Page 45 of The Major's Mistake
“Angus!”
The big groom quickly gestured for Jem to answer the knock.
“Me!” he squeaked in surprise. “But?—”
“Go on!” whispered Angus. He pointed to his blackened eye. “Mayhap ye can convince her there’s naught to be concerned about.”
“Not bloody likely,” swore the marquess under his breath.
They exchanged baleful looks as Jem scurried to the door and opened it just a crack.
“What is going on?—”
“N … n … nothing, milady. Everything is, ah, just fine. No need for concern,” stammered the young groom.
Miranda tried to peer around him into the darkened room. “Is His Lordship in there?”
“Er, well, yes.”
Her brows came together. “Why?”
“Why? he repeated nervously.
“Yes, that is what I said, Jem. Why?”
“Ah ….”
“Please stand aside. I am coming in.”
To his credit, the lad tried to stave her off. “Well, er, there’s been a slight mishap. The marquess finds he … he has ta stay here tonight.”
There was an ominous pause. “What sort of mishap?”
Jem swallowed. “It seems that one—well, maybe two—ribs are broken, but Angus was able?—”
She sailed past him as if he weren’t there and headed for the two figures seated towards the back of the room.
“How in the name of heaven did?—”
At that moment, the light from her candle flickered over her groom’s face. Though he ducked his head and brought his hand up to rub at his brow, he couldn’t hide the swelling eye and several bruises that were already beginning to turn an ugly shade of purple. Miranda stared at him in utter silence for what seemed to be an age, then turned and slowly moved the candle towards Julian.
He studiously avoided meeting her gaze as she studied his split lip and mottled cheek.
Her eyes then fell to his torn and bloodied shirt. “Perhaps one of you would care to explain this … this ….” She gave up trying to find the appropriate word and simply placed one hand on her hip.
There was no response.
Her eyes narrowed and she thrust the candle hard by Angus’s nose. “I expect an answer from you. What happened?”
Angus drew in a long breath. “Well?—”
“Don’t rake the fellow over the coals. It was my fault,” interrupted the marquess. “We had a difference of opinion over a … certain matter and I suggested we settle it as gentlemen would, in, er, a sporting manner.”
“Gentlemen!” Her tone made them both wince. “Look at the two of you—more like unruly schoolboys I should say.” She gave a harried sigh. “Just what caused this … squabble?”
Julian caught the groom’s eye. “Horses,” he said quickly.
“Aye, horses,” agreed Angus.
