Page 23

Lydia

Devonford Castle

“He is down this way. I had him set up in the servant’s quarters in the Castle instead of the stables. It’s quieter, calmer. I thought it’d be better for his condition.”

Lydia and Mr. Porter followed silently behind the Duke of Devonford as he led them down a massive hall of the castle. Lydia kept her chin down, staying slightly behind Mr. Porter. She’d changed into a maid’s clothing, and they’d agreed it made sense for Mr. Porter to handle all interactions.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I cannot adequately express our gratitude, nor that of the Bentleys, for your hospitality and benevolence in caring for one of our own,” Mr. Porter said.

“Speak nothing of it, Mr. Porter. Any man who rescues abused horses is a man deserving of saving in my eyes. Regardless of station.”

Lydia peeked at the young handsome Duke from the corner of her eye.

Such seriousness at the young age of two-and-twenty.

But he’d inherited young, and she supposed sometimes life required one to grow up fast. And she thought it spoke greatly to the kind of man he was, that he himself led them personally to an ailing servant.

They traveled down a stairwell and then turned down a hall, until finally, the Duke paused before a closed door.

“He’s in this room here. As it’s nearing midnight now, the doctor won’t be back until morning. The two rooms next to this gentleman are available for you to occupy.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mr. Porter said and hurried to drop his and Lydia’s valises on the hall floor near their rooms.

The Duke quietly pushed open the door and stepped inside the small room. “I can give you a brief summarization of what the doctor has determined of his situation,” he murmured softly.

But Lydia’s mind stopped working. It stopped processing the gentleman’s words.

Because right there in the center of the room, on a bed too small for a man his size, lay Malcolm.

She was distantly aware of Mr. Porter at her side.

At the Duke’s words drifting in and out.

Things like “broken ribs” and “nasty bruise” and “laceration”.

Her hand shot out, blindly, needing something, anything to steady herself.

Her fingers encircled a wrist, and she held on for dear life.

Because Malcolm was so terrifyingly still. Deathly still.

A throat cleared. “I will allow you some privacy. If there is anything you need, my butler, Baldwin, is the last room down the hall.”

Mr. Porter gently guided her into the room, and she was vaguely aware of the Duke leaving, but her eyes never left the too-still man before her. Her Scot, her big braw Scot. Somehow appeared small. Vulnerable.

“My lady,” Mr. Porter said softly. “Why don’t you sit? I’ll pull up a chair by his side.”

She nodded absently and allowed her stable master to settle her in the chair by the bedside. Her gaze tracked over Malcolm’s face. Soft in sleep. Not overly pale. A large red mark started at the side of his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. It was raised, but neatly stitched and clean.

Her hand fluttered over him, not sure where to land. She finally settled on carefully pushing his dark locks back off his brow. Her eyes slid shut, ice-cold fear shooting through her. No response at her touch.

Nothing.

She turned to Mr. Porter, his gaze taking stock of the man before them as well. She hated the worry she saw tightening the old stable master’s brow. The pinch to his mouth.

His dark stare clashed with hers. “He’ll be all right, my lady.”

“How do you know that, Mr. Porter?” She glanced back at Malcolm. “He’s so still,” she said faintly.

“Everything the Duke said was positive. His injuries are minor, apart from the one to his head. And I know Mallie, Lady Bentley. The boy has been utterly devoted to you since the moment he laid eyes on you.” Lydia’s gaze flew to Porter’s.

“Now that he finally has your love in return? There’s no force on earth that could keep him from you. Sheer will alone will see him through.”

She swallowed thickly and turned back to Malcolm. She gathered his large hand between her two small ones. Warm. Blessedly warm. And that small sign of life. It gave her hope.

“I am assuming you will be wanting to stay by his side. I’ll leave your things in here.”

She nodded, lifting Malcolm’s hand to her lips.

“I’ll be in the room next door if you need anything, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible as her lips brushed over the back of Malcolm’s hand.

Footsteps retreated behind her, and then the soft snick of the door greeted her. And then silence.

Her eyes tracked the slight lift and fall of his chest. Her hands tightened around his in a grip she was sure would be painful if he were conscious.

A strangled sob shook her chest. She pressed a kiss to each of his knuckles and then let her eyes fall shut, her nose buried against his skin, shakily breathing in the faint, familiar smell of him.

It was barely there, but the hint of leather greeted her.

“Come back to me, love.”

She cleared her throat and began softly reciting one of his favorite poems—the one he often whispered to her as she dozed in his arms. Arms she wasn’t sure would ever hold her again.

“F-flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.”

Her voice broke, as did a small fragment of her heart.

“My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”