The world narrowed to pain and Paul's voice, steady as an anchor in the storm. Sandra clung to consciousness, her fingers twisted in the fabric of his coat as he carried her swiftly back to the chaise. The scent of smoke still clung to him, mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of blood—Crowe's, she realized, from the shattered wrist. She wanted to tell him she was all right, that the baby was all right, but the words wouldn't come. A deep, grinding ache radiated from her core, and beneath her palm, her belly had gone rigid, the muscles contracting in a way that had nothing to do with the baby's movements.
Paul laid her down with trembling care, his hands hovering over her, unsure where to touch, what to do. His face was ashen, his eyes wide with a terror she had never seen in him before—not when facing his father, not in the courtroom, not even when the scaffolding had collapsed. This was primal, a fear beyond reason.
"Where does it hurt?" he demanded, his voice rough.
"Everywhere," she whispered. Then, more urgently, "Paul, something's wrong."
A warm trickle seeped between her thighs.
His breath hitched. His hand, when it found hers, was ice-cold.
Dr. Evans arrived in a whirlwind of urgency, his usual calm replaced by sharp commands. He took one look at Sandra's pallor, the way her hands clutched her belly, and his expression darkened. "Out," he ordered Paul. "Now."
Paul didn't move. His grip on Sandra's hand tightened.
"*Now*, Lord Barton!" Dr. Evans snapped, already pulling instruments from his bag. "Unless you wish to watch her bleed out in front of you!"
The words struck like a physical blow. Paul staggered back, releasing her hand as if burned. His eyes locked with Sandra's, and in them, she saw the unspoken terror—*this was how Isabella died*.
"Go," Sandra managed, though the word tore from her throat. "Take Alexander. Keep him safe."
Paul's jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, she thought he would refuse, would stay and fight the invisible enemy threatening to steal her away. But then he gave a single, jerky nod and turned on his heel, striding from the room. The door shut behind him with a finality that made her chest ache.
The examination was swift and clinical. Dr. Evans's hands were gentle but unrelenting, his face grim as he confirmed what Sandra already knew—the placental previa had been aggravated by the stress, the fall, the terror of the fire and the attack. The bleeding wasn't catastrophic yet, but it was a warning. A promise of what would come if she didn't heed his orders.
"Absolute stillness," he said, pressing a thick pad of linen between her thighs. "No more strain. No more shocks. If this bleeding worsens, we will lose the child. And likely you as well."
Sandra closed her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The baby—*their* baby—had been so strong, so vibrant just hours ago. Now, its movements were sluggish, as if exhausted by the ordeal. She pressed a hand to her belly, pleading silently. *Hold on. Just hold on.*
Outside the door, muffled voices argued. Paul's, low and furious. Eleanor's, calm but firm. Then Clara's, trembling with tears. Alexander's confused whimpers cut through the haze of Sandra's pain, a knife to her heart.
Dr. Evans finished his ministrations and stepped back, wiping his hands on a cloth. "I'll speak to Lord Barton," he said quietly. "But understand, Lady Barton—this child cannot come yet. It's too soon. If you go into labor now..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Sandra nodded, her throat too tight for words.
When the doctor left, the room was silent save for the crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of voices in the hall. The scent of smoke still lingered, a cruel reminder of how close they had all come to disaster. Silas Crowe was caught, but the damage had been done. The fragile thread holding her pregnancy together had frayed to near-breaking.
The door creaked open. Sandra expected Paul, braced for his fear, his anger, his guilt.
But it was Eleanor who slipped inside, her face pale but composed. She carried a basin of water and a clean cloth. Without a word, she sat beside Sandra and began to wipe the sweat and soot from her brow.
"Paul?" Sandra whispered.
"With Alexander," Eleanor said softly. "He's... not himself. Davies had to pull him off Crowe a second time."
Sandra shut her eyes. She could imagine it—Paul's rage, barely leashed, his terror for her and the baby transmuting into violence. Crowe had attacked his home, threatened his family. There would be no mercy for him.
"And the fire?"
"Contained. The scullery and larder will need repairs, but the rest of the house is safe." Eleanor hesitated, then added, "Clara is shaken but unharmed. Alexander doesn't understand what happened. He just keeps asking for you."
A fresh wave of guilt and fear crashed over Sandra. She had promised to keep their children safe. And yet, here she was, confined to bed, fighting to keep their unborn child from slipping away.
Eleanor's hand stilled on her brow. "You're blaming yourself," she murmured. "Don't. None of this is your fault."
"It's not Paul's either," Sandra said hoarsely.
Eleanor's lips pressed into a thin line. "He won't see it that way."
No, he wouldn't. Paul Barton carried the weight of every perceived failure like a brand. His father's voice still lived in his head, whispering that he should have been stronger, smarter, *better*. That he should have seen Crowe's threat coming. That he should have protected her.
A soft knock interrupted them. Clara stood in the doorway, Alexander perched on her hip. The little boy's face was tear-streaked, his dark curls—so like Paul's—tousled from sleep and distress. The moment he saw Sandra, he reached for her, his small hands grasping.
"Mama!"
Sandra's heart shattered. She ached to hold him, to reassure him, but Dr. Evans's warning echoed in her mind. *Absolute stillness.*
Clara hesitated, her eyes darting to Eleanor for guidance.
"Just for a moment," Eleanor said softly. She took Alexander from Clara and carefully settled him on the edge of the chaise, guiding his little hands to rest gently on Sandra's arm. "There. Mama's here. She's just very tired."
Alexander sniffled, his lower lip trembling. "Mama hurt?"
"No, my love," Sandra whispered, forcing a smile. "Mama's just resting. You were so brave tonight."
His small fingers patted her arm, as if checking for himself. Satisfied, he leaned down and pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek. "Papa mad."
Sandra's breath caught. "Yes," she admitted softly. "But not at you. Never at you."
Clara stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "He's with Mr. Davies and the constable now. They've taken Crowe away."
Good. The further that man was from Blackwood, the better.
Alexander yawned, his exhaustion finally catching up to him. Clara gathered him back into her arms, murmuring promises of warm milk and a story. As she carried him out, Sandra caught a glimpse of Paul in the hallway, his back against the wall, his head bowed. He looked up as Clara passed, his gaze locking with Sandra's through the open door.
The raw anguish in his eyes stole her breath.
Then Eleanor shut the door, leaving them separated once more.
Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating. The bleeding had slowed, but the threat remained. The baby—precious, fragile—was still in danger. And Paul, her rock, her protector, was drowning in guilt just beyond the door.
Sandra pressed a hand to her belly, her fingers trembling. *Hold on,* she begged silently. *For me. For your father. For all of us.*
Outside, the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, painting the room in pale gold. The longest night of their lives was ending.
But the battle was far from over.