Page 123 of In Bed with the Earl

Malcom slammed the door shut, hard.

“You needn’t do that,” she chided, tidying up the little workstation she’d arranged for herself between the chairs previously occupied by her patients.

Her patients.

Whenshewas the one who should be lying down with a—

“Doctor—” He already had the door opened and was thundering for a servant.

Billy popped out of the shadows. “Ya called, sir,” she piped in.

“The butler ...” What in blazes was the man’s name? Why hadn’t he bothered to learn it? He’d be the one with those connections Malcom—and Verity—needed in this moment.

“Coleman, my lord.”

“Have Coleman fetch a doctor.”

“Malcom, I don’t need a doctor.”

The girl was already darting down the hall.

“One has already come,” Verity called, sailing over to the door.

“Then you’ll see a different one.” To be certain she wasn’t truly hurt. “You should be in bed,” he squeezed between clenched teeth as she took the panel in her fingers and ducked her head—her injured head—out.

“I don’t need a doctor, Billy.”

The little girl stopped.

“Fetch the doctor.”

Billy took a step forward. She wavered back and forth, her arms outstretched and a hopeless look etched in her small features.

“You’re confusing the girl,” Verity chided. “Stop it.” Stepping out into the hall, she spoke in a gentle but insistent voice. “I don’t require another doctor at this time, Billy, but if I do, I’ll be certain to let you know.”

And in an absolute display of which one of them held actual power in this household and over people, Billy dropped a curtsy. “As ya wish, moi lady.”

It wasn’t enough.

“You need to be checked again, Verity,” he said tightly as she closed the door.

“I’ve been—eep.” Malcom swept her up, an arm under her knees, and cradling her against his chest, he carried her over to the bed. “I can walk, Malcom.”

Had she been able to walk in the immediacy of the attack? Was she even now putting on a brave show through the pain? His chest tightened.

“It doesn’t matter that you can. You’re not doing it.” He lay her down gently in the middle of the mattress. And hovered there, uncertain, when he’d always had answers. When he’d never feared anything. He feared for this woman. It was an enervating, crippling panic that chipped away at all coherent thought. Somewhere along the way, she’d come to mean more to him than anyone. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” he managed when he trusted himself to speak.

“You heard about the attack.”

“I heard about the attack,” he confirmed.

“Oh.” She twisted her fingertips in the lace coverlet.

How was she so calm? How, when a raw rage set every nerve to vibrating? When he wanted to hunt down and end the one who’d dared put his hands upon her?

“Livvie?” she ventured.

“Livvie.”

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