“Baron?”
“Yes, I was at the Farm.”
“He has women training as Saboteurs now?”
Margaret ignored the comment as she came closer to the bed. She pocketed her knife again and felt for a tinderbox on the bedside table. Locating the box, she lit a match and then applied it to the wick of an oil lamp. Finally, she turned her gaze on Holyoake. “Not only training but taking missions.” She blew out a slow breath. “Good thing he sent me after you.”
It had been years since she’d seen Viscount Holyoake, but it only took an instant to see he was unwell. His face was mottled with bruises, his beautiful amber-gold eyes dull, his chestnut hair too long and pressed to his head with sweat, and his usually tawny skin pale. He was trying to hide it, but he was in pain. Her gaze went to his hand, pressed against his side. He wore a shirt and breeches, so she couldn’t see the injury. Broken ribs? Something worse?
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“Nothing a few days of rest won’t cure.” He set his pistol on the bed beside him.
“Oh, and how long have you been here?”
He didn’t answer.
“What happened to your side?”
Immediately, he dropped his hand. “Nothing. You want a report for Baron? There’s ink and parchment on the table. I’ll dictate it, and you can take it back to him tonight.”
“Broken ribs?” she asked. “Or something more serious?”
“I told you, it’s nothing.”
“And I know you well enough to know when you are lying. Off with your shirt then. Let me see.”
“Just get the bloody parchment and let me dictate a report.”
Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. “Off.”
He sighed. “You’ll have to help me.”
A slice of panic cut through her. Admitting he needed help was serious indeed.
“I had a surgeon bandage it and then made my way here. Hurt too bloody much to lift my arm to get the shirt off.”
Margaret leaned forward and undid his cuffs and the buttons at his throat. Then she tugged the shirt out of his trousers and, with a little maneuvering, over his head. There was indeed a bandage on his right side and linen wrapped about his body to keep it in place. Blood had seeped through the bandage but not enough to stain the shirt. Still, she could see the bandage needed changing. And Holyoake was far too thin. He needed food. Probably medicine as well. His ribs and abdomen were covered with bruises. She touched a particularly vicious bruise, and he inhaled sharply.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize. It’s just been a long time since you touched me. Maggie.”
Her gaze shot to his. He knew she hated that name “Don’t call me that.”
He leaned back on the pillow. “What should I call you then?” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I know. I’ll call you wife.”
