The gun went off, a wispy puff of white smoke billowing from the barrel, and a bright red bead of blood appeared in the middle of Increase’s forehead. He fell over, a look of bafflement marking his face for eternity.

Bliss had had enough. She clasped one hand over her mouth and fled, and she didn’t get far before she was violently ill. The sound of a scuffle and a second shot brought on a fresh spate of retching.

“There now,” Jamie told her, in that dear, musical brogue of his, “and everything will be all right now, Duchess.” He had found water somewhere, cool, clean water, and lifted the canteen to her lips so that she could rinse her mouth and then drink. When she’d had her nil, he helped her into a man’s shirt, fastening the buttons with slow, awkward fingers.

“That second shot,” she managed to get out, after long, difficult moments of struggle.

Jamie shook his head and drew her close. “Not now, love,” he said. “Not now.”

But Bliss guessed what had happened—Walter, in his despair and his horrible remorse, had shot himself after killing Pipher. “He wanted to help us,” she said sadly, her head resting against Jamie’s shoulder, “but he was too afraid.”

“It’s over now, Duchess,” Jamie said, and she felt his lips brush her temple.

She was weary clear through to her soul, was Bliss McKenna, but she felt a surge of gratitude that she and Jamie were safe, with the rest of their lives before them. That knowledge sustained her until they were back at Seven Sisters again, many hours later.

Bliss helped Jamie with his bath, being careful of his many wounds. She was quiet, still seeing that haunted look in his eyes. She feared that it would never fade away.

That night, he made love to her with a violence of need, as though certain that if his passion were consuming enough, all the terrors of the day would be overshadowed. He lay exhausted and gasping, his head resting on Bliss’s breast, when it was over, and fell into a troubled sleep. She felt the warmth of his tears against her flesh as he dreamed.

Her own deep, tender satisfaction made the motion of her hand languid as she lifted it to caress Jamie’s rumpled hair. At the same time, she stroked his shoulder, feeling the flesh and muscle quake beneath her palm as Jamie awakened and struggled to contain his grief.

Bliss said nothing, for there were no words that could, or should, spare him the mourning that he had to do. Peony had been his closest friend. He had loved her, he had seen her die, and now he had to face his own feelings.

Bliss loved Jamie enough to allow him that process, painful as it was for her, and she was sensible enough to know that it could take a very long time.

Three weeks later, Jamie and Bliss said good-bye to Maggie and Reeve in Brisbane and set sail for Auckland. Peony had been buried at Seven Sisters, but there was business to attend to concerning her estate, and Jamie threw himself into the task with ferocity. Bliss, wandering like a lost urchin through the elegant rooms of the grand house he’d bought for her, barely saw him for days at a time.