Page 152 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Thirty-seven
The ground was pillow soft. Marcus rubbed the flatness. Cool cloth, not grass, grazed his palm. He pushed up on one elbow, head throbbing.
“Samuel, he’s awake.” Adam Beckworth’s voice.
Marcus opened his eyes and pinched them shut at pain slicing his temple. He sat up, his stomach roiling with the need to retch. Marcus touched his head. A bandage. Sticky moisture. He examined his hand.
Blood spotted his fingers. “Where am I?”
“You’re on my bed,” Samuel announced, a lit taper in hand.
“Not a place I want to be.” Marcus swung both legs over the edge. His boots hit the floor, and he bit back the need to vomit. “Sorry, Samuel. I like you, but not that much.”
“The sentiment is mutual. I’d rather a softly curved woman was in your place.”
Bracing himself, Marcus stood and took a step. The floor spun. He wavered, catching the bedpost. Samuel rushed to his side.
“You need rest. Physician’s orders.”
“Thank you, but I can rest at home.”
“Better that you stay here. When you fell, your head hit a small stone in the grass. You lost a lot of blood but suffered no serious damage that the physician could see. We’ve all taken turns watching over you.”
“Thanks, but I prefer my nurses softly curved. If you could help me get to Pallinsburn…”
“That’s no good.”
“Why not? Genevieve will take care of me.”
Samuel raised the candlelight to eye level. “Marcus, she’s gone.”
Air squeezed from his lungs, and he hunched over. He gripped the bedpost, bile at the back of his throat again.
“That’s not possible… The Prussian was knocked cold.” He pushed off Samuel’s bed.
“The Prussian didn’t take her. She left of her own accord.”
“What?” Marcus wavered, waiting for the world to stop its spin.
Samuel strode forward. “You need to rest, Marcus. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”
“Morning? What time is it?”
“Twilight I think. Alexander went on an errand in the village, and then he was going to feed the horses.”
The race had been in the morning. He’d been out all day. Concentrating on the plank floor, he forced himself to stand and put one foot in front of the other. He pushed past Samuel, his steps surer as he maneuvered the hall and stairs.
Samuel was at his elbow. “I can’t convince you to lie down?”
“I’m not tired,” Marcus groused. “What happened?”
“You tell me. One minute, I was afraid I’d have to shoot the foreigner. The next, I see his own man club him with the butt of a pistol and two ruffians drag him off to Barnard’s carriage.”
Marcus slumped on the entry hall’s wooden bench. His redingote and hat hung from hooks on the wall. He rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands to clear the fog. He needed to get Genevieve.
“Want some whiskey?” Samuel offered.
“No. Watered-down ale or cider if you have any.”
