Page 108 of The King's Man
Kit took a breath and forced himself to look up into Morton’s eyes, holding them with his own.
‘She’s my wife, Morton. She married me. Even if I die, you have no hold over her.’
‘You’re lying!’
Morton bent his fingers back with such ferocity that this time Kit lost consciousness. From somewhere a long way away he heard a bellow of rage and the sound of a fist on bone.
Released from Morton’s grasp, Kit slumped back against the wall. He fought for some control over the agonising pain in his hand, but it consumed him. Dimly he was aware that the shadows in the room leapt and danced without clear substance. He heard voices and scuffling and grunting and a woman screamed. There was more scuffling, and then silence.
A shadow bent over him and he flinched as a hand rested on his shoulder.
‘He’s made a pretty mess of you in a few short minutes, Lovell.’
‘Jem!’ Kit said, aware that he struggled on the edge of consciousness. It would so easy to let himself go, to sink into oblivion.
‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
Jem’s strong arm circled his shoulders, pulling him upright into his strong grasp with surprising gentleness.
Chapter 34
Thamsine sat by May’s girl’s bedside and looked down at the tear-stained face of the sleeping girl. The physical bruises would heal but the memory of her encounter with Morton would stay with her forever. Who knew how many other women had been victims of Morton’s sport?
She blamed herself. She had brought this man into May’s life, and May had paid the price of Thamsine’s freedom.
Nan appeared at the door, holding a candle.
‘How is she?’ she asked.
Thamsine looked up at her friend. All Nan’s brashness seemed to have leeched from her. She looked tired and spent.
‘Asleep at last,’ Thamsine said.
‘Jem’s downstairs,’ Nan said. ‘He went back for Lovell.’
Thamsine gathered up her skirts and ran down the stairs to the taproom, where Jem stood by the fireplace staring into the dying embers of the day’s fire.
‘Where’s Kit?’ Thamsine asked.
Jem jerked his head at the large oak settle beside the fireplace, where Kit sprawled like a broken puppet. Her heart in her mouth, Thamsine knelt beside her husband and held the candle up. Even in the dim light of the fire, she could see blood on his face, one eye already closing and swollen, and a cut and bruised lip.
For a moment she thought he was unconscious, but his un-blackened eye opened and he managed a crooked smile.
‘Your face, Tham! Do I look that bad?’
‘What did he do to you?’ Thamsine asked, her breath tight in her throat.
Kit’s left hand moved to his face. ‘This … this is just bruises. It’s my hand,’ he muttered faintly. ‘My sword hand.’
For the first time, Thamsine noticed that his right hand was tucked inside the front of his jacket. With shaking fingers she undid the jacket and, holding his forearm, lifted out his hand. Kit gave a strangled groan and tensed back against the settle, his jaw locked as he fought the pain.
Thamsine’s stomach churned when she saw the damage. Nan let a low whistle. ‘Looks like it’s been through a meat grinder,’ she said. ‘What’d he do?’
‘He trod on my fingers,’ Kit muttered between gritted teeth.
‘Trod on them? Looks like he took a hammer to them,’ Nan said.
Thamsine stood up. ‘He needs a chirrurgeon.’
