“Nice of them to send you three in,” Silverton remarked.
“Don’t think they saw the wisdom of keeping me out.” Maeve’s father knelt close to the corpse, checking the body over.
The rapier eased away smoothly, Maeve thought drily, although after Silverton’s reaction to the act, she kept quiet, grateful for the bond she had with her sibling and sorry for her husband’s tragic one with his brother.
“My mother is upstairs, and Fischer has been injured. He will need a doctor.” Silverton tried to step forward, letting go of Maeve’s arm as he spoke to her father, but the movement jerked him, and material on his damaged leg rent farther. He let out a shouted gasp of pain and collapsed forward, landing into the waiting arms of Maeve’s father.
“Just as well Dr. Harrison lives so close,” her father replied, shifting his shoulder under Silverton’s and helping him towards the couch. “Betty, go and warn them the physician is needed.”
Maeve turned to leave the study to find her mother-in-law, the waiting guards, and to treat the hurt Fischer—whoever needed her next—when Silverton called her name.
“Maeve, stay with me.”
That was all it took. She dropped her sister’s hand with an apologetic look and stepped closer to the settee he lay on. Interlinking her fingers with Silverton’s, she nodded as her father set to work on bandaging Silverton’s injured thigh.
The next few hours were a blur of faces, some known and others not. The dowager had to be carried away, and her cries for her youngest echoed painfully through the Hall. Fischer was brought out, weak but still alive, and the guards swore they’d get him to the local physician as soon as they could. Lastly, Charles Brennan’s body was removed, and Maeve’s father ensured it was taken post haste to the undertaker.
Betty set about in the kitchen, preparing what wholesome food and drinks she could find, whilst Grace went to town to fetch as many supplies as she could carry. No one required Maeve’s input, which was just as well as she had none to offer. The frenzied actions of others buzzed around Maeve, but all her focus was rooted on the tiny details of Silverton; on checking his leg, his temperature, on making sure he would be safe. It was only when the doctor arrived and checked Silverton over that she could breathe easily again.
“My lady—Maeve,” the male voice was gentle and oddly familiar. When Maeve looked up, she was looking into the face of her dear father. John entered the study and moved around Silverton; his expression concerned.
“There have been too many people in here, and there is a draft from that window.” Looking away from them, her father said, “We should move the viscount upstairs to a proper bed, otherwise, the ill effects of a chill could make his recovery that much harder. My lady—” He was pulling Maeve to her feet, easing her back from Silverton.
“Will you forgive me, John?” Silverton’s eyes shot open, and he fixed Maeve’s father with an earnest look. His demand was closer to begging and had none of the arrogance he had once demonstrated.
Hastily, John shook the viscount’s proffered hand. “I think you and I have too much in common to ever be out of sorts with each other.”
Maeve was feeling weak from hunger and the long jumble of the last few hours that she could hardly countenance what seemed to be an apology from her husband. Silverton being so sincere and sorry? It beggared belief—perhaps he was still weak from the poison or from the wound in his leg.
Silverton looked over at her, although no immediate apology seemed to form on his lips. His eyes moved to Maeve’s belly, and it clicked sadly into place. He had pulled her to him when Charles had threatened her… she dwelt on the idea, and then it hit her slow-moving brain—he was being protective of her because of their baby.
He had never shown such regret beforehand. Her treacherous heart had warmed at the thought he might be sincere, but it was for far more mundane reasons, ones that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the child. That was why he suddenly cared.
A dull ache resonated from her as she looked up into her father’s familiar face. “Pray continue, Father.”
“I feared I would arrive too late. I must say your maid’s rather chaotic description did not begin to do the situation justice.”
“Few things would.”
“She was concerned for you.”
“We owe Betty, Fischer, and Grace our lives,” Maeve said. She looked towards her husband, who seemed to be flagging from tiredness. “We should get Silverton upstairs and hope that no long-term damage has been done. I fear a fever may set in from his wound.”
Over the next few hours, Silverton continued to demonstrate rather unusual behaviour for him, even after he was moved upstairs. He demanded Maeve’s attention, that she be close by, and that the elderly Dr. Harrison assess her once he was done ensuring Fischer’s survival. It was only when Maeve agreed that he had rolled onto his uninjured side and seemingly passed out. It was beyond strange, she reasoned as she watched Silverton from the foot of the bed, but until he was recovered, she decided it was best to let it alone. Leaning to one side, she rested her head on the bedframe and let out a heavy sigh.
Dr. Harrison had looked Silverton over twice more by the end of the day, telling Maeve that her husband would heal and may yet resist developing a full fever from his wound. The Staplehurst doctor had reassured her that Silverton was strong, and provided his temperature did not get too hot, he was likely to continue living a long and healthy life.
Maeve had clung to this when Dr. Harrison left, her eyes watching her husband closely. It was important to remember, she scolded herself, why it was that he was interested in her, and why they had wed—for the baby. It was a sobering realisation, but one that mattered. After all, there was no point in her hopelessly clinging to the romantic notions Silverton inspired in her, and no reason to think that, after she had birthed the child, he would ever show any interest in her again.
Night had fallen, and the Hall was finally starting to settle down. It would take a long time for Maeve to feel as if this place could be hers rather than belonging to the nightmare she had experienced.
“Daughter.” John entered with Grace following behind in his wake. The two of them moved farther into the chamber, looking determined. The sight of Silverton on the bed seemed to stiffen her father’s resolve. “Firstly, we’ve some good news. Fischer has much improved.”
“That is excellent news.” Maeve could sense something else was imminent, and when she looked at Grace expectantly, her sister stepped closer.
“You need to rest yourself,” Grace said with a forcefulness. Letting out a sigh, Grace moved forward and gently touch Maeve’s shoulder. “You look a fright. It wouldn’t be good for the baby. I will sit with the viscount, father will deal the household affairs, and you must sleep.” With the set of her sister’s chin and her raised eyebrows, Maeve knew better than to argue. Besides hopefully, with a few hours of sleep herself, she would wake and feel refreshed and able to cope with the reality of her future—as a wife to a man who did not love her as she loved him. Neither of them looked to John to see his reaction to the news of the baby; today had already been too long.
Grace had followed her, pushing open the adjoining chamber door. “Don’t look quite so miserable. By the time you’ve rested, I’m sure you’ll find you are a great deal better. You couldn’t look worse.” Then with an undertone, and what Maeve sure was meant kindly even if it was not delivered in such a sweet, musing note, “Is it the baby making you appear so terrible? At least, I will never have to fear on that score.”
