“I could not leave you.” He looked away. “Not until you had awakened.”
“I am awake now.” If she had strength, she would have moved.
He didn’t move either. Likely because he feared, in so cramped a position, the jostling would cause her pain. Or the broken glass would pierce her skin. Or any other reason except what pulsed in her soul.
The need to be held.
To hold.
“They want me dead.” He glanced down at her. “I will return you to the hunting lodge in Hertfortshire. My mother will be going too, it is hidden, and the two of you will be safe—”
“I wish to go to Hollyvale. With you.”
“No.”
“Perhaps this was an accident—”
“It was no more accident than someone stabbing a knife in my flesh, and I will not have you suffering for dangers that belong to me.”
“Perhaps you need someone.” She tried to pull them back, the wretched sentiment, but it poured out faster. “Someone to suffer with you.”
“I had someone.”
“Your wife.”
“Yes.”
“I had someone too.” How strange it was, to mention Papa this way, knowing Simon knew what no one else did. “But they are gone.”
If she had known the words would haunt his eyes that way, she would not have said them. If she knew, she would have taken them back.
He eased himself out from under her, every movement careful, every touch soft and comforting as he ripped off his coat and tucked it beneath her head. “I will return with help.”
She wanted to beg him to stay.
But he was gone before the plea could make it past her tear-clogged throat.
Hours passed in darkness before the faint glow of lights appeared overhead. Two male servants, likely from Hollyvale, climbed inside and lifted her up.
Simon was among the lantern-lit shadows waiting above, but it was someone else who pulled her against him.
Mr. Oswald. He smelled of vanilla and sherry, a strange contrast to the wild scents of the night and the metallic odor of blood.
“Do not worry. I’ve a doctor already waiting in my carriage, along with blankets and enough vials of medicine to pacify any injury.” He carried her to the vehicle, ordered a servant to open the door, and situated her inside before she could see more of Simon.
“I am Dr. Morpeth,” said an older gentleman. “We shall do much better, I daresay, in the candlelight of Hollyvale, but if you would be so kind as to extend your arm.” The frizzy-haired physician pulled her arm into his lap, as Mr. Oswald squeezed in on the other side of her.
The harsh lights, the low and foreboding ripples of conversation dazed her senses and pounded at her temples. She craned her neck to see out the window as the carriage began to move. Where was Simon?
He should be here.
He should be examined too.
“Please, stop.” She tried to extract her arm from the doctor’s grip. “Mr. Fancourt. I must speak with Mr. Fan—”
“You are overwrought, Miss Whitmore, after so trying an ordeal.”
Mr. Oswald grasped her free hand and squeezed. “Mr. Fancourt shall be awaiting us when we arrive at Hollyvale. I promise.”
