To Desire a Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

lifeless.
Reynaud shook his head, wishing he could think through the blinding pain. Something… something wasn’t right.
    “What is this?” Reginald St. Aubyn, the earldom thief, cried, his face red. He started for the door.
    Reynaud shot out his arm, barring the way. “Snipers in the woods. Don’t go out.”
    St. Aubyn jerked back his head, staring at him as if he were insane. “What are you babbling about?”
    “I haven’t time for this,” Reynaud growled. “There’s a shooter, man.”
    “But… but, my niece is out there!”
    “She’s safe at the moment, sheltered by the carriage.”
    Reynaud assessed the crowd of soldiers gathered by the commotion in the entry hall. Except… except they didn’t look like soldiers.
     Something was wrong. His head was splitting with pain, and he hadn’t the time to figure it out now. His back crawled with
     the knowledge that the Indians were still out there, waiting. The lad moaned at his feet.
    “You.” He pointed at the oldest. ”Are there any guns in the house? Dueling pistols, birding pieces, hunting rifles?”
    The man blinked and came to attention. “There’s a pair of dueling pistols in his lordship’s study.”
    “Good. Get them.”
    The man whirled and ran down the back passage.
    “You two”—Reynaud indicated two practical-looking women—“fetch some clean cloth, linens, anything we can use for bandages.”
    “Yes, sir.” They went without a word.
    Reynaud turned to the boy but was stayed by a hand on his arm.
    “Now, see here,” St. Aubyn said. “I won’t let my servants be ordered about by a raving lunatic. This is my house. You can’t
     just—”
    Reynaud spun and in the same motion took the older man by the throat and shoved him into the wall. He looked into watery brown
     eyes, suddenly widened, and leaned close.
    “
My
house,
my
men,” he breathed into the other man’s face. “Help me or get out of my way, I care not, but never question my authority again—and
     don’t
ever
lay a hand on me.” There was no question in his tone.
    St. Aubyn swallowed and nodded his head.
    “Good.” Reynaud let him go and glanced at the sergeant. “Look out the door—quickly—and check that Miss Corning and the others
     are still by the carriage.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    Reynaud knelt by the wounded man. The boy’s face was greasy with sweat, his eyes narrowed in pain. The wound was on his left
     hip. Reynaud took off his coat and found the small thin knife he kept in a pocket. Then he bundled the coat and placed it
     beneath the boy’s head.
    “Am I dying, my lord?” the lad whispered.
    “No, not at all.” Reynaud sliced open the boy’s breeches from waist to knee and spread the bloody fabric. “What’s your name?”
    “Henry, my lord.” The lad swallowed. “Henry Carter.”
    “I don’t like my men dying, Henry,” Reynaud said. There was no exit wound. The bullet would need to be dug out of the boy’s
     hip—a tricky operation, as sometimes the hip bled badly. “Do you understand?”
    “Yes, my lord.” The boy’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
    “So you’re not to die,” Reynaud stated with finality.
    The boy nodded, his face smoothing. “Yes, my lord.”
    “The pistols, sir.” The older soldier was back, panting, with a flat box in his hands.
    Reynaud rose. “Good man.”
    The women had returned as well with the linens, and one immediately knelt and began bandaging Henry. “I had Cook send for
     a doctor, my lord. I hope that was right.”
    Cook?
That feeling that something wasn’t right made his head spin again, but Reynaud kept his face calm. An officer never showed
     fear in battle.
    “Very smart.” Reynaud nodded at the woman, and a flush of pleasure spread over her plain face. He turned to the sergeant.
     “What’s happening outside?”
    The sergeant straightened from the door crack. “Miss Corning is still by the carriage, my lord, along with the coachman and
     two footmen. A small crowd has gathered