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derly woman rose from where she’d been sitting on a nearby chair.
“Thank you, Mistress Medina,” Isabel said as she followed the elderly woman from the room.
The door shut gently behind them.
Megs started toward Godric but was stopped by the harshness of his voice.
“Why,” Godric rasped, “did you bring her here?”
THE PAIN FROM his wrist was nearly overwhelming—sharp, jabbing, even now making the bile back up into his throat. Still, Godric knew his words had been overly harsh. Megs flinched, withdrawing the hand she’d stretched out to him, her beautiful mouth crimping with hurt.
But it was his stepmother who replied. “Please don’t chastise Megs. I insisted on coming here, Godric. You’re hurt and I care for you very much.”
He opened his mouth, pain and irritation driving hot words to his lips, but then he looked at her. She stood before him, this little plump woman, as bravely as a martyr before Roman lions, her chin raised, her warm brown eyes steady but sad at the same time. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t crush the flicker of hope he saw in her face.
Perhaps he simply was too weary.
She took advantage of his weakness, pressing forward. “Let us help you, Godric.”
He pressed his lips together, but the pain flared again in his forearm and he suddenly cared less for argument. He wasn’t sure he could recover from this injury. He’d known men made crippled by breaks in their bones that never healed properly. What, in that context, did any of this matter?
“Very well,” he said warily, rising. His eyes met Megs’s gaze and he thought he saw relief there.
“We’ll need a bonesetter,” she murmured. “I’ll consult Isabel to see if she knows anyone discreet. In the meantime I’ve brought you a change of clothes in case we run into Captain Trevillion again.”
Megs set a bag on the bed and then bustled from the room, leaving him with his stepmother.
“Do you need help to dress?” she asked.
“Makepeace will assist me if I need it,” he said and stood, ready to go find the home’s manager.
She moved next to him, putting her shoulder under his good arm. “Lean on me.”
“That’s unnecessary,” he said stiffly.
She glanced up at him, her eyes sharp. “Then do it for me. Let me care for you, Godric.”
So he did because it was easier than arguing further. She was stronger than she looked, his stepmother, and he stared down at her, puzzled. Why was she doing this?
Her gaze met his, and for a moment she seemed to read his thoughts, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry yourself over it. You always were such a sensitive boy, reading too much into every little thing and making yourself sick over all possible ramifications. For now just accept that I’m helping you to make your way to the hallway.”
He laughed at that, a soft puff of air. “Very well.”
Outside the home’s sickroom, they found Winter Makepeace leaning against the wall. His dark eyes flicked to Godric’s stepmother. “There are … matters we should discuss before you leave.”
Godric glanced down at Mrs. St. John. “I’ll join you downstairs, ma’am.”
His stepmother pressed her lips together but merely nodded before turning away.
Godric looked at Winter. “My wife brought a change of clothes.”
The home’s manager followed him back inside the sickroom and watched as Godric began picking at the buttons on his leggings. “You rescued nearly thirty girls tonight. Six will need to stay abed for some days, but the rest are in fair condition, all things considered. They mostly appear to need decent food.”
Godric grimaced at the thought of little girls deprived of enough sustenance, then remembered the main part of his worry. “Did Alf tell you where the third workshop is located?”
“He did.” Winter frowned and helped him strip out of the leggings. “But I’m thinking they will have moved after your work this night. They’d be fools to stay and wait for your attack.”
“True.” Godric pulled on a pair of black breeches then looked down at his arm, already swollen. Perhaps if he braced it, there would still be time. “If I went out again tonight—”
