“How are you feeling? Do you need another vial to help with the pain?”
“No. I am still rather floaty, and if I try hard enough, I am sure I could sleep.” The faintest of smiles played across her mouth. “When you rested your head beside me, your scent awakened me. Sandalwood. Citrus. And you.”
He wasn’t quite sure how to take that. “Are you suggesting I need to bathe, my lady?”
“No,” she said as softly as a kitten’s purr. “You smell like you. Like you did when we…” Her voice trailed off.
Had she fallen back to sleep? A smile came to him, but he didn’t prod her to finish her thought. He knew what she had meant to say, and she needed her rest. He laid his head back down on his arms but shifted so he could watch her. Never would he tire of losing himself in the vision of her.
“If you do not wish to rest in my bed, then go back to your room,” she said in a breathy whisper. “I am quite fine. Just a little sore.”
“This is also my room now, my lady. Have you forgotten I am your husband?” He reached out and grazed a fingertip across her cheek, unable to resist touching her even though she needed to go back to sleep.
“Husband,” she repeated in a drowsy little chant. “Most sleep in their own rooms, don’t they? Celia and Elias are an exception, of course, but that is because they love each other. Frannie and Lion sleep in the same bed too because their match was also rooted in love.” She went still again, breathing slow and steady as if already returned to her dreams.
“We will share the same bed too, my swan,” he whispered. “When you are healed.”
“Healed,” she repeated on a sleepy, whispery exhale. “You fuss too much.”
“I can never fuss enough when it comes to you, my lady.”
She rewarded him with a faint smile that lightened his heart.
The bedroom door eased open. “Bromley,” the dowager countess softly called. “Your Mr. Wethersby is here.”
Nash was impressed. The footman must have gone on horseback rather than wait to rig out a carriage. And Merritt had wasted no time because knew he would never be called at this time of night unless the matter was urgent. Nash rose and caressed Sophie’s cheek. “I shall only be away for a moment, my swan. Sleep and heal.”
“Do not fuss,” she whispered, her lashes barely fluttering. “I am fi…”
He smiled. She was indeed fine. She just didn’t realize how fine and priceless she was. He hurried into the sitting room, offering the dowager a grateful nod as she went into the bedroom to take his place.
Standing just inside the door was his most trusted friend, Merritt Wethersby, the hulking blond beast of a man whose ancestors had to have been Vikings. He lumbered forward, grabbed Nash’s forearm in the warrior handshake they had used as children, then grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “Married? You? I never thought that would happen.”
“Yes, well, a long story, and the heart of it is why I sent for you.” Nash headed to the cabinet covered in decanters. “Get comfortable while I pour. What shall it be, old friend?”
“Whatever you have is fine, since I intend to limit myself to one glass. It sounds as though I need to keep my faculties about me.”
“My wife, her mother, and our queen are in danger.” Nash selected a brandy he knew Merritt would enjoy. “They are the target of a blackmailer who has stepped up his scheme in an alarming manner. My new wife of less than a day fell victim to him this evening. The attack upon her person could very easily have been fatal.”
“How is she?” Merritt accepted the glass but didn’t drink, concern filling his eyes. “Gunshot?”
“She is very fortunate and will heal. No, it was not gunfire. She was hit with a large, jagged rock between her shoulder blades. The puncture wounds concern me most. You know how quickly infection can set in on those types of injuries.” Nash set his drink aside, his thirst for vengeance far outpacing his thirst for brandy. “And the note attached to the missile warned shewould pay in more ways than just coin, and that this attack was only the beginning.”
Merritt leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a hunger for the hunt. Another reason Nash had called upon him. He knew his old friend to be relentless. “Where did the attack occur?” he asked.
“In our very own garden,” Nash said. “Here behind the townhouse.”
“Witnesses?”
“The Duchess of Hasterton was with Sophie when she was struck, but according to her, they both faced the house with their backs to the devil. Understandably, once Sophie cried out, Her Grace’s only concern was getting aid rather than looking for the perpetrator.”
“How similar are the duchess and your wife?” Merritt finally sampled his brandy, then arched a brow and gave an impressed nod. “Very nice cognac, old man.”
“What do you mean by similar?”
“Stature. Shape. Hair. Are they so different that the suspect would easily know which woman to target even with their backs to him in what I presume was a garden only lit by a few torches?”
Nash smiled and enjoyed a large sip of his own drink. “Think back ten years. Do you recall my grumbling about a fiery-haired brat who was more annoying than any horsefly and took the greatest pleasure in making me look incompetent in front of my chums?”
