Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(68)

Diana was so exhausted she couldn’t marshal words and merely nodded. Artie put her dirty thumb in her mouth and said indistinctly, “Fitzy’s wife.”

Prism frowned; perhaps he felt that the castle didn’t need another such bird. But he didn’t admonish them; instead, he turned to his footmen. “Frederick, take the bird to the stables. Peter, we need hot water in the bath in the nursery, as well as in Miss Belgrave’s chamber.”

Diana handed the rope to Frederick with a feeling of acute relief. “There are sores around her neck; perhaps the stablemaster could apply some salve.”

The bad-tempered bird took one look at Frederick and stopped scratching the ground, which was insulting.

North was working in the library, and he had kept an ear out for Diana and the children’s return from the village. More than once, he had almost called for the pony cart to be brought around again. What could be taking them so long?

What if . . .

But then he thought about Diana’s firm chin, and that she didn’t need or want him to follow her about.

All the same, he bolted from the library when he heard the front door opening. He reached the entry hall just as Prism entered, carrying Artie in his arms. Diana followed, clearly exhausted. Her face was dirty, and her hair had come loose and was falling down her back. Both it and her dark dress were noticeably dusty, and there was a smear of blood on her cheek—

“What happened?” he thundered. “Were you attacked?” Fear and anger beat inside his chest. He shouldn’t have left them; he shouldn’t have listened to Calico. He rubbed his thumb across the smear on her cheek. “How were you hurt? Artie? Godfrey?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Please stop making a fuss, Lord Roland. I have to bathe the children.”

“Diana.”

She met his eyes with obvious reluctance. “It’s just a scratch.”

He waited until she uncurled her right hand; a wicked, red-raw laceration crossed her palm. “What happened?” His voice was deadly quiet.

“DeeDee pulled and pulled, ’cause Mrs. Fitzy is a bad bird,” Artie said, around her thumb.

North brushed a finger across the part of Diana’s palm that wasn’t rubbed raw from rope, and then curled her hand shut. “Right. Upstairs, all of you.”

Diana pulled her hand away. “Godfrey!”

North followed her gaze and saw the child curled on the marble bench where footmen usually sat. It was hardly comfortable, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Diana sighed and bent over him. “Godfrey, I need you to wake up.”

North brushed her gently to the side and picked the child up. Godfrey smelled like dirt and sweaty little boy, an odor North remembered in his bones.

“We wanted to ride,” Artie told Prism, “but DeeDee said no, ’cause Mrs. Fitzy is a bad bird.”

Prism led the way upstairs, murmuring quietly to Artie, which brought to North’s mind a sudden memory of Prism—considerably younger and somewhat slimmer—talking to Horatius.

Horatius had adored the butler, and had often sat for hours in the butler’s pantry while Prism polished silver. In the white heat of grief, North had never thought about how much the loss of Horatius must have affected their butler. Every person in the castle had red eyes for weeks, but Prism would have had to keep the household going, no matter how he felt.

By the time they reached the nursery, the tin bath was half filled with steaming water. Peter upended the can he held. “That should do it. I filled the pitcher as well, Miss Belgrave, and your tub is waiting.”

“Lady Artemisia, I will see you tomorrow morning,” Prism said, putting Artie down on a bed.

Before he straightened, Artie patted his cheek and said, “Thanks.” Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Prism made a sound that in a less dignified man might have been a chuckle and left the room, silently closing the door behind him.

North’s little sister was an excellent duchess-in-the-making: fearless, with an effortless assumption of rank combined with genuine charm and affection.

“Well then,” Diana said, her voice strained with weariness. “If you’ll excuse us, Lord Roland, I must bathe the children.”

“Prism has gone, which means I’m North, not Lord Roland. I’m not leaving until your hand is properly washed and bandaged.”

He placed Godfrey on his feet and the boy swayed.

“How far did you walk these two?” he asked, picking Godfrey back up before he fell over.

“You make it sound like an accusation,” Diana said, slowly unpinning her cap.

“Why didn’t you wear gloves? They would have protected your hands.” He determined that the bed next to Artie’s must be Godfrey’s. He laid him on his side, and the boy’s eyelids fluttered closed. “How easily they sleep.”

Diana put her muslin cap, gray with dust, on the nursery table. “They usually nap much earlier than this.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked, the question coming from his mouth without permission. “I looked around, and the three of you were gone, even though we had walked to the village together.” He was fairly certain that his voice had a tone of civil inquiry.

“There you are again,” she said.

He frowned. “What?”