Chapter 7
One moment Honoria was encircled in the warmth of Lash’s arms, discovering the sweetness of his wild kiss, the next he was gone. Her lashes fluttered open, expecting to find him as dazed and stunned as she, rejecting any other outcome, only to blink. Her gaze lowered to the floor.
“Lash!” she cried, falling to her knees beside him where he lay crumpled in a heap of unmovable mass.
She pressed her hand against his damp forehead. Lord above! He was burning up again. How had she not felt the heat when he kissed her? His body radiated sweltering temperature.
Stubborn beastie!
“Honoria, there you are, I’ve been searching—” Her sister’s words died on a gasp.
Honoria met Isla’s worried gaze. “Quick, we must get him back to his chamber at once!”
“I’ll fetch help,” Isla said, disappearing in a whirlwind of skirts.
Worry and fear churned in Honoria’s belly. She would never forgive herself if something happened to Lash in her care. “Stubborn, stubborn man.”
“What the hell?” Hugh snapped as he rushed into the gallery two minutes later, Isla and four footmen at his heels. “Why the devil did no one tell me he’s awake?”
“He wanted to leave,” Honoria answered. “I suggested a stroll to the gallery to determine whether he regained enough strength.”
“Clearly, he did not,” Hugh muttered, motioning for the footmen who hovered to assist.
“I told him as much.”
“And still you allowed something this foolhardy to happen,” Hugh chastised. “We want the man to heal, not decay under our roof.”
“I am touched you believe I can ‘allow’ a man to do anything,” Honoria snapped.
“You are not Honoria MacCallan?” Hugh said, lifting a brow.
“Hush, Hugh,” Isla admonished, her voice lashing like a whip. “Stop being such an idiot.”
He shot them both a glare, stepping aside for the footmen to carry Lash back to his chamber.
Honoria watched with concern as they lifted Lash with undisguised effort. The first time they had knocked his head more than once—she didn’t want that to happen again.
“Do not drop him,” she snapped and hurried after them when one footman in particular became red-faced.
“Honoria,” Hugh warned, and she backed away reluctantly.
“He will be all right, dear,” Isla murmured, placing a comforting hand on her arm.
“You were right . . . We should have called for a healer.”
“The wound is not infected. I doubt a healer would have done anything different except advised strict bed rest.”
Honoria turned to her sister. “I insisted we prove his strength with a stroll to the gallery.”
“He would have collapsed if he left on his own, too, ’tis not your fault. Clearly, the man is as stubborn as a mule.”
“He is a traveler,” Honoria confessed in a small whisper.
Her sister’s eyes whipped to hers. “A traveler?”
“Aye,” Honoria said a nod. “A Gypsy, or Romany, as they prefer to be called.”
“Hetoldyou that?”
