For an instant Brynn froze in startlement at his sudden passion, but then she returned his kiss fervently, with the same desperation. She seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time, relief and gladness profoundly evident in her response.
He held her closer, drinking of her mouth, his arms tightening around her fiercely-until he heard her gasp of pain. His fingers had grasped the upper part of her left arm.
Drawing back, Lucian probed her arm in the darkness, feeling the rent in her jacket. The fabric was wet with blood, he realized, suddenly chilled.
“You’re wounded,” he said, his tone accusing.
Brynn glanced down at her arm, almost in surprise. “I suppose I am.”
His jaw clenched as he remembered what had happened in the cave: Brynn leaping in front of the bullet that was meant for him, deflecting the shot with her lantern just enough to save his life. His heart turned over. Dear God, she had come so close to dying for his sake…
Another realization struck him at the same moment. In his dark dreams, the blood on Brynn’s hands was his, not hers. But this outcome was different; she was the one wounded. She hadn’t sought to kill him as he’d seen in his nightmare. Instead she had saved his life a second time when she’d shot his enemy and kept him from being gutted by Jack’s knife.
Gratitude shuddered through Lucian, mingled with dread at what might have happened to her. He had been so wrong about Brynn.
“It is only a flesh wound,” she murmured at his grim silence, but he wasn’t reassured.
“Are you certain?” he demanded. “You’re not hurt elsewhere?” He reached out to press his hand against her abdomen. “The babe?”
Her hand covered his protectively. “I don’t think it was harmed.”
His frantic thoughts eased a degree.
“You’re bleeding as well,” she said, still concerned. When she touched the split flesh above his eye, Lucian winced. “Where else are you hurt?”
Gingerly he tested his arms and legs. He seemed to be in one piece. “I’m only battered.” He pushed himself up, stifling a groan at the protest of his bruised body.
Brynn shuddered. “Oh, Lucian, I thought… I thought the curse had come true, that I had killed you.”
He had shared her same dark thoughts. “The curse didn’t come true, Brynn.”
“Can you stand?” She glanced at the dead Frenchman and shuddered again. “We should summon a doctor for you and-” She drew a sharp breath, as if remembering. “Grayson… he was badly wounded, Lucian. I need to see to him.”
Before he could reply, they heard the sounds of footsteps on the cliff walk. That would be Philip Barton and his men, Lucian knew.
He mentally voiced an oath. He wanted to be alone with Brynn, for they had a great deal to say to each other. But now they would have no further chance for intimacy for some time. Not when the smugglers must still be dealt with and Grayson’s fate determined.
Grimacing, Lucian set Brynn carefully away and climbed determinedly to his feet.
The next hours were a blur for Brynn. The immediate peril was over, but the future was far from certain-both hers and Gray’s.
The moment his men arrived, Lucian called for a doctor to see to her and her brother, but then he seemed to withdraw from her, as if he’d recalled her crimes now that the danger had passed.
Worried for Gray, Brynn was allowed to return to the cave-but under escort. Her heart sank at the implication of Lucian’s orders: she wasn’t to be trusted alone with her brother. She wondered if she was still under house arrest.
She left Lucian quietly conferring with his collaborator, Philip Barton. Brynn suspected he was dispatching men to intercept the crew of French smugglers and to dispose of Jack’s body, a
s well as retrieve the stolen gold. Lucian glanced back at her only once before she disappeared through the crevice in the rock wall, urgently seeking her brother.
Grayson lay where she had left him, looking pale and in pain but still conscious. She knelt beside him and opened his jacket to find his shirt soaked in blood. Biting back fear, she tore the cambric away to expose the raw flesh. The wound was on the right side of his chest, just below his armpit. Grayson grimaced in pain as she gently probed.
“The ball passed through,” she murmured in relief, “but I think the rib may be broken.” She touched his forehead, feeling for fever. “Does it hurt badly?”
“Like the very devil.” His eyes searched her face. “What of Wycliff?”
“He’s alive, Gray,” she replied with a shudder. “Jack isn’t.”
“Good,” Gray said with grim satisfaction.