Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily mingle they,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
—Sir Walter Scott, “Hunting Song”
St. Stephen’s Day dawned grey and overcast, a fitting counterpoint to Margaret’s mood when she woke. Listlessly, she nibbled her toast and sipped her chocolate, though both tasted oddly savorless this morning. The aftereffects of too much wassail, perhaps. In the end, she pushed them both aside half-finished.
Tilda helped her into a navy-blue day dress that, on closer inspection, looked almost black in the wan morning light. Staring at her reflection, Margaret had the uncanny sense of being in mourning again, the somber hue of the dress leaching the color from her face and emphasizing the faint shadows under her eyes. With a shudder of distaste, she turned away from the mirror and asked Tilda to fetch the rouge.
Once the necessary repairs had been made, she headed downstairs. There was usually chaos on a hunt morning, with people dashing in to wolf down breakfast before hurrying outside to mount up. And today was no exception; as she approached the breakfast room, Hugo and Alasdair—both in riding dress—strode past her with only the hastiest of greetings. Outside the door, she hesitated, wondering whom she might find there. Sternly admonishing herself not to be a coward, she went in.
The man she half-longed, half-dreaded to see turned from the window as she entered, and her heart gave a painful little start. He looked well enough, if a trifle pale, in a dark green riding coat, black trousers and riding boots. Better than she did, Margaret thought with a faint twinge of resentment. Sleep had eluded her for most of the night; she had told herself firmly that it was not because she’d grown used to Gervase’s presence in bed beside her. As she’d said last night, they’d been lovers for only a handful of days. Hadn’t she slept alone for almost two years?
“Good morning.” Did her greeting sound a touch tentative?
“Good morning. Would you care for some porridge or kedgeree?” He gestured towards the sideboard with its silver chafing dishes; as always his company manners were impeccable.
The thought of either made her slightly queasy this morning. “No, thank you. Just tea, for now.” She crossed over to sit at the table, poured herself a cup from the silver service.
Gervase picked up his own cup from the window ledge, glanced without interest at its contents, then turned to set the cup down on the table. “I suspect there are several uneasy stomachs this morning, thanks to the last night’s punch.”
Including mine, Margaret thought, but she knew that her own malaise had little to do with wassail and everything to do with how they’d left things between them. She took a sip of tea, hoping the hot liquid would dissolve the knots in her stomach. “Gervase, about last night...”
His face grew still more expressionless at her words, and she swallowed, her eyes stinging. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to quarrel—”
“We have not quarreled.” A trace of warmth crept into his voice, his eyes, though his posture remained formal. “We are friends, still. But... we both have much to think about.”
She nodded, mutely accepting the olive branch. I missed you last night, she wanted to say, but that was hardly fair, given that it had been her decision that they sleep apart. A change of subject seemed in order. “So, how many of you are riding out this morning?”
“All the men, your brother included. Juliana and, much to my shock, Madeline.”
“Really?” Surprise startled a laugh from her.
“She yields upon great persuasion—and partly to remind Hugo not to take foolish risks on the hunting field. Elaine is staying behind, along with Mother and Alicia.”
“Very prudent, given her condition.” Margaret was glad that her sister would not be hunting, either. Riding was not among Alicia’s strengths, and Reg, as single-minded on the hunting field as he was everywhere else, would have scant time or inclination to look after her.
“Indeed. However, if you wish to come, there’s probably still time for you to change.”
Margaret shook her head; the days when she’d tried to impress Hal with her riding were far behind her. “I haven’t hunted in years. Besides,” she added, smiling, “I was once tactless enough to voice the hope that the fox would get away.”
“Not a popular opinion with sportsmen,” Gervase agreed, his mouth softening in an answering smile. “Although I personally have no objection to such an outcome, being less enamored of blood sports than some members of my family.” He consulted his watch and retrieved his hat from the window ledge. “I should be going. The others will be gathering in the courtyard about now.”
Margaret pushed her teacup away and stood up. “Let me see you off, then.”
They went out together, close but not touching. Gervase made no move to offer his arm, and she did not know whether to be relieved or sorry. She kept her hands at her sides and told herself to be grateful that their friendship was intact.
The sound of dogs barking greeted them as they stepped into the courtyard. The Middletons had arrived, their hunting pinks vivid in the grey dawn, and the foxhounds milled about underfoot, a seething mass of tan, black, and white, eager to begin the chase. Unexpectedly, Margaret felt her pulse quicken. While she was largely indifferent to the object of the hunt, she had to concede that there was a certain thrill in riding out on a crisp winter morning, with the pack in full cry.
“My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,” Gervase quoted softly.
And she smiled at him, constraint forgotten for a moment. “I never heard so musical a discord, such sweet thunder...”
Over the next quarter-hour, as more hunters assembled, the courtyard swarmed with riders, horses, and dogs. Margaret stood on the steps, alongside the duchess, Elaine, and Alicia, watching as the rest of the house party mounted up. She had to admit it: a Lyons man on horseback was an impressive sight, whether it was the duke—his seat as erect as a young man’s—mounted on his sturdy bay, or Gervase, who had just swung himself fluidly into the saddle of a rangy dun. The feeble sunlight turned the horse’s tawny coat to pale gold, a dramatic contrast to his dark mane and tail.
A short distance away, Reg sat astride his black horse, pointedly ignoring Jason perched atop his new acquisition, which was snorting and stamping in the cold. Even in the gloom, the chestnut’s coat shone like molten copper. Impossible not to wonder if the frictions of last night still existed among the men, Margaret mused. Gervase must surely wonder the same. She caught his eye, saw a corner of his mouth curl up, the faintest flicker of a dimple, and he touched his riding crop to the brim of his hat in an ironic salute. The gesture warmed her, and she smiled at him, wishing him an enjoyable day in the field—even if she still hoped for the fox’s escape.
The women of the family looked equally good on horseback. Juliana, as fearless as her brothers, was mounted on a lively, dapple-grey mare, while Madeline, wearing a resigned expression, was on a placid bay gelding that looked half-asleep.
Augustus rode into the courtyard now, on a red roan with a hint of fire in its eyes. Meeting Margaret’s gaze, he inclined his head in a cool, slightly amused nod that made her seethe inwardly. She mustered a thin smile for form’s sake, and looked away, preferring to focus on just about anything else.
Like the footmen now circulating with the stirrup-cup. Flushed with cold, their breaths clouding the wintry air, the riders eagerly quaffed the small measure of spirits, toasting to the day’s success. Then, following a blast upon Sir George’s horn, the hunt rode out, their horses’ hooves seeming to echo on the cobblestones even after the last rider passed through the gate.
Margaret smothered a sigh, and turned back towards the house with the other women.
“Almost two hours and no sign of a fox yet,” Hugo reported, glowering at the scarlet-clad backs of their leaders, fruitlessly combing the coverts for the desired quarry. An occasional whine or growl drifted back to them, betraying the hounds’ frustration.
“Maybe they’re sleeping off Christmas dinner too?” Alasdair suggested with a grin.
Hugo grunted in annoyance, but Gervase fought a smile, gazing off into the distance to conceal his amusement.
On leaving Denforth, they’d ridden south and east, deeper into hunting country. Stubbled fields stretched before them, bleached to the color of straw beneath a weak winter sun. But the current absence of snow made conditions favorable for hunting, though Gervase would have been just as content to remain at Denforth. Still, being outdoors, in the open air, might clear his head—and give Margaret the time she needed to consider his proposal.
It wasn’t over. Until the day she replied with an unequivocal “no,” he would continue to wait... and hope.
“View halloo!” The cry echoed across the field.
And to a man, Gervase observed, the hunters visibly revived, discontent yielding to excitement. The pack broke into full cry, and just like that, the chase was on, hounds, horses, and hunters surging after their long-sought quarry.
Hugo, grinning broadly, spurred his grey forward, determined to catch up with the riders at the forefront. Gervase and Alasdair followed at a more moderate speed, keeping the leaders within sight but not rushing to overtake them.
The hunters raced over the fields, the most daring of them leaping hedges and fences with reckless abandon. Gervase wasn’t in the least surprised to note Reg among their number and their father not too far behind him. The duke had been a tireless hunter in his youth, and even now gave a good accounting of himself in the field, not even regretting his aches the following day. Gervase’s sisters were also visible: Juliana further in front than Madeline, but both women successfully keeping up with the pack.
A tall chestnut thundered past at a full-out gallop, its rider lurching in the saddle like a sack of laundry. With a start, Gervase recognized his younger brother, face taut with strain, lips drawn back over clenched teeth as he clutched the reins.
“By God!” Alasdair panted. “That’s a spirited beast!”
Perhaps a little too spirited, Gervase thought with growing alarm. While his father and Reg preferred to be out in front and had established their dominance in the field years ago, Jason was comparatively new to hunting. Granted, he might have improved markedly as a horseman since Gervase had last seen him, but even so...
He urged the dun onward, following in Jason’s wake. Despite the current hostility between them, he did not want the whelp to break his neck.
The dun’s long legs soon closed the distance between them, but the chestnut continued his headlong rush, determined to overtake the leaders. Other hunters galloped past them, sparing not a glance for the white-faced youth struggling vainly to control his mount.
“Jason, pull up!” Gervase shouted as he pulled alongside his brother at last.
“I—can’t!” The wind tore away the gasped reply.
Gritting his teeth, Gervase kneed the dun forward and again caught up with Jason... just as a hedge loomed up before them.
Gervase swore as he saw the chestnut’s muscles bunch and gather in readiness for the leap. And just at that moment, Jason lost his grip on the reins, lunging frantically for them as the chestnut rose into the air. The dun, only half-a-stride behind, took off as well, soaring up and up... and Gervase leaned over, grasped a handful of cloth, hauling his brother back into the saddle with a wrench that made the muscles in his shoulder scream in protest.
Winded, Jason collapsed onto the chestnut’s neck as they came down, but before Gervase could right his own balance, something rammed into his horse’s side. The dun staggered, fighting to regain his footing, and Gervase felt himself falling, the unforgiving ground rushing up to meet him.
St. Stephen’s Day was also Boxing Day, and the duchess, every inch the gracious chatelaine, presented servants and tradesmen with gift boxes, inviting the latter inside for cups of mulled cider. If last night’s scene had disturbed her—and Margaret couldn’t imagine that it hadn’t—no sign of anxiety or strain showed on that still-beautiful face.
The last tradesman had just left the Great Hall, when Margaret heard the sound of voices coming from outside, accompanied by the clatter of horses’ hooves.
“It sounds like they’re back,” Elaine observed with surprise. “But it’s barely noon...”
The duchess frowned, half-rising from her chair, when the front door burst open, and the entrance hall filled with noises: a housemaid’s shriek, a startled exclamation from Lydgate, and the heavy tromp of booted feet.
The duke’s voice rang out imperatively over the tumult, “Fetch a doctor at once!” Then, even more loudly, “Helene!”
But Her Grace was already in motion, her skirts billowing behind her as she made for the doorway. Margaret followed hurriedly, a nameless dread forming about her heart, barely aware of Alicia and Elaine at her heels.
The duchess halted so abruptly that Margaret almost collided with her. Peering around the older woman, she took in the sight of several grim-faced men bearing a hurdle between them. Her gaze dropped automatically to their burden... and everything inside of her—blood, breath, and heartbeat—froze.
A green coat, stained with mud or worse. Bronze-brown hair, framing a still—too still—face streaked with blood. So much blood.
A distant roaring filled her ears. She was dimly aware of the duke striding forward to catch his wife by the shoulders, the duchess demanding to know what had happened, her throaty voice gone shrill and strident. Of the pale, tense faces of the returned hunters. Of Juliana visibly fighting tears as she turned her face into Madeline’s shoulder. But her own gaze remained fixed on the man lying motionless on the hurdle.
Open your eyes, she willed him silently. Move. Say something.
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not.
It might have been his voice, laced with sardonic amusement, murmuring in her ear.
The room swayed, swimming in and out of focus, and she felt her knees buckle.
“Meg!” Alicia’s voice, sharper than she’d ever heard it, and then a hand closed about her arm, steadying her. Gratefully, she leaned against her sister, still not taking her eyes from her lover’s limp, bloodied form. They bore him barefaced on a bier...
The duke’s voice sliced through the fog shrouding her senses. “The doctor’s been sent for.” He stepped in front of the men, blocking Margaret’s view of the hurdle. “Take Lord Gervase—take my son up to his chamber.”
Margaret stared at the closed door, willing it to open, yet dreading what would happen once it did. Fear hung like a pall over the corridor, where the whole house party—except the children—had gathered, a fear intensified by the memory of another riding accident, another badly injured son of the house...
Despite her own distraction, Margaret noticed that Madeline and Elaine had both sought comfort in their husbands’ arms, that the Whitboroughs were standing together, united—for a change—in concern for their child. Jason looked haunted, Reg grimmer than usual, and Augustus... well, if her brother felt any satisfaction over this horrific turn of events, he was at least concealing it behind a polite mask. Alicia had remained at Margaret’s side, her presence an unexpected comfort.
Just then, the door opened, and a dozen pair of eyes turned towards the doctor, a lean, fair man perhaps in his forties. The family physician had retired some years ago, Margaret recalled.
“A severe concussion,” Dr. Marshall reported, his somber gaze sweeping over them all. “No broken bones that I can discern, but he was badly bruised, and I have had to stitch the cut on his scalp.”
Margaret’s heart remembered how to beat again, and she exhaled shakily, feeling almost sick with relief. Scalp wounds—those always bled copiously, looked much worse than they were. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
“But he will recover, yes?” the duchess asked, her voice huskier than usual.
“Lord Gervase is young and strong. But he will need complete rest,” the doctor temporized. “And peace and quiet.” He paused, frowning abstractedly. “Of the most concern to me is that he has not yet regained consciousness. That often happens with a concussion, but if he does not revive within the next day or so...”
Margaret shivered, not wanting even to contemplate the possibility.
“He will,” Whitborough predicted, steel in his eyes and voice. “It would take more than a knock on the head to keep a Lyons down. And from the sound of it, my son’s injuries could be far worse.”
“True enough,” the doctor conceded. “However, I would caution everyone not to take them too lightly. Someone should be with Lord Gervase at all times—”
“Someone will be,” the duchess cut in. “He will never be unattended.”
Marshall nodded in approval. “Excellent. I’ve prescribed a tonic for the pain, and I’ll return tomorrow to check on the patient. But if his condition should worsen before then—”
“We’ll send for you at once,” the duke finished. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Marshall. I’ll see you out.”
A collective sigh of relief shuddered through the corridor in the wake of the doctor’s departure. Margaret leaned against the nearest wall, thanking God and every saint she could remember with silent fervor. Elaine swayed slightly, and Alasdair steadied her at once.
“All right, mo chridhe?” he asked tenderly, stroking her hair.
“I am, now,” she assured him. “Thank goodness Ger will recover! How did he ever come to fall in the first place? He’s not one for taking foolish chances on the hunting field.”
“He isn’t,” Reg interposed, his voice harsh. “Unlike a certain scrub showing away on a horse he couldn’t control—”
“Reginald!” the duchess said sharply, even as Jason gasped as though he’d been struck.
“It’s true, Maman.” Reg raked the boy with a contemptuous stare. “Gervase was injured trying to keep him from breaking his worthless neck.”
“Bastard!” White-lipped, red-eyed, Jason spat at his brother, “I wish it had been you!”
“He should have let you fall,” Reg countered stonily.
Anger surged up in Margaret like a tidal wave. “Will both of you just stop?” she exploded, pushing away from the wall and striding into their midst.
The feuding brothers stared at her in shock. Margaret swallowed and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to back down. Mindful of the man lying unconscious in the chamber behind them, she lowered her voice but spoke no less intensely, “Nothing is more important now than Gervase’s recovery. So, keep your quarrels, your recriminations, and your petty grievances to yourselves! They have no place in a sickroom.”
She could feel them all staring at her now, too astonished even to be offended. In other circumstances, it might have been comical. Stifling her anger, she continued more evenly, “My younger stepson suffered a concussion a few years ago, falling out of a tree, so I have some experience in tending this sort of injury.” She turned to Gervase’s mother. “Duchess, I would like to take the first watch, if I may.”
Her Grace regarded her in thoughtful silence for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Yes, ma chere, I rather think you should.”
For the first time in his life, Gervase’s welfare became the primary concern of his family. And he wasn’t even conscious to appreciate the irony. The thought was like a knife thrust deep into Margaret’s guts every time she looked at him, lying there so silent and still, his face almost as white as the bandage wound about his head.
His parents loved him, in their way. It was merely Gervase’s misfortune that they expressed it so poorly, through a combination of neglect and manipulation that might have warped a weaker man. It said something for Gervase’s own strength of character that he hadn’t been fully twisted awry by their mistakes, that he still cared for them as well, although Margaret suspected there were times when he wished he didn’t.
The Whitboroughs had sat with Gervase in their turn, though the vigil exacted a heavy emotional toll on them. Both had paled at the sight of him, the duke abruptly quitting the room after only fifteen minutes. The duchess stayed longer, but never spoke, sitting mutely beside her son’s bed, her hand covering his. Margaret suspected that Her Grace’s thoughts had flown back in time to another bedside, where Hal had succumbed to his injuries. And perhaps she was also haunted by all the things left unsaid and undone where Gervase was concerned. In less charitable moments, Margaret rather hoped so, though she could still find it in her heart to pity the woman who’d already buried two sons.
Gervase’s sisters were more than willing to help. To sit with him, so Margaret could nap or take some refreshment... although she did not like to be away from him for long. Farnsworth, who almost never left his master’s side, accepted her presence with equanimity, and possibly appreciation. Margaret was likewise grateful for the valet’s loyalty and unshakable calm, especially as the hours dragged on with no sign of change. And as the day drew to its close, that became the hardest part for her to bear. Seeing his face, slack in its unconsciousness, with no glimmer of the formidable intelligence behind it.
Dawn found her sitting at his bedside again, rubbing her tired eyes and fighting back the memory of another still face on a pillow: Alex’s, when all hope had been lost. But she would not let those fears conquer her now. Youth and strength were on Gervase’s side, and by some miracle, he did not appear to have suffered internal injuries beyond the concussion.
So, why wouldn’t he wake up? It had been more than half a day. Charles, by contrast, had been insensible for only a few minutes after sustaining his concussion.
According to Farnsworth, Gervase appeared slightly more responsive today—or at least, not as deeply unconscious. Studying her lover’s still-wan face, Margaret hoped that wasn’t wishful thinking on the valet’s part. Strange how empty the room felt, without even a hint of its owner’s personality to enliven it. The sound of his breathing, while reassuring, was less comforting than it might have been. She longed for him to wake, to say something, however acerbic. Or profane—who would have thought she’d yearn to hear Gervase swear?
She closed her eyes against the hot pressure of tears. Gervase... all the years of friendship and camaraderie that she’d taken for granted. And the things she’d just begun to discover about him: his skill as a lover; the kindness concealed behind the razor-sharp intellect and equally sharp tongue; the care and forethought he put into choosing gifts; and the deeply ingrained family loyalty that had led him to risk his life for his spoiled younger brother.
Despite her resolve, tears seeped from beneath her closed lids. She dashed them away, opened her eyes, and rose, a trifle stiffly, from her chair. This wasn’t over. There was a battle to be waged—and won. And she would fight it with every weapon at her disposal.
Gervase’s sisters had spoken to him yesterday—as had she—in low, hushed tones appropriate for a sickroom. But if Farnsworth was right, and he was trying to find his way back to them, perhaps he needed a stronger stimulus.
Engage his mind. Wondering why she hadn’t thought of this sooner, she headed for the bookcase, scanning the shelf directly at eye level. Several familiar names leapt out at her, but it took no more than a split second to make her choice. Who better than the Bard to reach Gervase?
Book in hand, she returned to his bedside. “Good morning, my dear,” she greeted him, not loudly but at a volume closer to normal speech. “I thought you might like to be read to. That’s what I do for my stepsons when they’re feeling poorly. Mind you,” she added as she resumed her seat, “their tastes aren’t quite as elevated as yours. I hope you appreciate being spared the latest blood-and-thunder piece from Boys’ Own.”
Margaret settled more comfortably in the chair, the volume of Shakespeare on her lap. Should it be the sonnets, or a play? The latter would be more entertaining, she decided; maybe one of the comedies, or Hamlet, which they both knew well. On closer inspection, however, she discovered that he’d marked his place with a faded strip of silk. Curious, she opened to that page—and choked back an almost-hysterical giggle. Of course. What else would it be?
She bent a severe gaze upon her prone lover. “Very amusing. If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’d chosen that page deliberately. As it is, I hope you understand what a major concession I’ll be making. And I reserve the right to skip the boring parts.”
She turned back to the page and cleared her throat. “Richard the Third, Act One, Scene One. Now is the winter of our discontent / Made glorious summer by this sun of York...”
She read on into the morning. At one point, Farnsworth came in to check on his master, but did not appear to disapprove of what she was doing. Shortly after, he set a tray holding a pot of tea and a jar of honey on the nightstand and withdrew discreetly. Margaret gratefully partook of both; the hot, sweet liquid soothed her throat and made it easier to continue reading.
Gervase was right about the play being brilliant theater, even if the historical inaccuracies made her want to gnash her teeth. And whenever Shakespeare’s villainous Richard was onstage, the scenes fairly crackled with demonic energy. She was even sorry when his schemes unraveled, and the ghosts of his victims appeared to him on the eve of Bosworth Field, predicting his defeat and enjoining him to “despair and die.”
“I shall despair, there is no creature loves me. / And if I die, no soul will pity me...”
The words, unexpectedly poignant, clogged in her throat, and the page blurred before her eyes. She closed them, all the pent-up emotions of the last day catching up with her at once, her longing for Gervase’s voice and presence a soul-deep ache.
You are loved, Gervase. You are wanted. Come back. Come back to me.
I love you.
The sound, when it came, was so faint that it barely registered with her at first. Until the words reached her ears, spoken haltingly and no louder than a whisper, but still intelligible.
“Nay, wherefore should they... since that I myself... find in myself no pity to myself?”
Hardly daring to hope, Margaret opened her eyes—and saw his gazing back: blue-grey as woodsmoke, unfocused as a newborn infant’s, but open. Better than open, present. The mind that animated and informed them had returned.
She stifled a wild urge to weep. “About time you woke up.”
Gervase exhaled, a jagged sigh, his brows furrowing in what must be a hellish headache. “Might... live to regret it.”
Not if I have anything to say about it. “Here.” Margaret reached for the bottle and spoon on the nightstand, relieved to see that her hands shook only slightly. “Tincture of willow bark—I know it tastes awful, but Dr. Marshall said it would help with the pain. He didn’t want to prescribe opiates for a concussion.”
Obediently, he swallowed the dose she gave him, though his mouth twisted at the taste. She poured him a glass of water, held it to his lips as he drank. Greatly daring, she brushed back the hair that fell in a disheveled shock over the white bandage. The ends were tacky with dried blood; fastidious as Gervase was, he would hate it if he knew.
“Do you remember... what happened?” she probed gently. The doctor had suggested that they ask, once Gervase was awake. Memory loss was one complication of a concussion.
He closed his eyes, frowning. “Hunt. Fell off my horse.”
Margaret breathed out a relieved sigh. “Yes. You were trying to keep Jason from losing his seat going over a jump, but another horse rammed yours on the way down.” She knew the details by now, thanks to the other hunters. An image rose in her mind of Gervase falling, buffeted by hooves on the ground, trying to cover his head and face with his arms...
She swallowed, then resumed quickly, “Your head’s the worst of it—fortunately, we all know how hard that is. And you’ve got some magnificent bruises—most of them hoof-shaped. Rather miraculously, nothing’s broken.”
“Rolled... like a jockey.”
“Yes, I heard.” And she thought it had shortened her life by a good ten years, but she wasn’t about to tell him so.
He took a careful breath, mind working behind his closed lids. Then, “Jason...”
“He didn’t fall, Gervase—you made sure of that. And he’d damned well better be grateful for it,” she added tartly.
His mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “Nice to have... a partisan.”
“I think it’s high time you had one.” She drew a shaky breath, reached for his hand. “Sorry. I don’t mean to chatter—or babble. It’s just... you gave us all such a scare.”
“Gave... myself one too,” he admitted, wincing as he opened his eyes.
“So I should think.” She stroked his hair again with her free hand. “Your family’s been here, you know, keeping vigil. Do you want to see any of them?”
His hand closed on hers with surprising strength. “Not... yet. Just you.”
Margaret blinked stinging eyes, her heart almost too full for words. “All right.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Finish—the play?”
She gave a put-upon sigh, eliciting the faintest of smiles from the patient, and picked up the book again. “Oh, very well. If you insist.”
By the time Richard had met his end, shouting for a horse, Gervase’s eyes had drifted shut again, and his breathing had assumed the steadier rhythms of sleep. But the face on the pillow, while relaxed, was no longer wholly oblivious or remote.
Smiling softly, Margaret closed the book and set it aside, before leaning forward to touch her lips to his brow.
He would live. He would recover. For now, that was enough.
That was everything.