Trying to sit up, he hissed sharply. He could barely move. And he definitely had some broken ribs. Whatever was on top of him was heavy. He tried pushing against it, but it hardly budged.
“Whitney,” he tried to call out, but it came out as more of a croak than anything decipherable.
He gave the object on top of him a shove, ignoring the pain that lanced through his chest and shoulder. He would never get out from under this if he didn’t try.
Shoving again, it slid slightly to the side, but enough that it eased the pressure on his chest. It hurt to take a deep breath, so he tried to keep to small gulps of air. Looking around it appeared he was in an alley. Nay doubt those bastards that jumped him threw him here after he’d been knocked out.
“Whitney,” he croaked out again, hoping to gain someone’s attention. Anyone’s attention at this point. He needed to make his way back to Colthrop Hall.
“Over here!” He heard someone yell and he felt the weight being lifted off of him. “Sir! My lord!”
He tried to focus on the face that appeared in front of him, but his vision was blurry. He recognized the voice though. It was John, one of his coachmen.
“How?”
“Don’t speak. Save your energy. Can you stand?”
Christopher thought he was just trying to be kind. It was obvious that he couldn’t.
“Whitney,” he asked.
“Lady Campbell is here.”
Relief flooded through him at the same time anger raced through his veins. What the hell was she doing in this part of the city?”
Then pain pierced his chest as John and another man he didn’t recognize, lifted him from where he’d been dumped, and carried him to the carriage.”
“Oh my heavens!” Whitney exclaimed as they loaded him into the carriage. “What happened? Christopher. What happened?” She cried.
“Is it that bad?” He managed to ask before his world went black again.
The next timehe awoke, he was in his own bedchamber, in his own bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows behind his back.
His vision was limited, and he assumed his eyes were swollen. Not surprised. They’d taken quite a few hits.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his throat parched. His body sore all over.
“You’re awake.” Whitney’s face appeared in front of his and he tried to smile, but his lips hurt.
“Ye found me,” he eked out. “I thought I heard your voice.”
She frowned. Wringing out a cloth, she dabbed at his face and he winced.
“You have a lot of explaining to do—once you’ve healed some,” she added quickly. “You look like a right mess, right now. What the hell happened?”
Her gaze held no shame at the curse she’d just muttered. His admiration grew for her. “Did ye come looking for me?”
She dabbed his brow and the cloth came away bloody, so she rinsed it again before repeating the gesture.
“You left,” she accused. “I, I thought you…” She drew in a shaky breath.
Reaching out a cut and bruised hand, he captured hers. “I am no’ that bastard that used you for his selfish reasons. I would ne’er,” he coughed, the pain in his ribs felt like the stab of a hundred daggers.
Concern etched her brow.
“I respect ye too much to do that to ye, lass.”
“Maybe so. But why were you where all the gambling hells were?”
