Page 69 of Duke of Gold
As he reached her, his eyes caught the flicker of movement—a serpent gliding through the grass, its sinuous body vanishing into the undergrowth near the chestnut’s trembling hooves. The sight filled him with cold dread, but he forced his focus back to Margaret, who lay crumpled and still on the ground.
She stirred slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips, but her face was pale, and a dark smear of blood marred her temple. Panic clawed at Morgan’s chest as he knelt beside her, gathering her carefully into his arms. “Margaret,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not respond. Morgan’s throat tightened as he cradled her against him, his mind racing.
In the distance, he heard the hurried approach of footsteps. The grooms and stable hands appeared, their faces pale as they took in the scene. “Take the chestnut away,” Morgan barked, his voice sharp with command. “Now.”
The men moved swiftly, calming the panicked horse and leading it away while Morgan rose to his feet, Margaret still held securely in his arms. His movements were quick, purposeful, but his heart ached with every step as he began the trek back to the castle.
“Send for the doctor,” he ordered one of the footmen stationed near the stables as they reached the courtyard. “At once!”
The man dashed off without hesitation, leaving Morgan to carry his wife inside. His hold on her never faltered, but with every passing moment, the fear that he might lose her—the one bright, constant presence in his life—grew stronger.
“Stay with me, Margaret,” he whispered, his voice a raw plea. “Stay with me.”
CHAPTER 32
“She has suffered a concussion, but fortunately, it is not severe,” the physician said, his tone calm but firm as he addressed Morgan in the dimly lit study.
Morgan stood rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And she will recover fully?” he pressed, his voice low but tinged with urgency.
“With rest and the prescribed medication, Your Grace, she will be well,” the doctor replied. “I have administered a pain remedy, and she is presently asleep. Bed rest is essential during the coming days, but I do not foresee complications.”
Morgan exhaled, though the tightness in his chest barely eased. “Thank you,” he said, the words clipped but sincere.
“I have also instructed Mrs. Hallewell on her care,” the physician continued. “I shall return in the morning to assess her condition, but should any concerns arise before then—though we ferventlyhope they do not—please send for me immediately, no matter the hour.”
Morgan nodded curtly. “You have my gratitude,” he said as the doctor took his leave, offering a final bow before departing the manor.
Left alone in the study, Morgan hesitated for a moment before ascending the stairs to his wife’s chamber. The castle was quiet, the stillness punctuated only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant ticking of the hall clock.
When he entered the room, the sight before him stilled his breath. Margaret lay motionless in the grand bed, her auburn hair fanned against the pillow. The soft rise and fall of the blankets over her chest was the only sign of life, and yet it was enough to steady the ache in his heart.
He stepped closer, his boots soundless against the plush rug, and stood at her bedside. The doctor’s words echoed in his mind.Thankfully it wasn’t worse.But the thought offered little comfort. Itcouldhave been worse. Far worse.
He sank into the chair by her side, his elbows braced on his knees as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her pale face. “I’m sorry, Margaret,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with unspoken guilt. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead before pressing a kiss to the smooth skin.
As he straightened, his throat tightened, and a bitter thought surfaced:Once again, I have failed.
He turned and left the room, each step away from her feeling heavier than the last. By the time he reached his study, the sensation of failure had wrapped itself around him like an iron chain. He slumped into the chair at his desk, his head falling into his hands.
He cared for her. That much was undeniable now, though he hadn’t realized the full extent until the sight of her lying still and injured had nearly broken him. Margaret, with her boundless curiosity and warm laughter, had become more than a duty, more than a presence in his home. She was… his.
And yet, he had failed to protect her. Just as he had failed before.
His jaw tightened as the familiar wave of grief threatened to consume him. But he would not let it. Not this time. Perhaps fate had given him a second chance, and he would not squander it.
No, he resolved. He would protect Margaret. Whatever it took.
With renewed purpose, Morgan reached for his quill, the nib glinting faintly in the candlelight. He dipped it into the inkwell and began to write a letter to his solicitor. Whatever measures were necessary—financial, legal, or otherwise—he would see them enacted.
His pen moved with precision, the scratching sound punctuating the stillness of the room. By the time he set the quill down, his determination was absolute. He had failed once, but he would not fail her again.
Margaret’s eyes fluttered open, her surroundings a hazy blur as her senses stirred from slumber. Slowly, shapes sharpened into focus—the delicate details of her room coming into view. Near the window, her lady’s maid stood arranging flowers in a porcelain vase, her movements careful and precise.
Hydrangeas. Margaret blinked, taking in the array of colors—mauve, powder blue, blush pink, and soft periwinkle. They were breathtaking, their blooms full and vibrant.
The sight stirred a faint memory. Hydrangeas… the last thing she remembered was the sound of her horse’s frantic whinny, the jolt as she was thrown, and then Morgan’s panicked voice cutting through the haze. The doctor’s visit felt like a fleeting fragment of a dream.
