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Memory tumbled into place. He’d fallen from his horse after being shot. The fall explained why his entire body was so sore. He lifted his left hand, gingerly feeling the right side of his chest.

He was trussed up in a thick layer of bandages. More recollection returned. The ghastly carriage ride . . . Lady Wexham . . . her hand upon his . . . the soft touch of her fingertips on his forehead . . . her whispered words of encouragement when he’d truly felt he was at the end.

He took in his surroundings, having no recollection of how he’d arrived back in his bed in London. It must be dawn by the dim light penetrating through the narrow window.

He wore only his small clothes. The light covers were drawn up to his chest. His mouth felt dry. He looked over to see if a pitcher of water had been left by his bed.

Excruciating pain shot through his shoulder at the movement. There
was a pitcher of water and a glass on the table. As he debated trying to raise his right arm, there was a soft knock, and his door opened. William peered in. Seeing him awake, the footman entered, a smile splitting his face.

“How are you feeling? Lady Wexham wanted me to check on you first thing to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” he croaked. “Just some pain.”

William felt his forehead. “A mite warm. The doctor said there could be fever. Would you like some water?”

He gave a bare nod. “Yes, please.”

William propped his head up and touched the glass to his lips.

“Thanks. Just what I needed.”

“How’s the shoulder feel?”

He made a rueful sound. “As expected, I suppose. Did they get the ball out?”

“Yes, sir. I was here, helped the surgeon.” He grinned. “The way he dug around in there, you’re lucky you were passed out. But he found it, left it for a souvenir, he said.” He nodded toward the table. “He says you should be all right as long as you stay put.”

William pulled up the chair and sat down, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Jacob told us a band of brigands appeared from nowhere just alongside Stanmore Common after Bushey Heath. What do you remember?”

Rees rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Yes. They came upon us, took us unawares.”

“Jacob said you spurred your horse and charged at them.”

A sound of scorn issued from Rees’s lips. “No . . . I had hoped to draw at least one or two away from the chaise to give Jacob a chance to outrun them. But it was a vain hope.” He looked at William. “Did Jacob say anything more about it?”

William leaned forward. “One o’ them searched the coach, and even demanded to search Lady Wexham herself! He said they were frogs, couldn’t understand a word they said.”

“Yes . . .” Rees did not elaborate. He hadn’t been able to think
about it, but now he wished to be alone to ponder it all. Where had they come from? Hartwell. He thought of Monsieur de la Roche.

Had he hired some thugs to go after Lady Wexham? What had he been looking for? It was definitely a specific item. What had she taken? He didn’t remember if they had stolen any of Lady Wexham’s valuables. He would have to ask her.

Would she come to see him? He feared and longed for it.

Céline waited as long as she could before going down to MacKinnon’s room. If she’d had her way, she would have been down at dawn—would have sat up the whole night with him. Thankfully, her sister-in-law was not in residence, so Céline did not have to dodge Agatha’s acid remarks about any concern she showed for her temporary butler.

By nine o’clock she was standing outside MacKinnon’s door. It was ajar, and she knocked softly.

“Come in.” At the sound of his voice, a wave of relief swept through her, so vast she had to clutch the doorjamb a moment. His voice, though weak, sounded normal.

Her heart beating erratically, she pushed open the door and went in, unsure of what she’d see. He was half-propped up on a few pillows, the covers draped to midriff. The white bandages covered most of his bare chest, but she couldn’t help but notice the wide set of his shoulders and his muscular biceps now that she was no longer fearing for his life. She wondered fleetingly what he did in his “real” life.

“Good morning,” she said, her gaze drifting up to his, her lips curved upward in a tentative smile.

“Good morning, my lady.” He attempted to sit up farther.

She hurried forward, pushing him gently back. “Please, don’t disturb yourself. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

Releasing him, warmth enveloping her cheeks, she stepped back and clasped her hands before her. “Has anyone been to see you this morning?”

“Yes . . . I’ve been well taken care of, thank you, my lady.”

She noticed an empty bowl and spoon beside the pitcher and glass on the small table. “Good, I’m glad someone brought you breakfast.” She cleared her throat. “How are you feeling?” No one had been to shave him, however. A dark stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, the same dark shade that sprinkled what was visible of his chest.

His mouth crooked upward on one side. “As well as can be expected, I suppose, for someone who had a surgeon ‘digging around in there,’ as William put it.”

She returned the smile. For a few seconds, joy and light filled her after a night of darkness and recriminations. “Are you in very much pain?”

He shrugged and immediately winced. Suddenly they both laughed.

“Oh—that hurts,” he said, his laughter breaking off.

She brought a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you more pain.”

He shook his head. “It was worth the pain.”

As he continued looking at her, she thought of their kiss. Was he thinking the same?

To mask her growing awareness of him lying there half-naked, his hair sleep tousled, she leaned forward, inspecting the bandaging. “I’m glad the wound hasn’t reopened. The doctor said he would be by today to see how you fared. Perhaps some willow bark tea will help ease any discomfort.”

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble. I’m sure in a few days I can be up again.”

She drew back, sorry that his tone was once more that of a butler, his face a mask. She folded her hands in front of her and returned his look steadily. “Most certainly not. You are to be abed at least a fortnight.”

His straight dark eyebrows drew together. “I’m sure that’s not necessary. It’s a mere flesh wound.”

“Are you questioning Mr. Simmons’s treatment? I’ll have you know
he is a member of the Royal College and an attending surgeon at Guy’s Hospital.” She was hard-pressed to maintain her stern expression at the look of chagrin on MacKinnon’s face. Mercilessly she pressed her advantage. “My dear sir, you almost died, and we shan’t risk a fever or your wound reopening if you go about trying to do your household duties.”

Her voice gentled at his expression of dismay. “Your duties can wait a week or two. William is perfectly capable of undertaking most of them. I don’t plan on entertaining, so there will be no extraordinary tasks—”

“Not on my account, my lady, I hope.”

He looked so disturbed, so she strove to reassure him. “Dear me, no. I find myself so fatigued after the rigors of Hartwell, I have no desire to give any dinner parties or balls, for a month at least.” If she was even alive in a month. She hid a shiver. Now that MacKinnon was out of danger, she had to turn to her own survival and that of Valentine and Gaspard.

His expression told her he wasn’t half-convinced but would not dispute with her.

She eyed his small table crammed with porridge bowl, book, water pitcher, and glass. “I shall have William bring you a larger table to place things at your reach, and perhaps a lap desk when you’re up to it. Would you like some fresh water?”

“That’s all right. I can pour it myself . . . or someone should be by in a bit . . .”

She shook her head at him. “Are you afraid I don’t know how to pour a glass of water for an invalid?” At the startled look in his eyes at the reference to “invalid,” she laughed. Picking up the glass, she took it to his washstand and dumped it out in the large bowl. Returning to his bedside, she refilled it from the pitcher. “Is this water fresh?”

“Yes, Virginia brought it this morning.”

“Good.” As she replaced the now full glass on the table within reach, she sought for something else to detain her. She didn’t want to
leave so soon. She’d have little reason to visit him again until perhaps the surgeon arrived.

She picked up the black, leather-bound book and flipped it open. It was a Bible. “Perhaps you’d like some more books to while away the hours.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I . . . have that Bible, as you see.”

“Yes, I see.” She remembered how fervently she’d prayed for him the day before and smoothed the cover with her palm, gazing at him. “God was merciful to you.”

They looked at each other a few moments. “Yes, He was,” he answered softly.

She sighed, feeling a sense of peace at his words. “But you shall have many hours to fill before you may get up. If this is all you have to sustain you, I fear you shall try to get up before you are able.”

“It is my daily bread.”

She considered his quiet, sure tone. The God he believed in and the one she had cried out to the day before sounded like two different entities. “Perhaps a few novels could serve as dessert then,” she quipped.

“You sound like your late queen.”

She raised her eyebrows then inclined her head in understanding, “Ah, ‘let them eat cake.’” Satisfied at the glimmer of amusement in his gray eyes, she pressed her advantage. “Do not fear, Mr. MacKinnon, I shall give you nothing to injure your sensibilities or corrupt your morals. Perhaps some poems by Scott, edifying and entertaining at the same time.” She paused. “In return, perhaps you can tell me about this God you feed upon daily.”

His eyes scanned hers. “It . . . would be my pleasure.”

Afraid of what he might read in her eyes, she looked down at her hands. “I prayed for you yesterday. I feared you wouldn’t make it—you’d lost so much blood.” She halted, finding it hard to continue. “I hadn’t truly asked God for anything since . . . I lost someone dear to me.” Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her eyes, meeting his once more. “God did not spare his life.”

MacKinnon’s regard did not waver. “I did not think He would have spared mine.”

She swallowed painfully. “Yet He did.”

“Perhaps He heard your prayer.”

She shook her head, looking away, afraid he’d see the sheen of tears. “I don’t know. There was no reason for Him to do so.”

“Perhaps you could read me some of the Scriptures. It’s difficult for me to hold a book right now.”

“Of course.” She rushed forward with the heavy Bible. “Where would you like me to read?”

“Ah . . . perhaps a psalm. I have much to be thankful for.” As she sat down and opened the book, he said, “Psalm 103 is a good one of thanksgiving.”

She flipped through the pages, remembering her studies at boarding school. Finally she found the indicated psalm and began to read the verses. “Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy name.”

As she read the words, she marveled at their meaning. “Who healeth all thy diseases . . . the Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy . . . like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.”

When she finished the psalm, she sat back, feeling a deep satisfaction. It had expressed what she hadn’t been able to express in words.

“Thank you.”

MacKinnon’s words startled her. For a moment she had been alone . . . with her Lord and maker. “You are most welcome. You were correct; the words were very comforting,” she ended, feeling her description inadequate.

“I have found everything I need in times of trouble or hardship, as well as in thanksgiving and joy, in that book.”

Her gaze rose to his and she wondered if he were speaking to her or merely of himself. Was he alluding to the danger she found herself in? How easy it would be to confess all to him and ask for his help.

But what could he do? He was still in a vulnerable position. It would have to be she who protected him now.

With effort, she closed the Bible and set it back on the table. With a smile and brisker tone, she said, “I shall remember that. Now, my library is overflowing with reading material, so it would be no trouble for me to bring you a few novels and lighter fare.”

“I have noticed your library.” If he noted her deliberate change in topic, he made no sign. “Do you like to read? Or . . . was it the late earl?” He hesitated at the last question.

“Yes, I like to read very much. I must be one of Hookman’s most assiduous patrons since I am always bringing home stacks of books.”

He nodded, his gray eyes attentive.

Afraid he was tiring, she searched her mind for something to say before excusing herself, but instead he filled the silence. “Was anything of yours stolen yesterday?”

The horror of yesterday returned. “No, nothing,” she said with a shake of her head. “I had no valuables to speak of,” she added. “Valentine is bringing my jewelry case. I have sent a messenger this morning to warn them to travel better armed.”

He nodded. The fingers of his left hand plucked at his blanket, and he looked away from her. “Was—did the scoundrel make it . . . very unpleasant for you . . . when he . . . er . . . searched . . . your person?”

He had asked her the same thing yesterday. Perhaps he didn’t remember. She blushed once again, more at his obvious concern and the discreet way he was asking her than from the indignity of the act itself. “No . . . that is, he . . . behaved in a . . . a gentlemanly manner despite being a . . . brigand.”

His eyes met hers as if to assure himself that she spoke the truth. “Good.” The word was curt. “They were French.”

Once again, he’d managed to throw her off balance. “Who?” she asked carefully, realizing MacKinnon had now had time to think about the holdup and its significance. She would have to tread carefully.

“The ‘highwaymen.’” The way he said the word sounded as if he didn’t believe they were.

She rubbed her chin, pretending to consider his statement. “Yes, yes, they were, weren’t they?”

“Don’t you find that odd?”