Page 95 of His Duchess to Remember

Malcolm laughed softly. “I ken ye, love. A bit of gravel caught me, that’s all.” He nodded toward the horses. “And I got a shove from those beasts, but I’m fine. They didn’t stamp on me.”

“I have a scrape!” Simon said suddenly, as if he wanted to be part of it.

With a gentle authority, Hugo took hold of his nephew’s hand as Evelyn took the other, and said, “Let us go into the house and get that scrape cleaned, while your mama helps your papa.”

“No!” Simon tried to argue, but Evelyn swooped in.

“The cook will be baking bread at this hour. Maybe, she will give you a currant bun for being so brave.”

The child seemed to consider the idea, and nodded. “I will come with you, Auntie Evie.”

With a nod to Octavia, Evelyn and Hugo led Simon toward the soft lights of the house, leaving Octavia and Malcolm alone on the driveway. Meanwhile, the driver rather sheepishly got back onto the driver’s bench and began to guide the carriage toward the stables, carefully maneuvering around the couple.

“You could have been killed,” Octavia rasped, her hand still pressing the handkerchief to his cut. “I could not have borne it if… anything were to happen to you.”

“And I couldn’t have borne it if anything happened to our boy,” he replied gently. “I don’t ken where the lad was hiding, but he really did appear out of nowhere. It’s lucky I saw him when I did.”

Breathing hard, Octavia could not get herself to calm down. “I have never been so angry with him. I almost shouted at him.”

“Aye, I’ve learned that that can happen when ye’re still feeling the fear of what could have happened,” he said, as he brushed a lock of hair out of her face. “But we’re both fine. I promise.”

“You are bleeding,” she murmured, her voice hitching.

“Have ye seen how many scars I have?” He laughed softly. “A little blood is nothing to me.”

She took hold of his hand and began to pull him toward the manor. “Come, let me tend to you. I cannot fix this with a handkerchief. I cannot see what other harm has been done to you out here.”

“It’s nothing, love,” he urged, but she was not listening, determined to get him inside where she could see for herself.

I almost lost you. The thought circled around and around in her mind, making her realize just how foolish she had been, to be scared of loving him. Living with that faint fear was endlessly better than living without him; it had just taken a brush with death to teach her that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It had been years since Malcolm had been invited into Octavia’s bedchamber, and he had never been invited into this one. Indeed, the last time he had set foot in here, she had been most insistent on him leaving at once.

“There really is nay need for this,” he said, as she steered him toward the bed and urged him to sit down. “I can tend to it myself. I have a needle and thread; it’ll be easy enough to sew it closed if it’s too deep.”

She shuddered and walked off to a chest of drawers, where she pulled out a wooden box and brought it back over. A moment later, she was crossing the room again to fetch the basin of water.

“I wish Doctor Stanforth was still here,” she mumbled, taking a seat beside him.

“Mr. Lincoln has gone for the village doctor. He’ll suffice.” Malcolm tried to take her hand. “Ye don’t need to fret, love. All I need is a glass of brandy, and I’ll be fine.”

She freed her hand and, shaking violently, she soaked a clean cotton cloth in water and reached up to dab at the wound on his head. He had no idea how bad it was but, judging by the panic on her face, it was not pretty.

“If ye think this is bad, ye should’ve seen the day I got a bayonet through the stomach,” he said, meaning to joke to help her relax, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

More color drained from her face as she swiped and prodded at the cut. It hurt more than the injury itself, but he did not show it; he did not want to make her feel worse than she likely did already.

“I used to get cuts like this every day,” he insisted. “If ye weren’t bleeding by the time ye got back to camp, yer brothers-in-arms would wonder what ye’d done with yer day. Ye’d get called lazy.”

Still, she did not laugh. She did not smile. She did not speak. She just concentrated on cleaning the wound, trembling all the while.

“Off with it,” was all she said, before she grabbed his white shirt and lifted it up and off him.

He sat there, wondering how on earth he could get her to calm down, as she searched his upper body for any signs of injury. One of the horses had put a hoof on his shoulder when he was already on the ground, but then it had immediately withdrawn it. With any luck, the bruise would not be showing yet.

Seemingly satisfied, Octavia returned her attention to his forehead. With clumsy fingers, she pressed a wad of cloth to the cut and then wound a length of bandage around his head, tying it a little too tight.