Devlin was coming for him, as was James, still standing, though he moved unsteadily. James was truly a bastard. He’d coerced Daisy all those years ago, stealing away a spirited young woman and breaking her into tiny fragments. Sinclair thanked God he’d been able to rescue her from him. Now James wanted vengeance for that rescue, ready to hurt innocent Bertie and Sinclair’s children to get it.
Thoughts of Cat and Andrew, waiting at home under Mrs. Hill’s care, galvanized him. Sinclair had asked Fellows to make sure constables watched his home, so if anyone tried to slip in while he was gone, they’d be routed.
Sinclair knew now that he’d live. He’d see his children again, he’d bring Bertie home to stay, and James would lose. Again. The man was doomed to lose in the end, because his entire life was a lie. Truth, even ugly truth, always won.
Shrill bells rang as the fire brigade and their terrifyingly large wagon and horses charged down the street. Devlin leapt out of its way just in time, becoming separated from his thugs. Sinclair used the opportunity to stagger down the street, caught up in the crowd like a piece of flotsam.
When he drifted to a halt again, he saw Devlin look around then throw up his hands in disgust. Devlin signaled to his henchmen, and they all disappeared down the street, toward the river and more darkness.
James spotted Sinclair. He came at him, his handsome face smeared with blood, soot, and grime, his eyes full of crazed anger. James knew his hired thugs had left him stranded, but it was apparent he didn’t care.
He rushed Sinclair, his knife flashing in the glare of lamplight. “Fucking Scottish pig,” he said, and struck.
Sinclair had one bullet left in his gun. He fired.
James’s body jerked, but his anger didn’t fade. The knife came down, and Sinclair dove wildly out of its way. The blow went slack as James fell, his body crumbling to a heap on the street. The crowd, rushing with buckets toward the fire, leapt over him or stepped right on him, never noticing.
Sinclair managed to drop his pistol back into his pocket before his knees folded, and he slid to the ground next to James. He protected his head with his arms, but he’d be trampled, just like James, nothing left but pale flesh ground into the mud.
He couldn’t see whether James was dead or alive. Blood flowed from the wound Sinclair’s Webley had made, and James didn’t move.
More people rushed past, bumping and buffeting Sinclair, all too worried about the fire to stop and find out if he was well. Didn’t even take the time to try to rob him, Sinclair thought with ironic humor. He was losing strength again, the pain of the wound returning. He was wrong—feeling the pain was worse. It made his head buzz, and the city recede again, taking Bertie with it.
“Sir!” Harsh light flashed into Sinclair’s face, and a strong hand caught him under the arm.
Sinclair groaned and looked up into the sky-blue eyes of Macaulay, the ghillie come to rescue his laird. Macaulay’s freckled face and red hair seemed a long way up, and Sinclair understood now how Andrew felt when he looked up at the giant of a man.
Another warmth came to Sinclair’s other side. Bertie. She regarded him anxiously with her violet blue eyes. Her hat was straight on her head again, but her nose was covered in soot, which made him want to laugh.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” Sinclair said, and he did laugh.
Laughter hurt, but he kept on, as Macaulay and Bertie dragged him to another beautiful sight, his own carriage. Hart’s pugilist and Richards reached out to help, and the four of them got Sinclair successfully decanted inside.
Bertie climbed in after him. She landed beside Sinclair on the seat and gathered him into her arms as the carriage jerked forward.
Outside, London clamored, the fire brigade and London’s citizens rushing to put out the blaze. Inside the coach, all was calm and sweet. Bertie cradled Sinclair against her soft bosom, and she kissed his lips, his face, his hair. She was crying, but Sinclair was too exhausted to try to figure out why.
Bertie refused to leave Sinclair’s side, no matter how often Macaulay, Mrs. Hill, and the surgeon told her to go to bed. She’d nurse Sinclair with her own two hands until he was better, she declared. She’d never give up on him.
She watched anxiously as the surgeon Macaulay had fetched cleaned Sinclair’s wound and stitched him up. The surgeon instructed Bertie how to wash the wound and change the dressing, then he mixed up powders and a poultice to leave with her for him. Bertie mentioned Warburg’s tincture, which Sinclair had used to dose Andrew, and the surgeon said it couldn’t hurt.
Sinclair lay deathly still throughout the procedure, not waking enough to take the morphia the surgeon had brought. The man finished, telling Bertie that when Sinclair woke, she should try to make him eat some broth, to keep up his strength.
The night was long. Sinclair tossed and moaned, his body heating and then breaking into a sweat. He pushed off the covers then shivered, and Bertie and Macaulay patiently tucked him in again.
Macaulay slept on the sofa in the study, and Mrs. Hill came in often. The children wanted to see their father, of course, but Mrs. Hill was keeping them away so they wouldn’t disturb him or accidentally hurt him.
“Less distressful for them too, not seeing him like this,” Mrs. Hill said, entering near to midnight. “But they’re still awake, and they’d benefit from seeing you, Miss Frasier.”
Mrs. Hill gave her a pointed look, but Bertie shook her head. “I can’t leave him.” Her eyes hurt from tears. “Not yet.”