about Roddenbury and his involvement.
Imogen seemed to have the same idea as she sent him a look and got to her feet. “If I could help I would—”
Before she could finish the sentence, there was an explosion of glass from the huge window behind them, followed by a series of shots that ricocheted around the room.
Oscar didn’t think, he didn’t plan—he just dove over the back of the settee and prayed he could protect Imogen. Because Imogen was all that mattered.
Chapter 20
Imogen screamed, but it was cut off as Oscar’s heavy weight hit her, knocking the air from her lungs and dragging her to the floor. He covered her, his arms around her as they had been around her so many times in the past few weeks.
After what felt like a lifetime, the explosive shooting stopped and the room fell eerily silent.
Oscar rolled away so he no longer fully covered her body, but he said nothing as he smoothed his hands over her. Under any other circumstances, the touch would have been erotic, but right now he just looked terrified.
“Were you hit?” he whispered, and she wasn’t even certain that he was asking her as much as asking the universe. “Please tell me you weren’t hit.”
“I-I don’t think so,” she said, and caught his arms. “Oscar.” He tried to shake her off and continued looking for any injury. “Oscar!” she repeated, this time sharper. “I’m not hit.”
He cupped her chin, and then he leaned down and kissed her. Hard. Heavy. Swiftly over, but powerfully felt.
She dropped her hands away from his arms and was about to ask him if he was hit when she noticed the wetness on her palm. Blood.
“Oscar,” she said, sitting up. “You’re injured.”
He glanced down at the hole in his jacket. Blood seeped from the wound beneath. The others were calling out now, indicating they were unharmed, and she grabbed his arm with both hands, putting pressure on the wound as they rose from behind the couch.
“He’s cut,” she said.
“That’s not a cut,” Mr. Huntington replied as he moved forward. He was unwinding his cravat as he went. “You’ve been shot.”
Imogen could scarcely hear over the rush of blood to her ears. The rush of terror as Oscar looked down at his arm with a shrug. “It seems I have.”
“Oscar!” Imogen cried out.
He ignored her as he removed the jacket and he and Huntington examined the wound together. The Duchess of Willowby came to Huntington’s elbow and also looked closely. Imogen swallowed at the sight of the horrible hole there in his upper arm, closer to his left shoulder than to his elbow.
“It went through,” Oscar said. She saw him flinch slightly, but that was the only indication he gave that there was pain. “Wrap it, if you will, and I’ll have it looked at later.”
Imogen stared at him. How could he be so dismissive of the fact that he’d been shot? Because of her. The others seemed equally taken aback, but Huntington shook his head and wrapped the arm with his discarded cravat as he had been asked. Oscar hardly reacted as he did so, but instead looked around the room.
Imogen followed his gaze, and her heart sank. This beautiful room in the club he had spent so much of his life building was destroyed. The window was shattered, there were bullet holes in furniture, the decorations had been shredded by broken glass.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Imogen bent her head, guilt ravaging her the same way the attack had ravaged all he’d built. “I’m sorry.”
His brow wrinkled, but the look of annoyance on his face didn’t seem to change as he said, “Don’t.”
She could hardly breathe as he turned his gaze away from hers. He’d been so passionately worried for her, but now he put the wall up again. She was fine, but he had lost so much because of her. There was