Chapter Two #3
He turned to her housekeeper. “Ye must tell me if she’s broken a rib.
If it’s safest to keep her here under bed rest for the next few days, then I’ll keep to my schedule and leave for Edinburgh at the end of the week with her.
However, if ye feel she is all right to travel, then I’ll take her back to Edinburgh the day after tomorrow. ”
Tilda nodded. “And provide escort for her return to London?”
“Aye,” he said. “I’ll no’ be leaving her alone in her delicate condition.”
Delicate condition, indeed!
He made it sound as though she were some sweet young bride carrying her happy bridegroom’s child. What idiotic nonsense.
“Put me down, Solway! I can walk on my own.”
Tilda frowned at her. “M’lady, ye are a stubborn thing, aren’t ye? Listen to His Grace. He’s doing what’s right and looking out for ye. In truth, ye are injured and it is a distinct possibility ye have a broken rib. Do the sensible thing and allow His Grace to look after ye on yer travels home.”
“Never ye worry, Tilda,” he grumbled. “I will look after her whether or no’ she desires it. Dinna listen to her squawking and fussing. She’s just being contrary, no’ that I blame her.”
Miranda was in too much pain to protest. In truth, she barely managed to wrap her arms around Solway’s neck because it hurt so much when raising them.
Her fault for straining the injury by hurling those projectiles at Mongo. She had been so incensed, she was able to ignore every jagged twinge and agonizing jolt that tore through her body whenever she threw an object or leaped to her feet.
The pain now overwhelmed her as she calmed down and her body relaxed.
It made sense, she supposed. The body had fascinating abilities.
One was oblivious to pain when in the heat of battle, or so she had been told by a retired field general.
It had something to do with one’s survival instincts suppressing all pain in order to continue fighting.
However, this general had not said anything about the overwhelming pain that gripped one after the battle.
It would have been nice to have the warning.
She remained quiet while Solway carried her up a long staircase that was rather grand. But then, his home was a castle and Solway obviously kept it in good repair.
She rested her head against his shoulder and curled up against him, allowing his strength to warm her and protect her as he strode down a broad hallway toward the room that was to be her bedchamber, hopefully only for this day.
She was worried about Gwenys and needed to be reunited with her as soon as possible.
“Miranda,” Solway said with an ache to his voice, “did I hurt ye when I first came upon ye and drew ye firmly up against me? Am I to blame for crushing yer ribs?”
“No.” She could have lied and claimed he was responsible, but he had used extraordinary care not to hurt her when he’d grabbed her and held her to his body in order to keep her from attacking Mongo.
“This injury happened on the ride from Edinburgh to your castle. I was just too angry to feel it or acknowledge it at the time.”
“That does no’ absolve me or make me feel any better. Mongo, that idjit, hurt ye. Well, it is time he took responsibility for his actions. Ye do whatever ye feel ye need to do.”
While she appreciated his words, she also knew that these Scots protected their own. Solway might allow for some small punishment, but he would never permit the lad to be imprisoned beyond a month or two, nor would he ever allow him to be hanged or sentenced to indentured servitude.
She did not have the strength to further press Solway on the matter. All she wanted to do was get under the covers and sleep.
In this moment, she would not have minded his getting under the covers with her and holding her close to provide her with the warmth of his very fine body.
What?
She immediately banished that wild thought.
Although his skin was deliciously warm.
Ugh, no.
She was obviously delirious. She wanted nothing to do with these Scottish heathens. All she wanted was to hug Gwenys and take her safely back to London.
The Aberdeen wedding had not even been worth the trip, for it was the wedding of Gwenys’s younger stepsister, an odious girl who had married a Scottish baron and did nothing but sneer and taunt Gwenys throughout the celebration for having no beau of her own.
Miranda sighed.
Perhaps she had been too strict with Gwenys, keeping her from making her London debut because she needed to gain some maturity. The stepsister’s taunts had hurt the sweet girl so badly.
And yet she never once blamed Miranda for holding her back. If anything, Gwenys adored Miranda and considered her more as a mother than an aunt.
This only made Miranda feel worse.
Had her own miserable marriage—to a man who had done her the favor of dying in his mistress’s bed two years after they had wed—damaged her outlook toward men beyond repair?
And had she now damaged sweet Gwenys?
A tear spilled down her cheek.
Solway misunderstood the reason and blamed himself. “Och, Miranda,” he said in a raw whisper, sounding sincerely contrite. “Are ye crying, lass?”
“No.” But her sniffles revealed otherwise.
“Ye are, lass. Dinna deny it.” His voice still sounded raw and racked with remorse as her tears continued to fall. “This is an awful mess. But we’ll get it all straightened out, I promise ye. What can I do to ease yer distress? I canno’ bear to see ye so sad.”
“I am not sad,” she insisted in a shaky breath. “I’m just…miserable.”
“Because ye are in so much pain. I must take full responsibility. How do I fix this for ye?”
“No, not you. I am the one who needs to fix things.” Because she had treated Gwenys so shabbily…well, been too protective of her and not trusted the dear girl to make her own decisions.
Had she destroyed Gwenys’s confidence? Unfairly belittled her competence? Gwenys had never once complained.
Miranda cried more tears, not caring if he believed she was speaking gibberish when she tried to explain what she had done to her niece. How could she have been so haughty toward him when so much fault lay with her?
She could not deny being unforgiving and casting blame on him while she had been as much of a beast toward Gwenys.
And yet Gwenys loved her and worshipped her.
How was she to make it up to the good-hearted girl who must be frantic with worry and crying her own river of tears for fear she had been injured?
Yes, poor Gwenys must be crying her heart out.
This was all her fault.
Should she not shoulder all of the blame for having donned Gwenys’s cloak and gone outside on her own to investigate?
A woman armed with naught but a fire poker striding out of the inn alone during the wee hours without a thought to her own safety—was this not the height of folly?
Certainly the height of ignorance in believing no one would dare harm a lady.
Why hadn’t she summoned the innkeeper instead and reported the noise?
Solway was still blaming himself.
But weren’t her actions the true source of the blame?