And then, comforting done, he gave her a sound scolding for frightening them all so.
Madeline, of course, merely kissed his cheek, wriggled out of his arms, and begged to meet the ‘new lady.’ Given that Fox had no idea where his wife had gone, he did what any flustered man would do: he scolded his ward further and told her she would meet Leah in the morning.
Then, he carried Madeline up the four flights of stairs to the nursery, read her two storybooks, and listened to a quarter-hour monologue about the softness of Mr. Dandy’s ears. Once the girl was settled, Fox left the freckle-faced maid—Bethany was her name, he was sure of it—with strict instructions to not let Madeline out of her sight.
At that point, Fox realized that one, he had a monstrous headache, and two, he owed his wife an apology for abandoning her so.
Blast.
But searching for Leah nearly proved as troublesome as hunting for Madeline. His wife wasn’t in the great hall or the study or his library.
Bloody hell. Had the woman taken one look at his wretched castle and immediately returned to her brother’s house? Fox could hardly blame her if she had; she wouldn’t be the first or last.
“I believe Mrs. Carnegie is in the kitchens, Captain,” William informed him when asked.
Ah.
The kitchens, Fox supposed, were a sensible place for his sensible wife to be.
Circling down another flight of stairs, he did indeed find Leah in the kitchens, a large apron over her fine traveling gown. Staring from the doorway, Fox admired her quick movements, the professional way she stirred a pot on the stove, the competent calm in her voice as she asked a maidservant to fetch more salt from the cellar.
Fox hesitated. He should say something, should he not?
But . . . what?
He hated to interrupt and, besides, the food smelled divine and the pain in his skull intensified with every passing minute.
He would apologize over dinner, Fox reasoned. Delaying his apology by three-quarters of an hour certainly wouldn’t cause any harm.
So he retreated to his library and the warm fire there—a glass of brandy taking the edge off of his headache—awaiting his wife’s arrival with dinner.
Yes. Marrying had been an excellent decision.
“I think themarksman is beyond the knoll there.” Dennis pointed.
Fox grunted, pain surging from the bullet wound in his leg, squinting to see where Dennis had indicated. The dusty hills gave little away.
“Go on without me,” he panted. “I’m only slowing you down.”
Dennis turned his dark eyes on Fox. “Like hell you are. You come with me, or I don’t go at all—”
Fox woke with a start, dizzyingly disoriented.
He blinked, waiting for reality to right itself.
Scotland. Laverloch Castle. The warm wood of his library.
A fire burned low in the hearth. A glance out the window confirmed that, yes, the sun had already set.
The hour was late.
He pressed two shaking fingers to his forehead, tongue cottony, head pounding with the weight of memory. How much brandy had he imbibed?
His brain sputtered, trying to piece the evening together.
Fox had been waiting to dine with Leah. Only . . . she hadn’t come.
Instead, William had arrived with a tray of lentil soup, gammon, and warm bannocks, stating that Mrs. Carnegie was still seeing to matters in the kitchens.
