The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(22)

She stiffened in his arms. “You can’t. I’m too … too large. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Are you calling me weak? You insult me after I’ve taken great care of you?” His gaze captured hers, and the tiny lines around his eyes hinted at his amusement. “Are you ready?”

Before she could protest, he lifted her onto the horse’s back. “Grab his mane with your right hand and hold tight.”

She did as instructed. At this point, she didn’t have the wherewithal to argue. Her vise-like grip had to be painful for the horse, but it was the only way she could ensure she’d not fall off the other side.

Gracefully, McCalpin lifted himself into the saddle and settled behind her. He reached around her and gently took the reins draped to the side. “Easy now. Lie back against me, and I’ll get you home.”

He reeled Donar in the direction of the house. Across the field, Hart raced toward them on one of the draught horses the estate owned. He came to a sudden stop. Donar danced back several steps as if displeased with the intrusion of the workhorse.

McCalpin patted the dappled gray and murmured something that immediately calmed its skittishness.

“I just returned from the village, and Bennett told me what happened. He’s coming with the cart.” Hart didn’t spare a glance at McCalpin. His eyes widened when he saw the bloodstains. “How bad is it?”

McCalpin pulled her tight against him. His warmth embraced her, and the shock of the accident had suddenly made her very tired. Everything, including the conversation, moved slowly.

“She’ll need it sewn up, but the cut was straight.” The scent of pine joined the heady experience of his arms enveloping her. If she had perished, then this was surely heaven.

“I’ll inform Mrs. Oliver. She’s the best with cuts that require stitches.” Hart reeled the draught horse around, then galloped away.

McCalpin bent his head toward hers. If she wasn’t mistaken, his chin had just brushed against her ear as if imparting a great secret. “There’s no cause to hurry. It appears the bleeding has stopped.”

With a voice as smooth as thick velvet, she could listen to him for hours, maybe days, even if he were reciting the ledger from her household accounts. All she could manage was a nod.

It made little difference if they ever made it back to the house. Heaven with her David was quite nice.

*

Completely ignoring her protests, McCalpin swept March from Donar and carried her inside to the kitchen. An older woman, the presumed Mrs. Oliver, waited for them by the table with everything required to mend the cut already prepared. There was even a small glass of brandy poured.

“Miss March, let me have a look,” Mrs. Oliver clucked. She didn’t spare a glance at McCalpin. With a surprisingly quick flourish for an old lady, Mrs. Oliver had his neckcloth free from March’s hand and thrown into a heap on the floor by his side. “That cloth is ruined.”

When the old lady twisted her hand gently to investigate the depth of the gash, March winced and grew paler than when he had first found her.

“Mrs. Oliver, this is the Marquess of McCalpin.” The foreign wispiness in March’s voice betrayed her suffering.

She bore little resemblance to the woman who had challenged him in London. When she’d parried his constant questions that day she sat in his study, she had a brightness and self-assuredness about her that drew his respect. Not someone easily dismissed as he’d discovered.

Now, her skin resembled newly fallen snow, and her mouth had tightened in a line. All her shimmering defiance had deserted her. She refused to show any hint she suffered, but her pain was evident if the creases around her eyes were any indication.

“This will sting, but we need to clean your hand.” Mrs. Oliver brought a pan of water to the table. She was extremely gentle with her as if many times before, she’d experienced March’s reaction to blood.

March stiffened in response. Without second-guessing himself, McCalpin grabbed her other hand in his. The water beneath a frozen pond had to be warmer than her skin. He placed his other hand over the top of her hand and gently rubbed the circulation back. Mrs. Oliver nodded her approval. As soon as March’s hand hit the water, she flinched.

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Squeeze my hand. Think of how angry you were when you came to see me.”

“What she ought to do is think of who caused all this. Rupert Lawson.” The old woman practically spit her disgust across the room. “Nothing good ever comes—”

“Mrs. Oliver, please…” March’s voice trailed to nothing.

The old lady narrowed her eyes. “Only reason you’re hurt, my miss.”

McCalpin’s gaze darted from the old lady to March. “Who’s Rupert Lawson?”

“My cousin,” March offered weakly. “How am I going to shear this week?”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Mrs. Oliver gently took March’s hand out of the water and dried it. She trickled a little brandy over the wound, eliciting a hiss from March.

“It’ll keep it from festering when I sew it up.” Mrs. Oliver directed this tidbit to McCalpin.

He nodded absently and took what remained of the brandy and held it to her lips. She shook her head and turned away.

“Drink it,” he ordered.