Page 87 of The Unwilling Bride
“No, not dead,” Lord Osgoode said. “She fell trying to escape. I don’t think any limbs are broken, but I fear she struck her head.”
Merrick turned to ice inside. A broken limb could be mended. Tears in the flesh could be sewn. But a wound to the head…Sometimes they were nothing, sometimes they were a slow death. “And the man who tried to take her?”
“I’m sorry to say he escaped, my lord.”
Merrick rose. “Not for long and never from me,” he said, and his voice made Osgoode shiver.
“Take my wife to the monastery,” Merrick ordered as he mounted his horse, his face grimly set, resolve hardening his heart.
He was going to find Henry, who would then discover just how merciless the son of Wicked William could be.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE VOICES WERE MUTED, AS IF they were under water. Or she was.
“It would be best, my lord, if you didn’t disturb her,” a man said. She didn’t recognize his voice, but he sounded learned. Middle-aged.
“I must see her.”
That was Merrick. He was alive! Thank God. But she’d never heard his voice sound like that before. Distraught. Upset.
“My lord, please. I’ve given her a potent draught and we should—”
“Will she live?”
Of course she would. There was no need for him to worry…although it was comforting to think he did worry about her. She was just tired, so tired she couldn’t open her eyes.
“That is in God’s hands, my lord.”
“I must see her before I leave.”
Now he was angry. Impatient. The old Merrick.
Where was he going? To Tintagel? Weren’t they already there?
Where was she?
Maybe if she slept, she’d be more alert when she awoke….
A hand took hold of hers. A rough, calloused hand. A man’s hand. Merrick’s hand, grasping hers so very gently.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, nearly breaking.
Sorry for what? For quarreling? So was she…
She wished she wasn’t so tired. Wasn’t there something she had to tell him? Something important?
“Constance, my love, my love, if you die, I’ll never forgive myself.”
She attempted to open her eyes, but couldn’t. She wanted to open them. What was wrong that she could not?
She tried to tighten her grasp, to move her fingers, but she couldn’t do that, either.
“I never should have married you.”
She lay completely still, too shocked to try to move again.
“I’ve lied to you, Constance,” he whispered, his voice in her ear as he leaned close, his breath warm on her cheek. He smelled of sweat and leather and…blood.
