Page 40 of Twice Upon a Midnight

His fogged mind refused to work, and his body was growing heavier by the moment, drawing him back toward the sweet oblivion of healing sleep. His clarity wasn’t helped by the way Martin thoughtfully refreshed the wet cloth on his forehead, then placed a piece of ice into Spenser’s mouth. He was too tired and sore to question where Martin had gotten ice or how the man had paid for it. He simply savored the soothing coolness as it melted on his tongue, closed his eyes, and slipped back into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T

hree days later, the fog had cleared from Spenser’s mind, if not the pain from his body.

The same physician who had attended to him when he’d still been a bloody and bruised mess after the attack returned every day to check up on him and deliver more medicinal concoctions to drink. Now, Spenser appeared more bruised than ever, with ugly patches of blacks and blues fading into even uglier patches of purples and browns. But the physician assured him he was healing and ordered him to drink more medicine and remain in bed.

Spenser had crawled out of bed anyway.

After several days of doing nothing but lying about, he would have gone out of his mind if he’d had to remain in bed a moment longer. So with Martin’s help—and seemingly not served at all by the mummy wrapping around his middle to immobilize what the doctor was certain were broken ribs—he painfully rolled out of bed and levered himself to his feet, panting down the pain after every small movement.

Martin had barely left his side, and with the help of a nurse who had been hired to help Spenser until he could fully care for himself, he’d managed to eat some of the bread and broth Martin had brought to him. Spenser didn’t dare consider how much this situation was costing the old man, or what Martin had promised in payment to the physician, the nurse, and the owner of the nearest chop house who brought over food twice daily.

His mind was too preoccupied with worry over Ella. He’d promised to meet her at midnight the day of the attack, and he’d broken that promise. She must have hated him for it.

Now he stood half-dressed in an old banyan in front of the window and gazed down at the street, absently drinking a mug of hot medicine that made his tongue furry and his belly queasy. He frowned into the mug. How many people had quacks killed with their so-called remedies over the years? At least the physician hadn’t tried to leech him.Yet.

“Don’t stay out of bed too long, lad,” Martin warned as he stepped back inside the bedroom. “Don’t want you to use up all the energy you’ve gained back.”

Spenser nodded. Martin was right. He’d been on his feet only ten minutes and already he was lightheaded. The restriction around his chest and abdomen didn’t help. He grimaced into his mug. Neither did this disgusting tea.

“Where did you sneak off to?” Spenser asked. For the first time since the attack, he’d awakened and not found Martin sitting at his bedside. That meant he was healing well enough to be beyond immediate concern.

“Just wanted to tell the nurse how much we appreciated her chicken broth.”

“The nurse, you say?” Spenser made a face at a swallow of medicine, then set the mug away. He couldn’t stomach any more. “Something tells me it’s more than her broth you want to appreciate.”

The old man grinned as he came up to Spenser and gently helped him into bed. “If a man has to be nursed back to health, then what does it hurt if the woman is easy on the eyes, eh?”

“Is that why you hired her?” Spenser held his breath against the pain of sitting up far enough to allow Martin to slide a pillow between his back and the headboard.

Martin winked at him. “Didn’t hurt.”

Spenser knew better than to encourage the man, so he ignored that and instead gestured at a row of books on the shelves at the foot of his bed. Some men put their wealth into horses and houses. Spenser preferred books.

“There’s a small pocketbook of Shakespeare’s sonnets on that shelf there,” he told Martin. “I need you to deliver it for me.”

Martin approached the shelves and reached up for the book. “To where?”

“Ella.”

Martin glanced over his shoulder at Spenser. “Does this mean you want to court her? That you’ve finally come to your senses about her?”

“No.” She was still a duke’s daughter, and nothing that had happened between them had changed that. But he owed her an explanation and an apology, now more than ever. “Just take that book to her and explain I couldn’t meet her as planned, but don’t tell her why.”

He rubbed his sore jaw. He was damned lucky that it wasn’t dislocated or shattered. Same with his nose. At least his face stood a good chance of returning to how it was, even if he would now sport at least two new scars by his mouth and left eye.

“Tell her I still need to talk to her and will write again in a day or two to arrange a new meeting.” His mouth twisted. “But don’t tell her who I am or where to find me. Not yet.”

Martin gave a curt nod as he took down the book, but Spenser knew his friend well enough to know the old man did not approve of that message. Ella deserved more, they both knew that, but this was all he could offer right now.If ever.

Spenser closed his eyes. Fatigue swept over him, lulling him toward sleep, and he murmured, “Tell her to read sonnet one-sixteen.”

“Aye, lad.” Martin walked toward the door to start his errand.

“And Martin?” Spenser stopped him just as he reached the door. “Thank you. For everything.”