Page 49 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

“Goodnight, Your Grace.” He bowed to Marigold, flinching, before turning to Brandon. “As for you, I hope you die.”

“Owen!” Marigold did not appreciate the jest.

The door closed, and now, they were alone. She still avoided looking at him. She just went to the bathroom to change the bloodied water for fresh water. Then she grabbed the bandages and started covering the wounds on his hands.

“Marigold…”

She effectively rendered him speechless by running the warm cloth over the wounds on his face, from his forehead to his cheeks to his nose and his lips. It was careful and precise, but it could not hide the anger underneath.

“You are angry,” he said.

“Hold still. Your nose is bleeding.”

“I can explain.”

“I am sure you can. Now, don’t move.”

Once more, she got up to bring fresh water. Every time the clear water became brownish red from his blood, she became paler.

“You have some blood on your shirt. Let me see,” Marigold said and reached for the buttons of his shirt.

“I will do it,” he suddenly felt warm.

But his fingers were swollen and bruised and uncooperative. He fumbled with the first button before she sighed.

“Let me.”

She undid the remaining buttons with almost clinical urgency, and yet each time her knuckles grazed his chest, he could barely hold still. He had been beaten up by a dozen men, and yet this feather touch was what undid him.

Suddenly, he realized that Marigold was too close, her bergamot scent filling up his nostrils, her loose curls caressing his arm. And she was looking at his bare torso with more than worry and care.

“This will definitely need something cold,” she said and grabbed a metallic box.

She placed it on his ribs where a bluish bruise had started to form. If she bit down on her jaw anymore, it would break.

“I am fine. I assure you, I am unscathed and—” he tried.

“Unscathed?” Marigold finally snapped and looked at him, eyes blazing. But he could tell it was not just anger. It was fear and worry tangled together in an explosive mixture. Marigold knew what he was after, but to see her so worried about him?

“You have deep cuts all over your hands and your body. Your nose is broken and perhaps one of your ribs, and you call this unscathed? Were you deliberately trying to make me a widow before you even made me your wife?”

“I did not think…”

“Clearly.”

It was the first time that Marigold had spoken to him this way, and if it weren’t for the tears ready to fall on her cheeks, he would be very happy with the development.

“It was supposed to be just reconnaissance. I needed to see how they would react.”

“Violently,” Marigold almost barked. “And I could have told you so from the safety of our dining room. Now, if your purpose was to see how many would be there to attack again, I would inform you using something called common sense that there would be more than two people could handle.”

“Your husband is hurt,” Brandon chuckled, “and you deploy sarcasm. How heartless of you, Your Grace.”

“Not as heartless as what you have done.” Marigold’s hands became a little rougher. “You walked into danger without any consideration for me.”

“I needed to know⁠—”

“And I needed my husband to come back!” Marigold’s composed mask slipped.