Page 74 of Memories Made At Midnight
Twenty-three
A luxurious bedchamber
Hefferwickshire House
MID-MORNING THE NEXT DAY
Lying on surely what must be a cloud and not a mattress, with lavender and lilac scented sheets pulled up to her neck, Beatrice slowly and reluctantly left Morpheus’s arms. A half-smile of contentment bending her mouth, she stirred and stretched.
Searing pain ripped through her left thigh, and a little yelp escaped her.
Sweet Jesus on Sunday.
Her eyelids flew open, and she stared at the unfamiliar pleats of a sage-green canopy.
Where was she?
Why did her leg hurt so confounded awful, and why was she so weak?
Her memory came flooding back in a rush.
Men chasing Cassius and me.
A gunshot.
Molten agony impaling my leg.
Cassius’s family arriving and scaring the thugs away.
Blood. So much blood.
Cassius whispering my name.
And then…nothing.
Teddy stirred and crawled from the foot of the bed to rest his ebony head on her shoulder. He sighed, his good brown eye round with worry.
“Hello, my little friend.” Beatrice stroked his back. “Where’s your sister?”
A large snout nuzzled her elbow, and if Beatrice hadn’t been in so much pain, she might’ve laughed. She scratched under Nala’s chin.
“I love you too, Nala.”
“Ah, you are awake. I thought I heard you.” A tall, stunning auburn-haired woman fairly glided into the bedchamber. Everything about her, from her coral and emerald gown to the small emerald earrings dangling from her earlobes, screeched nobility. “I’m Margaret Westbrook, the Duchess of Latham. Are you thirsty, my dear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Beatrice’s voice came out a rough croak, but thankfully, she did not stutter despite her nerves. She cleared her throat and gratefully accepted the water the duchess poured for her.
After drinking every drop, she passed the glass back.
To her surprise, the duchess refilled it and extended it once more. “Fletcher says it’s important to drink lots of water after blood loss.”
“Fletcher?” Beatrice dutifully lifted the glass to her lips and drained the contents once more.
He was the one who had studied medicine, wasn’t he?
“Yes. He cleaned your wound and stitched the gash. Though the laceration is quite deep, the lead ball grazed the soft tissue, which, my son tells me, is the best type of bullet injury to have.” The duchess carefully lowered herself onto the embroidered sage and ivory counterpane. “Even so, you’ll be confined to bed for a couple of weeks. Doctor Hartney shall be along shortly to check on you.”
Why not Fletcher?
