honorable man had been involved.
“Indeed.” She shifted the subject as abruptly as her carriage had hurtled off the road. “Now, we must get all three of you to some place warm and dry before the sun sets much lower. And Mr. Greenwood must be seen by a physician straightaway. Are you able to drive, Mr. Hixon?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Good,” said Felicity. “Have you both a change of livery in the carriage?”
Her driver and footman gave ready nods.
“Then by all means go change clothes,” she ordered them. “So we can get on our way at once.”
Master Ned did not need a second invitation. The words were scarcely out of Felicity’s mouth before he had scooted off to the carriage.
The coachman lingered a moment. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I often bring along a wee nip of spirits to keep the chill off during a long drive. If you could coax a drop or two into Mr. Greenwood, it might revive him some.”
“A capital idea.” Felicity barely refrained from admitting that she could do with a wee nip , herself.“Send Ned with it once he’s changed clothes. Now off with you before you catch a chill.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Mr. Hixon took the lap robe from around his shoulders and laid it over Thorn before dashing off to the carriage.
Her servants returned so quickly they would have done credit to a pair of experienced actors changing costume between scenes. Part of Felicity’s judgment recognized and commended their haste. Yet in another way, every moment seemed to stretch and stretch, pulling her nerves taut along with them.
Though she’d continued to stroke Thorn’s cheek and call his name, he had yet to open his eyes. Both the chill of his skin and its grayish pallor alarmed her. A memory alarmed her even more.
Her late husband had never regained consciousness after being thrown from a horse.
Cold, dark water had swallowed him.
Thorn could not tell whether he was rising toward the surface or sinking forever into oblivion. He tried to rally his wits and his strength, but both had deserted him, sapped by the heavy, soul-numbing chill that threatened to suck the very life out of him.
Perhaps he was a fool to resist it when he had nothing to resist with …except his will. Perhaps he should just surrender and be done with it.
Then, as if from a great distance, he heard a single word whispered by a voice that made his heart beat stronger. That word, he realized, was his name.
He could not summon an image of the whisperer, nor could he give her a name. Yet her voice dangled in the black, torpid depths that entombed him, like a fine filament of gold. He could not frame the thoughtproperly, but he knew if he followed the slender thread, it would lead him back to himself.
Fearful that such a gossamer strand might snap or simply disappear at his touch, he grappled onto it with all that remained of his strength.
“Thorn. Thorn.” It vibrated like magical music on the string of an enchanted harp. “Come back, my darling. Wake up.”
A touch!
He had forgotten there could be any sensations but cold, heaviness and exhaustion. Now he felt pain that somehow defined the boundaries of his body. It made him want to lapse back into blessed numbness.
But he felt something else, as well. Something that persuaded him to brave the pain when a returning glimmer of sense warned him not to. The warm, gentle caress of a woman’s hand on his face and through his hair.
Memories flooded his mind in a shimmering cascade. Of dark silken tresses splayed over a plump white pillow and over a rounded white breast. Of soft lips and nipples like sweet, red Madeira. Of a slick, sultry chasm, that…
What was this? His body could feel heat, as well as cold? Pleasure, as well as pain?
He tried to move…to reach for her. Even to wrest open one eye so he could see her again. But his body refused to obey. It remained trapped in the remorseless grip of that ponderous chill from which his spirit had barely managed to break
“Indeed.” She shifted the subject as abruptly as her carriage had hurtled off the road. “Now, we must get all three of you to some place warm and dry before the sun sets much lower. And Mr. Greenwood must be seen by a physician straightaway. Are you able to drive, Mr. Hixon?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Good,” said Felicity. “Have you both a change of livery in the carriage?”
Her driver and footman gave ready nods.
“Then by all means go change clothes,” she ordered them. “So we can get on our way at once.”
Master Ned did not need a second invitation. The words were scarcely out of Felicity’s mouth before he had scooted off to the carriage.
The coachman lingered a moment. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I often bring along a wee nip of spirits to keep the chill off during a long drive. If you could coax a drop or two into Mr. Greenwood, it might revive him some.”
“A capital idea.” Felicity barely refrained from admitting that she could do with a wee nip , herself.“Send Ned with it once he’s changed clothes. Now off with you before you catch a chill.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Mr. Hixon took the lap robe from around his shoulders and laid it over Thorn before dashing off to the carriage.
Her servants returned so quickly they would have done credit to a pair of experienced actors changing costume between scenes. Part of Felicity’s judgment recognized and commended their haste. Yet in another way, every moment seemed to stretch and stretch, pulling her nerves taut along with them.
Though she’d continued to stroke Thorn’s cheek and call his name, he had yet to open his eyes. Both the chill of his skin and its grayish pallor alarmed her. A memory alarmed her even more.
Her late husband had never regained consciousness after being thrown from a horse.
Cold, dark water had swallowed him.
Thorn could not tell whether he was rising toward the surface or sinking forever into oblivion. He tried to rally his wits and his strength, but both had deserted him, sapped by the heavy, soul-numbing chill that threatened to suck the very life out of him.
Perhaps he was a fool to resist it when he had nothing to resist with …except his will. Perhaps he should just surrender and be done with it.
Then, as if from a great distance, he heard a single word whispered by a voice that made his heart beat stronger. That word, he realized, was his name.
He could not summon an image of the whisperer, nor could he give her a name. Yet her voice dangled in the black, torpid depths that entombed him, like a fine filament of gold. He could not frame the thoughtproperly, but he knew if he followed the slender thread, it would lead him back to himself.
Fearful that such a gossamer strand might snap or simply disappear at his touch, he grappled onto it with all that remained of his strength.
“Thorn. Thorn.” It vibrated like magical music on the string of an enchanted harp. “Come back, my darling. Wake up.”
A touch!
He had forgotten there could be any sensations but cold, heaviness and exhaustion. Now he felt pain that somehow defined the boundaries of his body. It made him want to lapse back into blessed numbness.
But he felt something else, as well. Something that persuaded him to brave the pain when a returning glimmer of sense warned him not to. The warm, gentle caress of a woman’s hand on his face and through his hair.
Memories flooded his mind in a shimmering cascade. Of dark silken tresses splayed over a plump white pillow and over a rounded white breast. Of soft lips and nipples like sweet, red Madeira. Of a slick, sultry chasm, that…
What was this? His body could feel heat, as well as cold? Pleasure, as well as pain?
He tried to move…to reach for her. Even to wrest open one eye so he could see her again. But his body refused to obey. It remained trapped in the remorseless grip of that ponderous chill from which his spirit had barely managed to break
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