Page 25

Mal

A piercing ache throbbed in Malcolm’s temple. Egads, it felt as though he’d been run over by a draft horse. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to sort through the fog thicker than any Scotland mist that had settled over his mind. He lifted a hand to his forehead and rubbed.

Och. Fook .

Pain sliced through his temple, stealing the breath from his lungs. He slowly prodded the tender skin, clearly swollen, very raw. What the bloody hell happened? He shifted slightly, wherever he was lying creaking under his weight. And where was he?

Recollection hit him, and his eyes flew open. He blinked against the harsh light of day. Bloody hell, the transport. They’d just arrived at Devonford. Without incident. Until…

His eyes fell closed again. The stallion had done well with Malcolm.

They’d realized immediately that it would have to be Malcolm, and Malcolm alone, who handled the horse.

The minute Wright had stepped in the horse’s direction, panic had seized the beast. But he seemed to calm with Malcolm’s lulling song.

Malcolm had been able to get him inside their cart, the one with a makeshift stall built on it.

And he’d sang the entire journey to Sussex.

But when they’d gotten to the castle, there’d been too many people, too many who didn’t understand how to handle an animal as terrified and tortured as the stallion.

A blur of flying hooves flashed through his mind.

A blow to the chest. Not being able to get air in his lungs. And that was all he remembered.

A light snore sounded from his side. His brows crashed together, and he turned.

To where a rose-gold-haired woman lay sleeping next to him.

Lydia . His heart melted in his chest, warm and sweet as drinking chocolate.

He reached for her, his fingers pushing back the few strands of hair that had fallen loose from her simple chignon.

He traced a pad of his finger over her cheekbone, gently coasting over the dark circles under her eyes. His heart stuttered. Tired lass .

“Mallie boy.”

The soft, familiar baritone filled the chamber, and his gaze shot to the door of his small room.

“Port,” he croaked out.

Porter hurried to him, retrieving a glass of water from the side table on his way. “Here, wet your mouth with this. Just a mite, mind you. Once we have you sitting up, you can have more.”

Porter held the glass to Malcolm’s mouth and tilted it carefully. Blessed water slipped over his dry lips, and glorious moisture flowed over his leaden tongue. His gaze stayed locked on Porter’s, hoping his mentor understood the question running through his mind.

“The Duke sent word of a Bentley servant injured. Your Countess knew it was you. We were on the road nigh an hour later. The Earl insisted I accompany her. Knew we both would want to get to you as quickly as possible.” Porter dragged a weathered hand down his face.

“I hadn’t realized when you said I had nothing to worry about with you and the Countess, Mallie, that it was because the Earl himself approved of the relationship. Deuced odd, if you ask me.”

Malcolm turned to the sleeping woman next to him. She must be extremely uncomfortable. She was in a chair beside his bed, cheek resting on her crossed arms on his bedside. She hadn’t moved an inch, even with his light caress and his and Porter’s conversation.

“She’s right exhausted, son. Sick with worry over you. When she first saw you lying here, still as the dead, broke my heart clean in two. That woman loves you something fierce.”

“Aye, Port. I love her something fierce, too.”

Her eyelids twitched subtly, then her lashes fluttered lightly. She blinked, dazed, shoulders rolling and stretching. Her gaze lifted and locked onto his, still murky with sleep. And then they flashed clear, and she snapped straight.

“Malcolm!”

Her hands flapped wildly around him. Like she didn’t know…

“I’m afraid to touch you in fear of hurting you,” she said despairingly.

He gently took her hands and brought them to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss first to the right and then repeated the same on the left.

Her lips tightened, her face twisting into a pretty grimace. A tear, then another, then another, leaked free from the inner corner of her eye, trailing down her nose.

“Och. Dinnae greet, lass. All is well,” he managed hoarsely.

She nodded, and her lips turned up the slightest amount at the corners, but a few more tears broke free. She turned to Porter. “Let us get him sitting up. Get him drinking some water.”

They assisted Malcolm to a seated position, which made it very clear that he’d suffered a nasty injury to his chest and ribs.

Egads, sharp, blinding pain. But through it, he studied his lass.

Absorbed every detail. Her pale skin was mottled red, eyes marred by dark circles, puffy and swollen, hair a frazzled mess, an imprint of the coverlet still lining her cheek.

She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

And that was when he noticed her garb. A serviceable dress…a maid’s uniform.

“Are you… Are you dressed as a maid?” He accepted a glass of water from Port and sipped slowly.

“Yes,” she said, her voice weak. “To hide my identity. I couldn’t come retrieve you without raising questions. And the minute I saw you… There’d be no doubt of my feelings for you. I needed to disappear into the background.”

The side of his mouth tugged up, and a chuckle rumbled from him. A needle-like pain lanced through his side, and he winced. Broken rib was right. He dusted the backs of his knuckles down her cheek and let out a low purr at how lovely her petal soft skin felt.

“You disappear? That’s no’ possible, mo chridhe. You could disappear as easily as a bonfire in the night. You burn far too brightly.”

Her blue-green irises melted before him, like the calm waters of the sea.

“Besotted fools. The both of you,” Porter grumbled.

Lydia lifted a hand to cover her grin, a watery laugh escaping her. And Malcolm couldn’t prevent himself from chasing that smile with his thumb, running the pad over those silken lips. Lips he was dying to kiss.

Lips that had just gone ominously flat.

“Speaking of fools. Malcolm Campbell, your horse-thieving days are over.” Her brow set in a hard line, eyes sparking. “I should have spoken up the first time. I won’t let you put any of us through this again. You are much too valuable. I know it is important to you, but it is not worth your life .”

“You best listen to the lady, Mallie. I know this gives you purpose. But you do no one, horses or people alike, any good if you’re dead.”

“And I spoke with Freddy. He is extremely displeased—”

“Och, aye!” He lifted his hands in surrender. He glanced between the two, still glaring daggers at him. “Aye, Lydia. Aye, Port. My raiding days are over.” He turned to Lydia, his words turning as soft as his heart. “My life has purpose in a different way now. ‘Tis too great a treasure to risk.”

A throat cleared in the doorway. “If I may be so bold…” The Duke’s low baritone filled the room, and Malcolm’s gaze snapped to his.

“If you ever hear of such instances in the future—ones that would have led to these raids—perhaps you could inform me. There may be things I can do with my influence. And it would allow for you to continue helping those horses.” His gaze flitted to Lydia and back. “Without risking so much.”

“Aye, Your Grace. I would gladly send word your way.”

“Excellent. The doctor just arrived and will be down momentarily. I am glad to see you’re awake and well, Mr. Campbell.” With a clipped nod, he turned to leave.

“Your Grace?” Malcolm called after him. The Duke paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“The stallion… How does he fair?”

The Duke’s stern expression eased, his lips curving faintly. “Well. Safe now. He has a long road ahead of him, but he’s in good hands here.” His gaze lingered for a moment. “I respect a man who protects those unable to protect themselves, Mr. Campbell.”

And with that, he left.

The man may be young—och, over a decade younger than Malcolm—but he was every inch a duke.

“All right, let’s have this doctor look you over, Mallie,” Porter said. “I think it’s about time we get you and your Countess home.”

“Aye,” he murmured, catching Lydia’s tired gaze. “Home.”