“Nathaniel?”
He forced himself to pry his eyelids apart and look at Emma. He focused on her until there was only one of her standing there.
“Did she say something upsetting?” she asked, her face full of concern.
“History is full of startling things,” he said, grasping for the first thing that came to mind. “I think I might be getting a migraine. Nothing more dire than that, I promise.”
“Want me to ask them if there’s somewhere you can lie down?”
“I’d rather get home as quickly as possible, if it’s all the same to you,” he said thickly. “We’ll return.”
She didn’t press him. She did, however, pull his arm over her shoulders and nod toward the stairs.
“I can’t carry you, but I’ll make excuses to get us out of here if you can walk on your own.”
“I can do that,” he managed. “Thank you.”
She didn’t say anything else, but she did give him another look of concern. He smiled, sickly no doubt, and didn’t even attempt a nod. He was fairly sure where that would get him.
1372. It should have meant nothing, but the terrible shudder in the world that had accompanied hearing that year had been undeniable.
What in the hell was going on?
“Sorry to ruin the day,” he managed at one point.
“You didn’t, of course,” she said with a smile. “Just keep going before we run into anyone who’s going to want details. I can’t fake your posh accent which means we’ll be completely busted.”
She said nothing else, but he didn’t miss how loudly she was thinking. He didn’t want to imagine what those thoughts might be. For all he knew, she was wondering if the lads down at the pub should have addednutterto the list of things they called him.
He managed to get up the stairs and back through the castle before they unfortunately encountered their benefactors. He would have tried to bluff his way out the front door, but he found it was all he could do to stand there and breathe.
He was fairly sure Emma had blamed his sudden paleness on bad eggs, but he wouldn’t have been able to swear to it in court. He managed a garbledThank you, then listened to Emma extricate them from any displays of concern by accepting a business card. He realized only then that her accent was as crisp as that of any London socialite he’d ever been scolded by. He tucked that away to chide her about later, then listened to her promise to absolutely get their host’s card to Nathaniel’s grandfather. Her thanks were just the right amount of effusive.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the passenger side of his car.
“Keys?”
He managed to get them to her, half surprised he’d been successful in keeping them on his person during the previous hour. He didn’t protest when she tucked him into the seat and leaned in to buckle him in safely.
“That accent,” he wheezed.
“I watch lots of British television.”
He laughed a little, but it was a fairly miserable sound. He managed to uncross his eyes long enough to look at her. Avoiding sicking up his breakfast all over her was yet another success for the day.
“Not a trace of identifying markers in that accent,” he said hoarsely. “And that can’t possibly come from too much telly.”
“I think you’re too sick for details.”
“Distract me.”
She shut him in, then walked around to climb into the driver’s seat. She started his fairly abused Range Rover up, pulled out of the car park, then paused to set the navigation system.
“Let me know if you need help,” he said faintly.
“I think what I need is for you to close your eyes before you barf all over me.”
He leaned his head back very carefully against the seat. “Can you drive this?”
