The afternoon had faded into evening and, cracking an eye open, she glanced at the bedside clock. She’d been hauled bodily away from Liam almost five hours ago.
Surely if everything were all right, he would’ve returned by now. So would have the others.
Fighting tears, she sat up and returned all of the items to their respective boxes.
She’d ask Liam to lock them in his vault. Except the letters. She’d read them later. When she’d recovered from the shock she’d sustained this day. A body could only take so many surprises in a day.
“Emeline!”
Her breath caught, and she went perfectly still.
Liam. Praise God.
“Emeline,” Liam boomed again. “Where are ye, lass?”
She jumped from the bed and wrenched open her chamber door. “Liam’s callin’ me,” she said unnecessarily to Camden.
With what surely was approval glinting in his eyes, he wordlessly stepped aside.
Not caring who knew her carefully-guarded secret, she tore down the corridor, gown hiked to her knees. At the landing, she pulled up short. Her hand gripping the balustrade, she was suddenly unsure.
Mayhap he only wanted to ensure she was safe.
Except for the Kennedys, his other friends crowded the entry, speaking in low tones.
Yes, he’d kissed her, caressed her, undressed her with his smoldering gray eyes. But he’d never voiced a single syllable that she meant anything to him.
Lady Penderhaven rushed into the entry, immediately followed by Skye and Kendra. She gave her son a fierce hug. “Dinna ye ever worry me like that again, Liam Kirk Fletcher MacKay. I’ve nae doubt I have several more gray hairs after today.”
“The delay was unavoidable,” he said soothingly, before kissing her cheek.
She stepped back, eyeing him from head to toe and scrunched her aristocratic nose. “Really, Liam, dear. Shouldna ye do somethin’ about yer appearance before ye see Emeline? Ye’ll frighten her half to death,” his mother admonished.
Dirt and blood smeared his face and coat, which hung open, one sleeve ripped almost completely off at the shoulder. His bare knee poked from a hole in his breeches and, even from where she hovered above them, she couldn’t miss the bruises and cuts on his knuckles.
He’d never looked more wonderful.
As if sensing Emeline’s presence, he glanced up, seeing her poised to flee on the landing. The distance between them vanished, his eyes entreating her and sparking with emotion.
“Emeline,” he whispered, raw and yearning. He extended his left arm wide, vulnerable and inviting and wholly irresistible.
With a strangled joy-filled cry, she flew down the stairs into his warm, perfect embrace. He grunted as she plowed into him before bracing his arm behind her shoulders and pressing her tight to his chest. Nothing had ever felt so absolutely perfectly right. As if she’d finally come home to rest.
In full view of his mother, sister, cousin and friends, he lowered his mouth to hers. “Mo chroí.”
She closed her eyes, twined her arms around his neck, stood on her toes, and kissed him with everything in her heart. I love ye. I love ye. I love ye.
“I suppose this means we’ve a weddin’ to plan,” Kendra whispered, sotto voce.
“Jealous?” Broden taunted.
“Do be quiet, ye oaf. Yer interruptin’ a romantic moment,” Kendra admonished.
Blushing profusely, Emeline settled back on her heels.
“Indeed,” came Lady Penderhaven’s amused voice. Her breath caught, and she gasped, “Liam?” Panic made her voice strident. “Are ye bleedin’?”
Alarm, icy and shrill, speared Emeline. “Liam?” She retreated a pace, glancing at her blood-dampened gown then spearing a frantic glance to his side. She pulled the coat away, and gasped. “Och, God. There’s so much blood.”
“’Tis…no…thin’, jo,” he whispered brokenly before his eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees buckled.
Chapter Thirteen
Through oppressive, unyielding layers of fog, wool, and draft horses’ wide arses sitting on his eyes, Liam struggled awake. Damn, but his limbs felt leaden, his tongue huge and swollen, and his mouth was as dry as soot and tasted as if swine had mucked about inside.
So damned weak.
He couldn’t even lift his arm.
The last thing he remembered was kissing Emeline in front of everyone before everything went black.
“Wh—” A harsh croak emerged from his raw throat.
What he wouldn’t give for a drink of cold water. Husbanding the strength to pry his eyelids open, he peered out through the weighty slits. Sticky with sweat, he lay in his bed, a lamp burning low on the mantel. A banked fire glowed in the hearth, and something godawfully heavy held his legs immobile.
Prince?
As if sensing his master had awoken, the dog lifted his head and thumped his tail.
With supreme effort, Liam swallowed and tried to speak again. “What the hell happened?” he said to himself. Eyes gritty and throat shredded as if he’d gargled glass, he’d never felt so wretched in his life. He almost gave up and sank back into blessed oblivion.
Och, Gagneux stabbed me. That sod would threaten Emeline no more. Liam had seen to that.
“Holly hell,” he hissed, as searing pain radiated across his torso when he tried to sit up.
He closed his eyes, until the wave of agony passed. Tentatively, he brushed his fingertips across the bandages encircling his ribs. Coming in contact with the wound, he winced, cursing the Frenchman to the seventh layer of hell.
The merest noise to his right made him turn his head.
His breath lodged in his throat at the wonderous sight. Fast asleep and fully dressed except for her shoes, Emeline lay curled on her side facing him, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting on his arm. Her rich bronze hair fanned across the pillow, and her breathing deep and steady, she slept the slumber of the exhausted.
Because she’d been caring for him?
He rather liked the idea. Liked it a great deal, in fact. He thought his heart might burst so full of love was he.
In sickness and in health…
He took in the soft hand curved around his upper arm, as if, even in sleep, she’d need the physical contact. How could he have not felt her hand the instant he awoke?
A frown drew his brows together.
What in God’s holy name was she doing in his bedchamber? If discovered, there’d be no escaping the scandal. Even if he had every intention of asking her to become his wife.
“Emeline?”
Her sooty eyelashes fluttered before ever-so-slowly inching upward. Her sleep-clouded, dark honey-colored eyes cleared instantly, and she surged upward, worry and fear washing over her features. At once, she pressed her hand to his forehead, closing her eyes for a blink.
“Och, thank, God. Yer fever has broken at last.”
Such relief weighted her raspy words, he had cause to wonder how long he’d been ill.
He caught her delicate hand in his. “What happened? How long have I been abed? What time is it?”
“Shh, dinna tire yerself.” She placed a finger on his lips, and he kissed the tip. She blushed prettily. “’Tis early evenin’.”
“What day?”
Hesitating for an instant, she replied, “Thursday.”