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Her father nodded. “Well, I’ll make that a priority. Tomorrow or the next day.”
“You aren’t seriously saying that you’re going to hire someone to follow me around everywhere I go for the rest of my life,” Madeleine exclaimed.
Both the men looked at her. Her father’s face was its usual impenetrable mask, but Harlo’s expression showed genuine concern. “My dear,” he said. “You are so precious. If simple measures could suffice to keep you safe, why would we not take them? Why would you not agree?”
“Because it’s ridiculous!” she said. “Because I don’t feel like anyone is trying to harm me. Because it would feel odd to be followed around all the time by somebody watching my every move.”
“None of those seem like good enough reasons,” Harlo said.
Her father nodded. “All right. I’ll arrange it.”
Madeleine felt alarm. “Wait! Do I at least get some say in choosing the person who is to be my inescapable companion?”
Her father merely looked at her. “What do you know about hiring a soldier?”
“Well—well—nothing, but do I at least get the right of refusal? If it’s someone I don’t like?”
“No.”
“It’s a reasonable request, Alastair,” Harlo interjected. “Surely she should have the ability to say no.”
Her father shrugged. “Fine. But don’t think to use multiple refusals to draw out the process so long I abandon it.”
It had been exactly what she was thinking, but she assumed an expression of innocence. “Of course not.”
“Now that we have settled this most important matter, would it be possible for me to request more wine?” Harlo asked almost plaintively. “Madeleine, could you hand me the decanter?”
“I’ll pour for you,” she said, jumping up and retrieving the bottle from the sideboard.
He half-turned in his chair to lift his glass in her direction, and she somehow misjudged the height of his arm. The lip of the decanter came down hard on the rim of his goblet, and the glass shattered in his hand. She gasped and made an instinctive grab at the falling fragments, and somehow his fingers were wrapped around her hand and large sharp pieces were digging into her palm.
“Ow—ow—oh, Harlo, I’m so sorry!” she cried, while he was exclaiming, “Madeleine! My dear!” It was a moment before they disentangled and she could set down the decanter. He grasped her hand and appeared distraught over the three deep cuts oozing with blood.
“What have I done? Madeleine, you are hurt!” He snatched up his linen napkin and began winding it tenderly around her hand. “Oh, I’m so clumsy. You poor girl!”
“I’m fine, but look at you! Wine all over your robe—andblood—you look like you’ve gotten into a street altercation! Harlo, I apologize with all my heart!”
Her father was already at the door, calling for Ella to come clean up the mess. “Are you seriously injured?” he asked her, turning to face her.
“Let me see,” she said, and Harlo reluctantly removed the napkin. The blood was still welling up, but not very fast, and there didn’t appear to be any fragments stuck in the wounds. “I think I’ll live.”
“You need to get that tended to,” Harlo said in a scolding voice. “Can someone on the staff be trusted to dress it, or should we call for a physician?”
“The housekeeper plays nurse for all the servants,” she said.
“Then go! Seek her out!”
“But I can’t leave you in all this mess—”
“I insist,” Harlo said. “And if there is a scar on your hand the next time I see you, I shall never forgive myself.”
She hesitated, but truth to tell, the cuts were throbbing a little. And she wanted to finally change out of the gray gown she had worn all day. And she wanted to think over everything that had happened since she left her bedroom this morning, from unexpectedly seeing Reese again to learning she was about to acquire a permanent guard.
“There will be no scar,” she promised, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “But if there were, it would just remind me how much I love you. I’m glad we got to visit tonight.”
“So am I,” said Harlo as she headed out the door. “Let us hope our next encounter is much less dramatic.”
Chapter Six:
