Page 57 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

“Perhaps our little stunt will push them to the surface,” Brandon said.

“If that’s the case,” Owen said lightly, “then it was worth it getting beat up. And on the plus side, you got the nurse treatment by your wife.”

“It was quite lucky,” Thumb said somberly, “that your wife was already informed of your little side project. Otherwise, it would take some explaining to do, and not all women would be ready to stomach this.”

Brandon thought of Marigold, the way she sprang into action, how she took care of him while holding back her anger, how she was afraid for him. For the first time after so long, someone cared.

“This is the reason why I find marriage such an inconvenience to our campaign,” Thumb muttered to himself.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Owen chuckled. “There are definitely some upsides to having a wife. For instance, I trust that the Duchess is taking good care of our friend.”

“She is my wife.” Brandon glared again. “It is her duty.”

“Duty,” Owen repeated. “I am certain that she is fulfilling all her marital duties.”

“Unless you want to find out exactly how a broken nose feels, I suggest you keep Marigold out of your mouth.”

Little snorted into his brandy, but Thumb didn’t seem quite as amused.

“All I am saying,” Owen persisted, “is that I have never seen a man quite so happy about being hurt.”

Thumb raised his eyebrow but said nothing. He was watching Brandon with interest.

“The information my wife provided has been invaluable,” Brandon decided to steer the conversation back to business. “We can use it to corner them and see if we can flush them out.”

“Agreed,” their leader said. “But first you need to finish healing. You are no good to us half beaten.”

“Hear that, my friend?” Owen smiled. “You can go back to your wife and recoup.”

And Brandon struggled to hide his smile at that prospect.

* * *

The next morning, Marigold appeared in his room with Beth at her heels, holding clean bandages, fresh water, and the salve.

Brandon was wearing his robe, and he expected her visit. It was somehow a little morning ritual they had, right before breakfast. Beth left the things and excused herself.

“You do not have to do this,” Brandon said.

“I am starting to worry that you got hit in the head, Your Grace,” Marigold replied. “Because you keep saying this every single day, knowing that I will do this no matter what you say.”

Brandon sat back on his bed. It was true. No matter how hard he tried to convince Marigold to call the physician or let someone else take care of his wounds, she wouldn’t budge.

She started with the bandages on his hands, taking them off, cleaning the wounds, and examining them very closely before rebandaging. Then she checked the set of his nose and applied a cold metal that she had left overnight in the ice room.

“This would have set even better if you let me ice it three times a day,” she protested.

“I think I have better things to do than sit around and have cold metal on my face for that long.”

“I am sure you do.” She looked at him strictly. “I bet those thugs down at the docks have already missed their punching bag.”

Brandon chuckled at her cruel comment.

“Glad you find your broken ribs entertaining,” Marigold said. “Open your robe, please, Your Grace.”

“It seems to me that you want to take care of me just because you get to see me shirtless.”

Marigold blushed but didn’t look up into his eyes, coldly examining the bruises on his ribs, applying the salve.