Chapter Twenty-four
The ride back to Mountwood was a blur of frantic urgency and agonizing care.
Gabriel refused to relinquish Genevieve, cradling her broken body against his chest as Apollo surged forward, moving at the fastest pace possible without worsening her injuries.
Every jolt of the stallion’s powerful stride sent a sympathetic spear of pain through him, but he barely registered it.
His focus was absolute. Every breath, every movement was centered on the fragile woman in his arms. She was frighteningly light.
The weight of her should have been reassuring as the presence he had yearned to hold for so long.
But now, it was all wrong. She was too still, too silent, her head resting limply against his shoulder, her breathing unmeasurable.
He wildly feared he only imagined the occasional shallow jump of her chest. The crimson stain on his coat, seeping from her head wound, spread slowly but unrelentingly.
It is too much blood to lose, he thought, panic threatening to overtake him.
“Hold on,” he said. The words were whispered, urgent, meant for her, meant for himself. “Please, my love. Just hold on.”
His voice was thick with unshed tears, strained beneath the force of his terror. He had not shed tears since he was a child. Yet at the very real threat of losing his wife, it was all he could do to contain sobs.
James rode ahead at full gallop, pushing his horse mercilessly, racing to alert the household and summon Dr. Albright from the nearby village. Gabriel barely noticed. He barely saw the darkened countryside speeding past, barely felt the wind biting at his skin. Time had lost all meaning.
Nothing existed beyond Genevieve.
When they reached Mountwood, the household erupted into controlled crisis.
Mrs. Cartwright moved with grim efficiency, issuing sharp, quiet orders as servants sprang into motion.
Sophia, pale but composed, directed them with steady precision.
Linens, bandages, hot water appeared as if conjured from thin air.
Stable hands formed a careful human chain, working with painstaking gentleness to transfer Genevieve from Gabriel’s arms to a waiting stretcher.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to resist their careful ministrations, though the act of releasing her felt akin to tearing his own heart from his chest. They carried her swiftly inside, up the grand staircase, into her prepared chambers.
Dr. Albright arrived with commendable speed, his usual placid expression turning grave as he assessed Genevieve’s still form.
Gabriel stood rigidly beside the bed, his hands clenched, his breathing shallow, barely contained terror radiating from him. At first, the relief when the physician found a pulse and her breath was overpowering. But then, Dr. Albright’s completed examination confirmed Gabriel’s worst fears.
“She has a severe concussion,” he said. “She remains unconscious, which is deeply troubling. She should be stirring right now. But she has lost a great deal of blood. It may be that she has lost too much.”
Gabriel’s stomach clenched, dread creeping through his veins like ice.
“There is a break in her left arm,” he said, continuing. “It must be set immediately.”
Gabriel barely nodded, his throat closing.
“She also has some cracked ribs,” he said over the sound of blood rushing in Gabriel’s ears. “The gash at her temple, which is what I am certain caused the concussion, is rather deep. It will require careful and immediate stitching.”
Gabriel bit his cheek, habitually forcing back tears, though he no longer cared to try to suppress his emotions.
“Will she survive?” he asked gruffly.
The physician glanced at Genevieve’s still motionless form and shook his head.
“I cannot say,” he said. “These procedures must be done for her to have the best chance. However, it is my experience that…“he paused, sighing. “I fear the damage could well be far too extensive. I fear she may be lost, despite all my effort.”
Gabriel choked back a sob, but he merely nodded.
“Proceed,” he said. “"Quickly, I beg you. I am determined not to leave her; this is not debatable."
The physician looked as though he wanted to argue, but with time of such essence, he did not.
Throughout the grim, necessary medical procedures, including the cleaning of her wound, and the painful setting of her broken arm, Gabriel refused to leave her side.
His grip tightened around her cold fingers, his whispered pleas falling into the stillness.
He had heard the physician’s grim prediction, but he refused to give up.
He loved his wife, and now that he realized that, he could not consider her lost. Not until her heart had beat its very last.
“Stay with me, my darling,” he said. “Please, I beg of you, stay with me.”
***
The household had settled into uneasy silence by the time the unexpected visitor arrived.
Genevieve remained unconscious, hovering precariously between life and death, her condition casting a heavy pall over Mountwood.
The staff moved with subdued efficiency, their quiet urgency reflecting the growing fear that surrounded her chambers.
Outside, the evening deepened, shadows stretching long across the estate as the candlelit corridors echoed with murmured conversations and hurried footsteps.
James had stationed himself near the entrance hall, overseeing security measures with methodical precision.
Every order was executed without hesitation.
No unexpected visitors were to be permitted inside.
Every gate was monitored, every guard alert.
With Genevieve’s life hanging in the balance, there was no room for carelessness.
When the urgent request came, the initial response was swift resistance.
“Certainly not,” he said.
The messenger, a thin man with pale features and wide, fearful eyes, shifted nervously under the weight of scrutiny.
“I must speak with the Earl,” he said. “Immediately. My names is John Smite, and I have important information.”
James narrowed his gaze, assessing the man. Smite’s terror seemed genuine. His face was drawn, his expression taut with urgency, which was not the air of a man attempting manipulation, but one driven by sheer necessity. Still, James did not relent easily.
“The Earl is indisposed,” he said. “I will stand in his stead. State your business.”
Smite inhaled sharply, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper.
“I serve Charles Ravencroft,” he said
The name snapped James’s full attention into place.
Smite must have noticed, because his voice trembled.
“I have vital information,” he said again. “You must listen, please.”
A pause stretched between them, weighted with consideration.
James did not make decisions lightly, but experience told him when a man was driven by genuine fear, and Smite’s terror was unmistakable. Whatever had brought him here was grave enough to push him past caution, past self-preservation.
James exhaled, making his choice.
“You will not speak to the Earl directly,” he said. “Not yet.”
He led Smite into a small anteroom, taking every precaution to prevent immediate access to Gabriel. Emotionally compromised, Gabriel would be susceptible to misplaced trust—something James could not allow.
Two armed estate guards were stationed discreetly outside the parlor door.
James seated himself opposite Smite, posture rigid, expression unreadable.
“Speak,” he said.
Smite did not hesitate.
“The carriage accident,” he said with apparent anxiety. “Lady Mountwood’s condition. It was all intentional. And I can prove everything I say.”
James nodded. He was rattled, but not out of surprise of the news. He was only surprised that Mr. Smite was confessing to the truth. However, his fragmented story spilled forth, coherently and believably enough to warrant the interruption of Gabriel’s vigil over his wife.
“Come,” James said, interrupting the man. “I shall take you to the earl.”
Moments later, he stood, issuing sharp orders to secure the estate further before moving toward Genevieve’s chambers. Gabriel needed to be told. James stepped inside quietly, eyes landing on the man seated beside Genevieve, his hand still clasping hers. Sophia remained nearby, watching over her.
Gabriel did not look up immediately, his focus still locked on Genevieve’s fragile form.
James exhaled, steady but firm.
“I would not pull you away if it weren’t urgent,” he said.
Gabriel finally met his gaze, expression tight. James spoke without preamble.
“A man from Ravencroft's household has come,” he said. “He claims he has vital information.”
Gabriel’s posture stiffened. Sophia glanced between them, sensing the shift. James kept his tone level.
“I have taken precautions,” he said. “You will hear him, but only under security measures.”
Gabriel exhaled slowly, releasing Genevieve’s hand with reluctant care.
“Lead the way,” he said.
***
Gabriel sat stiffly in the parlor, exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by cold, simmering fury as he registered the identity of the man before him.
John Smite shifted uneasily in his chair, his fingers twisting his cap with nervous energy.
He kept his gaze lowered, avoiding direct eye contact, but the palpable fear radiating from him was undeniable.
James stood nearby, his posture rigid, his assessing gaze sharp as he observed the trembling servant.
“Tell him everything you told me, Smite,” he said gruffly.
Gabriel forced himself to remain still, controlling the impulse to demand answers with unchecked rage.
Smite’s breath was uneven, his voice halting as he began.
“I was blackmailed,” said John Smite. “Charles threatened my mother. She is ill, and she depends on my wages.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.