“Take me to him. Now!” she commanded.
Blackwood didn’t argue or hesitate, nor did he waste time with words. He simply turned on his heel and hurried away, Cecilia following close behind. A sudden mad thought came to Cecilia just then, that a head wound might have a perverse effect on Lionel, that he would forget her and their marriage. She almost laughed hysterically, having to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop it from bursting out. That would be cruel. Enough to make her damn the world and withdraw to a convent under a vow of silence. It would not be, of course. She remembered a book she had read by a Frenchman.
“All will be well in the best of all possible worlds,” she whispered.
Blackwood glanced over his shoulder once but one look into his mistress’ eyes slammed his head forward once more. He led her to the master bedroom. Cecilia shoved past him at the sight of Lionel lying on the bed. He was clad in his breeches and shirt.A maid was gathering a pile of bloodied linen from the floor and depositing it into a basket.
“Get that stained linen boiled at once,” Blackwood ordered, “and give Her Grace some room there.”
Cecilia ran to the bed. Lionel’s face was gray. A bandage was wound around the top of his head, one half of it stained deep red. For a moment, she feared that his very lifeblood was leaving him, soaking into the linen, leaving him a gutted wraith. Then she remembered Blackwood’s words. She knew something of field medicine herself, having helped on the farm when injuries had occurred. She remembered a farm hand being kicked by a recalcitrant cow and battering his head off the stone wall of the barn. The wound had bled profusely but the boy had never been in any danger.
She took Lionel’s hand and felt for a pulse. It was regular and strong. She lifted the hand to her lips and kissed it. Lionel lay with eyes closed, breathing deeply. At the touch of her lips, his eyes opened.
“Cece?” he croaked.
“Cece?!” she was about to snap back, but her words caught in her throat at the weakness in his voice and the paleness of his hollow gaze.
Immediately, he tried to sit up. She pushed him back to the bed, not roughly, but not as gently as she might have done. She ran a hand down the side of his face, avoiding the side that wasbleeding. But her mouth was pressed tight, jaw clenched. She was relieved and happy, but at the same time angry.Furious.
“You promised…” she muttered between clenched teeth, hoping to conceal her breaking voice.
Lionel frowned in confusion.
“Do not tell me that you don’t remember. I will not let you off the hook so easily!” she punched lightly at his chest, eyes reddening now.
“I… I remember. I promised to remain by your side when we came to London. Have I not?”
Cecilia’s anger and grief slipped, doused by the look of genuine confusion on Lionel’s face. He lifted a hand to his head and winced as he touched the bandage.
“What has happened to me? The last thing I remember is…is…” Lionel’s face creased in concentration. Then his eyes widened in alarm, “You were unwell? Have you recovered? Is it serious?”
He tried to rise again but his eyes closed against a bright stab of pain. Cecilia kept her hand to his chest and was surprised and disturbed at how easy it was to keep his substantial frame pinned down.
“It is nothing, and I am recovered. I am with child,” she whispered, gently.
Lionel’s brows drew down and then he smiled. It was the dawning of bright sunshine through a raft of clouds. His face lit up from within, unable to hide the joy radiating from him.
“Yes, I remember that now. I remember you being ill and telling me.”
“But nothing subsequently?” Cecilia asked.
Lionel shook his head. “What happened? I woke up here but my head is in agony. Something has happened but…” He closed his eyes and then thumped the bed in frustration.
“I do not know. I was not there. But, I have been told that you… you received a scalp wound from a rifle shot.”
Lionel gaped at her in disbelief. “How could I forget such a thing? It is as though it did not happen. As far as my mind is concerned anyway. I am looking into a void of memory, except I am not, because it feels as though you telling me that you are with child was just a moment ago.”
“It was this morning. It is now nighttime,” Cecilia mumbled.
Lionel began to shake his head but stopped himself. He reached for a small brown glass bottle on the bedside table. Then he let his hand fall to the bedclothes.
“No, I will not take it. It will dull the pain but it will dull my senses more. I cannot afford that.”
“And why is that?” Cecilia asked. “Is there something requiring your attention?”
Lionel looked at her as though she was mad. “Your presentation at court. It is in three days’ time, unless I have lost more time than I knew. I must be able to navigate the currents of court and avoid any missteps. Who shot me?”
Cecilia was taken aback by the sudden change of subject. She wondered what to say. She knew it was Lord Thorpe but only because he himself had bragged of it. There was no other way for her to know it.
