The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,113

of ground between her and Tristan vast, an ocean. She wasn’t fast enough—she wasn’t going to make it to them in time to stop Poole from stabbing Tristan a second time.

He was going die, to bleed to death right in front of her eyes—

But then suddenly in the next breath she was there, behind Poole, her own arms raised in the air, the stone cross clutched between her hands. He turned just as she swung it at his head, and she saw the knowledge of what was about to happen flash in his eyes before she brought it down in a vicious strike against his temple. She struck him as hard as she could, with every bit of her strength behind the blow.

When Poole fell, he was never going to get back up again.

She winced at the dull crack of stone against flesh and bone. Poole made a faint sound, a gurgle of surprise more than pain before he listed over, blood pouring from an enormous gash in his head.

Sophia didn’t spare him another glance. She shoved him hard to the side and he slumped into the dirt. “Tristan? Tristan, look at me.” She bent over him, her shaking hands hovering helplessly over his chest. There was so much blood…dear God, he was soaked with it, and she couldn’t think, didn’t know what to do to stop it, where to even begin. She couldn’t see the wound, just great clouts of blood spurting from Tristan’s chest, but she pressed both hands against him where the blood seemed to be flowing the heaviest.

It wasn’t enough. All she could do wasn’t enough to save him. She stared down at his blood spurting between her fingers. She could feel his heart beating weakly under her palms, but she knew it was no use, that there was no way he could survive such a wound, but broken pleas continued to tear loose from her throat, as if she thought she could save him with her words alone. “Tristan, please. Please—”

“Sophia!”

She heard her name echo across the graveyard, but Sophia didn’t look up. She kept her gaze locked on Tristan’s still, pale face, hope struggling inside her even as she was tumbling over the edge of despair. She pushed Tristan’s hair away from his eyes, leaving a smear of blood on his forehead. “Tristan, can you hear me?”

This time, her voice seemed to get through to him. He didn’t open his eyes, but she was certain she saw them flutter under his eyelids. “Tristan?” She leaned closer, but before she could reassure herself there was some part of him still alert enough to respond to her voice, a pair of large, masculine hands closed over her shoulders.

“No! Don’t touch me!” Sophia thrashed against the man’s hold, panic making her strong. She heard a muttered curse when her fingernails raked down a muscular forearm. That voice, low and deep and with a pronounced Celtic lilt, it sounded familiar…

“Sophia, look at me.” This second voice was firm, calm, and the hands that came up to hold her face were gentle. “Let Daniel move you away from Lord Gray so we can tend to him.”

It was Lady Clifford. Sophia stared into that comforting face, a face as dear to her as her own mother’s had been, and all at once all the fight went out of her. She sagged as her limbs went liquid, and would have collapsed in the dirt if Daniel hadn’t lifted her gently away from Tristan and placed her securely in Lady Clifford’s waiting arms.

Sophia buried her face in Lady Clifford’s shoulder, her entire body now shaking with the sobs she’d been fighting to hold off since she’d tripped over Peter Sharpe’s body.

But the sobs weren’t for her. “Tristan. His chest. He’s…he’s dying.”

They were for Tristan.

Lady Clifford, who had yet to meet a crisis that could crack the steel in her spine, soothed Sophia with pats and murmurs. “We don’t know that, Sophia. We don’t know anything yet. Lord Gray is a strong, hearty gentleman. You won’t give up on him quite yet, will you?”

Sophia shook her head, and Lady Clifford patted her cheek with a smile. “That’s a good girl. Daniel?” She met Daniel’s gaze over Sophia’s shoulder and her expression shifted subtly, a slight tightening in her lips that hadn’t been there before.

Daniel had been kneeling beside Tristan, assessing his injuries with swift, sure hands, but now he rose to his feet and met Lady Clifford’s gaze. “Bad, but not as bad