Free The Wild Princess by Mary Hart Perry Page B

token of respect .
    But when his arm thrust through the window nearest her mother, Louise could see that neither flowers nor anything else equally harmless rested in his hand. The object was solid, metallic, dark in color—with a short, mean muzzle.
    A pistol!
    Louise felt a physical jolt, first of disbelief then shock as she stared at the narrow, beardless face. Now only inches away from hers.
    The man’s eyes, wild with intent, searched the passengers’ faces for only a moment before fixing on the eldest female in the carriage in black mourning garb. Momentarily frozen in time, Louise watched in horror as the young man’s arm swung to the left, pistol with it, to stop and point at her mother’s face.
    Instinct took over, setting Louise’s body in motion. She thrust her sister aside and into Lorne’s chest. It wasn’t, then, so much a voluntary act as imagining herself transported to the space between the evil weapon and Victoria. Leaning across the gap between the two bench seats, Louise swung her arm as hard as she could at the rough wool coat sleeve stretched out in front of her, hoping to knock the gun from his grip.
    Unfortunately, before Louise could connect with either arm or weapon, or even before she could push her mother out of harm’s way, she felt herself pitching forward. A brilliant, bluish white flash issued from the gun’s muzzle. She smelled a metallic tang in the air. Heard the explosion. And at the same awful moment realized she’d put her chest directly between the gun and Victoria. A blaze of heat from the ignition of powder struck the base of her throat and flew up the left side of her face.
    It was as if time sped up a thousandfold—everything happening at once: men shouted from outside the carriage. Screams echoed from inside—her sister’s, her mother’s. Lorne yelled, “Assassin! Assassin!” Her two brothers threw themselves out the far door and into the street.
    â€œShe’s shot! My daughter,” Victoria screamed. “Lord, help us.”
    Louise realized she was actually grasping the man’s gun, though it remained still in his grip. The hot metal seared through her glove into her tender palm. The astringent smell of burnt powder stung her nostrils. Her chest cramped with fear. Knowing she must be hit, but not daring to look down at her body, she assumed shock was probably blocking the pain but that it would soon be overcome by the severity of her wound.
    Outside, someone snatched the man. She lost her grip on his sleeve and tumbled down onto the carriage floor—dazed, confused, unable to breathe.
    Behind her, she heard Brown ordering the others out of the carriage. Sobbing and wailing, the queen and Beatrice fled through the far door, their skirts dragging across Louise’s face as she gasped for air, instinctively searching with her gloved fingers for the flowing wound. She must compress her hands over it, slow the bleeding until help arrived.
    Why, she wondered, was time moving so damn slowly now when it had been like lightning moments before?
    Then the door at her feet flew open. Byrne crawled in on hands and knees between the two seats and, quite literally, on top of her. He stayed low, holding his weight off of her but hovering inches above—as if to shield her while he examined her, head to foot.
    His bright, black eyes fixed on her bodice. She followed them, taking a quick breath for courage. Her cashmere cloak had come open, and the lace ruffles over the bodice of her saffron traveling gown were blackened with powder burns. Byrne didn’t hesitate. His fingers tore into the delicate scorched fabric, opening layers all at once, straight through to her skin.
    â€œSir!” she cried.
    â€œHush,” he ordered. She did as told but closed her eyes against the indignity of his inspection. “Are you hurt?”
    â€œOf course I’m hurt. I’ve been shot, and you’re kneeling on