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Chapter Sixteen
“Stay with me, Anne.” Benedict was beside himself with worry as he carried her toward his horse. When the animal danced about from nerves, he clicked his tongue. “Easy, Jupiter. You’ll need to settle, for we must transport a valuable load.”
Perhaps the sound of his voice roused her, but Anne stirred. “Where are we?” She winced as he stumbled. “Why do I hurt? Why is my ankle throbbing?”
“You’ve been in an accident.” He lifted her into the saddle. “Hang on to something. I’m mounting behind you.”
“But we’re in a rather public place, Worthington.” The singsong sound of the words was a testament to the pain she was no doubt in.
Even he couldn’t ignore her twisting his words. Heat climbed his neck. “That we are, but I’ll take care to remain discreet.”
Later.
No sooner had he landed in the saddle than she gave a cry of agony and fell back against his chest. Jupiter made a few anxious steps, but when Benedict manipulated the reins, the horse relaxed. “Quickly now, my friend. To the fairgrounds.” He tugged on the leather and turned the horse about. “Time is of the essence.” Though he wanted nothing more than to land Mr. Davies a facer for what he’d done, such a thing would have to wait.
Fear played icy fingers along his spine as he rode back to the fair with Anne tucked securely between his arms. Blood marred her face and neck from the branches. Though her leather clothing hadn’t been snagged or torn, there was no doubt she suffered from other injuries, perhaps severely. He wouldn’t know the damage done until they’d engaged the services of a surgeon.
This is my fault. I should have gone up with her. Perhaps that might have prevented disaster.
It was an illogical assumption, of course, for he could have done nothing about the fireworks, but it kept his mind off the fact she might succumb to her injuries. By the time he entered the fairgrounds at the edge of his property, it took next to no time to locate the Earl and Countess of Doverton. He didn’t care at that point of the strained relationship between them and Anne; it didn’t matter now.
“Your Lordship, Anne’s balloon went down when the fireworks began prematurely. She’s injured.” Benedict spared her a glance, and his heart squeezed. She was pale, so incredibly pale… He swallowed around the lump of fear in his throat. “I don’t know the extent of internal injuries, but she needs to be seen by a surgeon immediately,” he said without preamble as he stared down at the man. The countess visibly wilted at his side as soon as she saw Anne’s unconscious form.
“We must take her home post haste,” the earl announced but looked about with a helpless sort of air.
“No. It’s too far.” Benedict refused to relinquish her into their care, especially when the chance of the earl lecturing her remained high. “We’ll take her to Worthington Hall. It’s a mile from here, obviously.” Lord Randolph rode up to him at that moment. Oh, thank God. “Augustus, we have need of a surgeon. If you can’t rouse one in Cranleigh, you’ll have to ride on to Chiddingford.”
“As luck would have it, Worthington, I had cause to talk with just that man not a half hour past near the fortune teller’s wagon,” his friend said with a worried look at Anne. “I’ll fetch him and meet you at the manor.”
“Thank you.” Benedict returned his attention to the earl. “Let’s not delay further. I’ll alert my staff to your arrival and have you both shown up at once.” Then he dug in his heels and encouraged Jupiter toward the country lane that would eventually lead to Worthington Hall. “Stay with me, Anne. I’m not ready to lose you quite yet,” he murmured as he pressed a fleeting kiss to her temple.
Good heavens, his fears were coming home to roost, for he’d known the risks of her taking that flight, even with her skill in piloting the balloon. And, of course, that assessment had been correct. Though he hadn’t figured the fireworks would be the cause. That had been low on the list of things that might have gone wrong. Of course, he hadn’t taken human nature into consideration, never thought Mr. Davies capable of wanting to sabotage a competitor’s flight.
I will take him to task, and soon.
The odds of Anne making a decent recovery were grim, depending on what the surgeon said, but he knew her as well as her determination and zest for every aspect of her life. Yet the odds of him having that life with her, a marriage?
For some reason, those calculations refused to come up with a return in his mind. Whether they’d wed came down to fate or perhaps luck, and he had only one of those on his side. She stirred against his chest, mumbling babble he couldn’t understand, and his heart trembled. “Just please stay with me.”
Benedict paced outside the guest room where she’d been placed, for hours it seemed. Or alternately, he kept fitful vigil on a hardbacked wooden chair at Anne’s bedside, for he was adamant that he wouldn’t leave until she regained consciousness.
“This is partially my fault,” he said to her fuming but worried father when they’d nearly come to blows in the corridor beyond shortly after the earl and countess had arrived.
“She’s my daughter, Worthington!” he volleyed back, “As well as my only child now. That right belongs to me.”
Benedict held up a hand, hoping to keep the man from flying into the boughs. “I understand that, but I’m the one who is hoping to take that responsibility from your shoulders.” It was as good as a declaration in front of the whole of society, but there it was. His gut twisted with fear. Would the earl deny his claim?
“While that very well be true, she is still my responsibility,” the earl had argued. Then a shrewd light lit his eyes. “Unless you’d be willing to discuss a betrothal contract.”
Ah, the fences were rushed. “I would, only not now. Once Anne wakes, then we’ll conduct business. Not a second before that.” He ushered both her parents to the end of the corridor. “Please, go downstairs and wait in the drawing room. Feel free to order whatever refreshments or things that will make you comfortable. I’ll yell if there’s any progress.”
At that point, Augustus returned with the local surgeon, and so had begun the long wait.
Meanwhile, Benedict had worried and prayed and continued to pace the floor.
Anne’s mother had drifted up the stairs to talk with him a few hours before dawn. “I wanted to say something to you that might ease my husband’s gruffness and tasteless encouragement into a betrothal.”
“I won’t dissuade you.” He’d glanced inside the sickroom, but Anne hadn’t moved from the position upon her back where he’d placed her though her left arm was in a sling, for she had a severe sprain. Thank God she hadn’t suffered anything more threatening than a sprained ankle and perhaps bruised ribs as well as a mild concussion, to say nothing of countless abrasions and contusions on her limbs from hitting tree branches on the way down.
