“Yes. Right. Of course.” She vaulted astride her horse and snapped her heels into its flanks. “Fast as you can, now,” she said, leaning low over its neck.
The freezing wind whipped around her as she rode, turning her tears to diamonds.
But diamonds were hard and sharp, and so was she. George would not die if she could help it.
Chapter 4
George’s head hurt. It really bloody hurt. In more ways than one. First, a general pounding affected every square inch of his brain box. Then, a sharp, searing pain ripped at the back of his head. He tried opening his eyes. The room was dark but for the dim light of a fire. But damn, even that small light pierced. He slammed his eyes shut once more.
At least he lay in a comfortable bed. If his head couldn’t be comfortable, at least the rest of his body could.
But no. Wrong. His body ached, especially his shoulder. What the hell had happened to him? He reached into the depths of his memory, but it shut like a door slammed by an angry lover. The bed… it must be one in Whitwood Manor. The last thing he remembered was speaking with Edmund about… damn, another blank. The pounding in his head didn’t help. It mocked him, each slice of pain a bray of laughter that he would even try to remember what had happened to him while such a devastating dance tapped about his brain, pirouetted round his shoulder, and down his arm.
And did he hear…actual laughterechoing down the hall and pushing through the crack beneath his door and into his room?
He groaned. He felt like he’d been squashed by a boulder.
Or…
A falling woman.
He bolted up right in bed. “Jane!” The pain stabbed him in several different places. He hissed and slid carefully back down to a prone position.
“Be silent and still, my lord. It’s best for you, especially since the Viscount Escher says you will not take laudanum.”
The unfamiliar voice convinced George to open his eyes. On the side of the bed opposite the candle a man stood. A physician?
“No laudanum,” George whispered. No pain was bad enough for that. This might come close, though. “Lady Jane?”
The physician pointed across the room with a jut of his chin. “Fine, fine. Though… had you not caught her, it would be her head that hit that tree root, not yours. And at the height she tumbled from, she’d likely be stretched out in a coffin instead of cuddling up in that chair.”
George frowned. Even that hurt.
“She won’t leave. Two footmen dragged her out when we went to set your shoulder. She wiggled out of their grasp and came barreling back in, apologizing to the footmen all the while.” He sniffed. “The hoyden.” Censorious language, affectionate tone. “Lord Escher gave her permission to stay after that. And after we got your shoulder set and a shirt back on you. Some of the suitors are not best pleased.”
Suitors? Jane’s suitors? Something about that word rested just outside of George’s memory, and when he couldn’t grasp it, he let it go. He steeled himself and turned his head. Every movement bounced his brain about his skull, and he closed his eyes against the pain. Once turned completely away from the doctor, he opened them back up. A small human shape curled in a large armchair next to the fire. Dark wavy locks obscured her face. Pink toes peeked out from wrinkled, dirty skirts.
“She’s well?” George asked. “You’re sure?”
“Don’t worry, my lord. You didn’t get those cuts and bruises for nothing. She’s perfectly well. She has a few cuts and bruises of her own. From the tree branches she hit on her way down. But much better off than you.”
He let go of a breath he’d been holding. “Good.”
The doctor grunted. “You, my lord, have a bump the size of a man’s fist on the back of your head. Fell on a tree root.Anddislocated your arm. You’ve got a few other bruises, but they should all heal in time.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you keep still for a bit.”
“I couldn’t move if I wanted to.” And that spelled disaster. He’d never missed a Christmas with his family. He’d never thought this year would be an exception. “What day is it?”
“December 18th. Your memory might fail you for a bit. Known to happen with head injuries like this.”
Seven days till Christmas. “How long will the headaches last? The memory loss?”
The doctor shrugged. “A day or so. Or a month or more.” He shrugged again. “Every case is different.”
He might be on the road before Christmas. He might not.
Jane stirred in the chair and lifted her head. Her gaze immediately swung toward the bed and she hopped to her feet. “Oh! You're awake.” She turned around and grabbed the chair's arms then dragged it toward the side of the bed. Once she had placed it exactly so, she plopped into it, crossed her legs beneath her skirts, and grinned at him. “I'm so glad you're not dead.”
“Me too,” George said.
