He’d need to wait. Petra and Anne might be able to glide through the smoky confusion without notice, but Emory doubted he’d be able to sling Chambers through the palace without gaining unwanted attention.

The wait in the dark hall amidst vaporous reek of smoldering cow pies may have only been a few minutes, but it seemed an eternity. He easily carried the inert Chambers down the hall, more afraid of asphyxiation than exertion. Finally, Emory pushed open a door and took a deep breath of clean air. Although Chambers’ room had pulsed red and orange, it appeared the rest of the palace’s occupants had contributed the explosion to thunder. To Emory’s relief, not even a dog was in sight.

As he’d hoped, the courtyard was also deserted. Then he noticed a bright flame shoot out of the back of a wagon. The flame died as his heart leapt. Was he mistaken? No, Petra sat up just as lightning brightened the sky and glistened off her round shoulders.

Emory swallowed fear mingling with rage. What was she doing in the back of hay-filled wagon? Where were Anne and Rohan? The wagon lurched over the bridge, sending Petra down again behind the slats holding the straw.

The wagon turned, and light played on the massive forearms of the driver.

Marshall.

While Emory’s heart thundered in his ears and adrenaline surged, it seemed wrong for Centaur to stand so nonchalantly munching on grass in the thicket of alders where he’d been tied. Emory swung Chambers across the horse’s back. Centaur shifted under the unexpected weight and turned to Emory with large, questioning eyes.

Chambers’ tied hands and boots pointed to the ground on either side of the horse; he would have a raging headache and a stiff back by morning.

Emory took a last look at the palace as he bound Chambers to the horn of his saddle. Hampton Court looked asleep until Rohan emerged from the root cellar trap door rolling the last powder keg. Emory sprinted to him. “Any sign of Anne?”

Rohan shook his head and then pointed at Centaur’s burden. “What you got?”

“Rubbish. I was hoping you might deposit it for me.” After a quick explanation to Rohan and transferring Chambers to Rohan’s wagon, Emory was off. He knew Centaur could overtake Marshall, who was still in view.

Marshall could have killed Petra—why take her? In any other circumstance it might have been amusing to watch Petra bobble in the wagon. Several times she attempted to stand, or even come to her knees, but the lurching wagon pitched her up, down, and sideways. She appeared unhurt, but that could change in an instant. A well placed bullet or a blow to the head would silence Petra forever, and from his current vantage point, all he’d be able to do was watch. He tried to imagine his long bleak life without her, and disliking the thought, pushed Centaur harder and faster.

Did Marshall know they’d destroyed the powder kegs? Had the kidnapping been random? It couldn’t have been directed by the inert and unconscious Chambers. Marshall was a ruffian, hired by who? The Earl? Did the Earl know Petra had staged the explosions?

Emory dodged a low branch. As of yet, neither Petra nor Marshall had noticed him. He prayed that the rattle of the wagon and clip clop of the nag would overpower the rumble of Centaur’s hooves.

No such luck.

Marshall slipped a gun out of his holster. The gun barrel gleamed in the moonlight. Marshall glanced at Petra and then turned to Emory’s direction, aimed and fired.

Petra lay on the wagon floor and gathered the hay in a pile. Then, using the lighter, she set it on fire. Bracing herself, she jumped from the wagon seconds before the horses started screaming. The horses smelled the fire before Marshall and bolted. Marshall fought to control the careening horses, but they clattered away as the wagon burned, Marshall hanging onto the reins.

Stunned, Petra lay on the ground trying to catch her breath. A voice in her head urged her to get up. Emory, the voice said. Struggling to her feet, she lurched toward the palace, searching the dark for him. She found Emory leaning against a tree.

He tried to smile, but she crouched beside him and touched his lips with a finger. “Shh, don’t speak,” she said.

She had never seen so much blood. She pulled him to her. His labored breath blew hot across her neck, and his blood soaked the front of her shirt. She rolled Emory so that his head nestled onto her lap. Beneath her bare skin the ground felt cold and gritty. She tried to inspect the bullet wound, but blood gushed beneath her shaking fingers and the charred and ragged edges of his shirt. Emory’s ashen faced stared up at her, his eyes begging questions she didn’t know how to answer.

His life slipped away with his spilling blood. She pinched a strip of her shirt. The cotton tore easily and she took a wad of fabric and held it against Emory’s red stain with shaking hands.

“Petra?” Emory’s voice sounded something between a moan and a rasp. His lips were chapped, bloody, and soot smeared his face. Violent red streaks crisscrossed his chest and arms, and the wound in his shoulder pumped out blood.

Despite the gore, despite her fatigue, Petra wanted to kiss him. Instead, she brushed the hair off Emory’s face. He shifted and attempted to sit up.

“Stay still,” Petra whispered, running her fingers through his hair.

“Bossy,” Emory croaked, settling against her. “Will you always be so?”

“Forever,” Petra promised.

“Forever,” he murmured. “There is something you should know about forever.”

“Don’t speak, Emory, just stay still.” Petra tried to hold him

Emory pushed up so that he sat directly in front of her. She watched, mesmerized, as the bleeding staunched, then stopped as if a spigot had been turned off.

Emory took her hand. With his other hand he pulled back his shirt.

Petra stared as the wound healed, the skin turned pink and completely closed around what had been a gaping hole. “Forever, for me, is a very long time,” Emory whispered huskily.