Page 78 of Duke of Myste
The effect, though, was immediate and dramatic. Richard spun around with such speed that he nearly knocked over the side table, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and residual fear that made her heart clench with sympathy for what he must have endured while she was unconscious.
“Jane!” He was at her side in an instant, his hands hovering over her as though he wanted to touch her but was afraid she might break. “Thank God! How do you feel? Are you in any pain? Can you see clearly? Do you remember what happened? Should I call for the physician again? Perhaps we should?—”
“Richard,” Jane said softly, though even that small effort made her head pound. “Breathe, my love.”
Richard paused, his chest rising and falling with the rapid rhythm of barely contained panic.
Jane felt a surge of affection for this man, who had apparently spent the last day and night worrying himself into a state of near-hysteria on her behalf.
“I am all right,” she continued, offering him what she hoped was a reassuring smile even though her head felt like it was on the verge of splitting open. “Or at least, I will be. Though I confess I feel as though I’ve been trampled by a rather large horse.”
The weak attempt at a joke fell flat as Richard’s expression grew even more stricken. “Jane, I am so sorry. If I had?—”
“Richard,” Harriet interrupted gently, moving to stand beside her brother. “Perhaps we should let Jane tell us how she’s feeling before you begin apologizing for acts of God and natural disasters.”
Jane turned her attention to her sister-in-law, noting the way Harriet’s usually immaculate appearance also showed signs of strain and sleeplessness. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Nearly two days,” Harriet replied, setting the tray she had been carrying on the bedside table. “Dr. Whitmore said that head injuries could be unpredictable, but that your pulse and breathing were strong. He was quite optimistic about your recovery, though he did warn us that you might feel rather dreadful when you first woke.”
“Dr. Whitmore,” Jane commented dryly, “is clearly a master of understatement.”
She tried to sit up, but the movement sent such a sharp spike of pain through her skull that she immediately thought better of it, sinking back against the pillows with a soft gasp.
“Don’t try to move too quickly,” Richard advised, his voice tight with concern. “The physician said you need to take things slow for the first few days.”
“I’m fine,” Jane insisted, though the weakness in her voice suggested otherwise. “Just… hungry. Terribly, impossibly hungry.”
It was true. Beneath the headache and general feeling of having been thoroughly battered, Jane was aware of a gnawing emptiness in her stomach that suggested she hadn’t eaten in quite some time.
“Of course!” Harriet exclaimed, immediately reaching for the tray. “I brought broth and toast—things the physician said would be easy for you to digest. Here, let me help you sit up a bit.”
With tender care, she and Richard worked together to prop Jane up against several pillows, their movements so gentle and coordinated that Jane found herself marveling at how well they worked as a team when focused on her care, rather than their usual bickering.
The smell of the beef broth made her mouth water, and she reached eagerly for the bowl Harriet offered, only to pause when she noticed Richard had retreated to his chair and was simply watching her with the intensity of a man observing a miracle.
“Aren’t you going to eat as well?” she asked, noting the second bowl and plate on the tray.
“This is for you,” Harriet replied carefully, though Jane caught the meaningful look she shot her brother. “He has been… less than cooperative about seeing to his own needs.”
Jane studied Richard’s face, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the sharp angles of his cheekbones that seemed more pronounced than usual, and the way his clothes hung slightly loose on his frame. The man had clearly neglected himself while he focused entirely on her recovery.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, setting down her spoon with deliberate precision. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I’ve quite lost my appetite.”
“Jane,” Richard protested immediately. “You need to eat, darling. Dr. Whitmore explicitly said?—”
“Oh, I agree,” Jane interrupted, folding her hands over the blanket with the air of someone settling in for a lengthy negotiation. “Eating is absolutely essential for recovery. Which is why I find it so concerning that my beloved husband appears to have forgotten how to perform this basic human function.”
Harriet made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh, while Richard looked genuinely bewildered by the sudden turn in conversation.
“Jane, this is hardly the time for?—”
“Harriet,” Jane cut in, turning to her sister-in-law with a smile that was part genuine warmth and part mischief, “would you be so kind as to bring another tray? One for the stubborn duke who seems to think that love means martyring oneself through starvation?”
“It would be my absolute pleasure,” Harriet replied, her eyes dancing with amusement as she headed toward the door.
“And Harriet?” Jane called after her. “Make sure to bring a large portion. He looks as though he hasn’t eaten properly in days.”
As soon as the door closed behind Harriet, Jane turned her attention back to Richard, who was staring at her with an expression of mingled exasperation and reluctant admiration.
