The doctor turned to him. “I tell the truth. No fever and no infection a day after the injury is positive. But medicine is more art than science. She might still die.” He returned his attention to Sophie. “You might still die.”
She did not know what to say, so she settled on “Oh.”
He extracted more tea from his bag and set it on the bedside table. “I wasn’t sure if you’d need more than a few days’ worth. But I’m feeling more hopeful.”
Sophie imagined that should make her feel more certain of her future. But on the heels of his other statement, she wasn’t entirely sure.
The doctor went on. “Continue with the tea—this blend will keep you more awake than the last—and be certain to keep the wound clean.” He set a pot of honey on the table next to the herbs and turned to Eversley. “The honey is essential. Apply after every bath.”
She might have argued that the assignment was given to the man who had become a rather prickly thorn in her side, but she was distracted by another, far more tempting word. “I may bathe?”
The doctor turned back to her. “Of course. Preferably daily, in clean, hot water. And summon me immediately if you begin to feel ill or if the wound changes appearance.”
That sounded as though they could not leave. “When can we leave?” Everyone looked to her, each person more shocked than the next.
“You are in possession of free will, Mrs. Matthew,” the doctor said. “However, I would hope to keep you nearby for at least a week.”
“A week,” she groaned. She had planned to be north within the week. Beginning her future.
“You do not care for our little town?”
Her gaze settled on Eversley. He had to get north, too. “A week is a long time to linger,” she said. “My husband”—she ignored the warning in his eyes—“and I have much to attend to in Cumbria.”
The doctor shrugged one lanky shoulder. “Then leave.”
“Not until she is healthy.” Eversley cut in. “When will we know she’s healthy again?”
The doctor stood, gathering his things. “When the wound heals and she’s not dead.”
Eversley appeared to want to strangle the surgeon. Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He returned the kindness. “I trust that, whenever you leave, I will see you again, Mrs. Matthew.” He moved to leave, stopping to nod once at Eversley. “Mr. Matthew.”
“I shall see you out,” Mary said, doe-eyed, following the handsome man’s heels.
Sophie watched as the door closed. “Well. I have never met a man who makes one feel so very grateful to be alive in the moment.”
Eversley scowled at her. “Why do they call us Matthew?”
“For my footman.” The last word was lost in a yawn that she hurried to hide.
Eversley blinked. “You mean my footman.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Whichever. His name is Matthew. I used it in the mail coach.”
“And I pronounced us married.”
“Which was a silly thing to do.”
“Yes, I’m realizing that now that I’ve been named for a footman.”
“A good one,” she said, yawning again. Exhaustion seemed to be taking hold.
“A terrible one,” he said, approaching her and helping her lie back against the pillows. “If he were any good, he would have told you he didn’t speak to ladies of station and returned to his work. I’ve a fair mind to seek him out and put a bullet in his shoulder, as without him, you would be intact.”
Was he concerned for her? “I am intact,” she said softly, ignoring the pleasure that threaded through her at the idea. Ignoring the idea itself. “If in need of a bath, apparently.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean that you stink.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Be careful, my lord. There are only two ways for that to go. The first way, you offend me. The other way, you are a liar.”
There was a pause as she drifted into slumber, when she was awake enough to hear him. “Why do you travel north? What’s there?”
“My bookshop,” she replied, thoughts barely taking hold before they poured from her lips. “Mossband . . . sticky buns . . . Robbie.”
“Robbie?”
“Hmm?” It was difficult to keep up with the conversation.
“Who is Robbie?”
Memory came, hazy and welcome, blond hair and ruddy cheeks. Her friend. The only friend she’d ever really had. “We’ll marry,” he’d promised once long ago.
She smiled. It would be nice to marry a friend. Perhaps he’d love her. It would be nice to be loved. Perhaps they’d marry. Perhaps they’d be happy.
After all, they’d promised it all those years ago. She’d said it, too. “We’ll marry.”
She repeated the words now, aloud, the Marquess of Eversley watching over her.
Chapter 8
SOILED S SCHEDULE:
WAKE . . . WASH . . . WOO?
Night fell, and King let her sleep for several hours before summoning a bathtub and cold water, and then, once she grew restless beneath the sheets, hot water. Once steam rose from the copper tub and the women who’d carried the pails had been paid, he waited for Sophie to wake.
He watched her from his place leaning against the wall of the small room, his focus on her face in the candlelight as she came out of her deep sleep, the comfort of slumber giving way to the pain of her shoulder. The pain of reality.
He wondered if his father was dead yet.
Agnes’s missive had been urgent. It was possible King was already the Duke of Lyne. Possible that he’d lost his final chance to have the last, punishing word with the man who had so roundly punished him.
Who had ruined his chance for family. For happiness. For love.
A memory came, unbidden, King in the Lyne hedge maze, his father behind him, revealing its code. “Two lefts and a right, then one left and a right. Until the center,” the duke had said, urging him forward. “Go on then. To the center.”
King had led the way, and at the center, his father had told him the story of Theseus and the Minotaur. “Who are we?” King had asked.
“Theseus, of course!” the duke had crowed. “Great heroes.”
King came off the wall at the memory.
Heroes. What a fucking lie.
He moved to stand over Sophie. He could not spare time for this girl, who was turning out to be a cyclone of scandal. London called her the plain, boring Talbot girl. He huffed a little laugh at the thought. If they could see her now, bullet wound in her shoulder, sleeping under an assumed identity in a pub in the middle of nowhere.
There was nothing boring about Sophie Talbot.
She was to be married.
Why in hell hadn’t she told him that from the beginning?
King knew about women who wished to marry for love.
He’d been the love in question, once.
Who was Sophie’s love? If she was escaping London in exile, with specific plans for a future with this Robbie fellow—though King questioned the precise manliness of a grown man who used the name Robbie—why hadn’t she said so?
Robert was a better name for her husband. More forthright. More likely to care for her.