Michael went to his rescuer, whose face had turned deathly white in pain. “Sep, I’m going to help you up.”
Septimus Ackett, son of Viscount Ammler, managed a weak nod and a shallow inhale of air. Michael slung his arm over his shoulder and gingerly raised him up, guiding them to a pew so they could both collapse in pain.
Every single part of his body, including his pinkie toe, throbbed with agony. “You couldn’t have arrived a few minutes sooner?”
“Ungrateful wretch,” Sep wheezed.
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