But his stubborn wife frowned at him. Even in her weakened, pain-racked state, she could fashion disapproval as no one else. “You needn’t wait on me, Will. Keats can sit with me. You look in need of rest yourself.”
“No. It will be me or no one.” He owed her that much. Indeed, he owed her far, far more than merely dancing attendance at her bedside. But for now, this would do.
“Will—”
“Hush,” he interrupted. “I’m your husband. It’s my duty. Would you care for a fresh pot of tea or some water?”
She stared at him, her expression indecipherable. “Water if you please.”
Would that he could read her better. Whether it was the darkness of the chamber or the jumble of his emotions, he couldn’t be sure, but something had shaken him from his ability to read her. He poured some water into a cup and handed it to her with care. “Are you hungry? I’ll send for a bowl of porridge from Mrs. Rufton.”
She took several long, lusty gulps of water before answering him. “No porridge, if you please. I dislike it intensely.”
He raised a brow. “Porridge and eggs both?”
“I cannot help what I don’t like.” Her expression softened. “I’ve forgotten to ask after your wellbeing. Were you not hit by the branch?”
“I was and I’ve the devil of a headache.” He rubbed the knot on his head ruefully. “But it was nothing compared to you. When I came to, I thought…” He hesitated, aware that he was about to reveal more than he wished.
She took another deep pull of her water. “What did you think, my lord?”
“Will.” He took the cup from her. “You’re drinking too much, love. You won’t want to be ill.”
“What did you think?” she persisted, her tone quiet yet demanding.
He met her gaze. “I thought I’d lost you, damn it.” To his great mortification, his voice shook on the statement. Devil take it. The Earl of Pembroke did not cry. At least, he hadn’t shed a tear in all the years since he’d found his puppy dead at the foot of his bed. Ferdinand. Odd how he could still recall how the mutt felt in his arms, all wiggly and warm. “There.” He replaced her cup on the side table with too much force. The sound echoed in the silence of the chamber, water sloshing over the rim onto his hand. “Are you pleased now?”
“No.”
He looked at her sharply. “Madam, in the last two days, I’ve been to hell and back worrying over you. I suggest you give me quarter.”
“Quarter perhaps.” She patted the bed at her side. “Won’t you hold me, Will? I’m so very tired, and I won’t be pleased until I have you nearer to me.”
Hell. He’d do anything she asked. Anything. His mind was still reeling with emotion, with all that had happened. But this, her in his arms, he could make sense of. Gently, taking care not to jostle her, he slipped beneath the counterpane and pressed the length of his body to hers. She nuzzled into him with complete trust and a sigh.
“Thank you, Will,” she murmured against his chest. “Thank you for saving me, and thank you for staying by my side. You needn’t have.”
He drew an arm around her waist, and if he clutched her to him more tightly than he intended, it couldn’t be helped. She thought he’d saved her. Sweet Christ. Little did she know that it was the other way around. He found her cheek with his lips, bussing it softly. “Of course I needed to, my sweet. How could you ever think otherwise?”
But she had already fallen asleep.
Victoria didn’t know how much time had passed, but when next she woke, Will had gone. She turned her aching head with ginger care and pressed her nose into the pillow to catch his scent. Spice and musk—the only sign he’d been there. That, and the pang in her heart.
He’d been concerned for her. His handsome face had not reflected his customary effortless charm when she’d first opened her eyes to find him at her bedside. She’d caught a glimpse of him without the mask he ordinarily wore, and he’d appeared haunted, his mouth set in a grim line of worry, his dark hair rumpled, purple half moons beneath his startling eyes. She hadn’t mistaken the hitch in his voice when he’d spoken of finding her trapped beneath the fallen branch, either.
“My lady, you’re awake,” Keats said warmly, bustling to her side and cutting through her heavy musings.
She’d been so quiet that Victoria had thought herself alone. She gave her dear lady’s maid what she hoped was a chipper smile. “Keats, would you mind terribly telling me what time of day it is?”
“It’s late afternoon, Lady Pembroke, and if I may say, you’re looking a sight better than you’ve been since your accident. You must be famished. Would you care for a tray to be brought up?”
“That would be lovely.” Her stomach growled as if on cue, and she was pleasantly surprised to find that the incessant throbbing of her head had abated somewhat. “No porridge, however, if you please.”
Keats frowned, worry grooves bracketing the older woman’s eyes. “My lady, Lord Pembroke has us on strict orders to follow the doctor’s advice. I’m afraid ‘tis only porridge and tea for you until he says otherwise. Perhaps I can fetch you a warm glass of milk. He didn’t say anything of milk, now that I think on it.”
Just the thought of warm milk made her stomach roil. “No warm milk, if you please. Keats, where is his lordship?”
“He’s returned to his chamber for a bath and a shave. The stubborn goat wouldn’t go until I promised I wouldn’t leave your side. All bloodied and stinking of mud from the excitement, he was, and refusing to do anything about it. He spent the entire first night watching over you. Didn’t even sleep a wink, I daresay.”
