Relief surged through her like a tidal wave, her entire body sagging in exhaustion.
He was here.
The carriage shook as if someone had leapt onto it. The horses neighed and reared as the wheels screeched against the road.
A scuffle. A thud. A scream.
‘No, I can explain!’ Lord Harry’s voice rang out, shrill with panic.
A heavy crack. A whimper.
Then, desperation.
‘Please, no! Please stop! She’s in the back—she’s alive!’
The carriage door burst open.
And there he was.
The Duke climbed inside in a flash, his hands immediately working at the knots binding her wrists. ‘Grace, my love, are you all right?’
His voice was raw with worry.
His hands, usually so controlled, were shaking.
‘Are you hurt?’ He ran his hands over her arms and legs, checking for broken bones.
Then, his gaze landed on her hand.
The cut. The dried blood.
He gasped.
Without hesitation, he reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a handkerchief.
A handkerchief she knew.
Her handkerchief.
The very same one she had once used at Skye Manor, pretending to have a cough—a lifetime ago.
The world tilted.
His face became unfocused.
Pain roared through her skull, a sickening throb behind her eyes.
Then—darkness.
Chapter 29
‘She has more colour than yesterday,’ Mrs Merriweather observed anxiously. ‘The doctor said she should wake soon. Poor petal—such a trauma.’
‘Her cheeks still look peaky!’ Heather exclaimed.
Grace could hear the voices, but her eyelids were too heavy to lift, and her mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. The throbbing in the back of her head persisted, though it was not as intense as before. She forced herself to speak, and a raspy voice emerged.
‘I reckon I still look more colourful than you, squirrel.’
