"It's only a flesh wound," he told him with a groan. "I'll be all right, but Philomena doesn't need to be here."
"I'm n-not leaving you." She touched his face, the moisture cutting through her gloves. This was her fault. She truly was cursed. She looked down as the driver peeled away the jacket and revealed the growing stain of blood. Mena almost fainted but steadied herself on Durham's shoulders.
"You don't have to be here," he whispered.
She ignored him as the driver opened Durham's shirt and peeled the folds back. The wound was ghastly, but not large. However, from the blood that seeped from it and the force that the other man had stabbed him, she thought it might be deep.
The driver went to the bed and pulled off the white blanket. "Add pressure to it, my lady. I'll be back in a moment."
Philomena did as she was told and found that doing something seemed to calm her. She watched the rise and fall of the marquess’ chest. He glistened with sweat and the trail of dark hair that covered his middle glittered. A scar rested on his left breast, old and almost invisible. She wondered where it came from. Her eyes moved up to find his watching her with a blankness that seemed out of place.
His hand, covered in blood, pressed into the blanket. "I'll be all right. Please, take a hack home."
"I'm not leaving you, my lord." They'd made her leave her father when he'd been dying, and she’d always regretted leaving. She wouldn't leave the marquess. Not until she was sure he was all right.
He closed his eyes and relaxed his hold on the blanket. She took over again, adding more pressure, which caused him to wince.
"I'm sorry."
He opened his eyes again and reached out to wipe her tears away with his dry hand. She moved closer to him to make the effort easier. His voice was like his touch, pleasant and soft. "Why are you weeping?"
She frowned. "Why would I not?"
He smiled. "I mean, why are you weeping for me?" He gave a short laugh before wincing with more pain. "My death ensures you never have to wed me."
"Don't say that," she whispered. "I'd never wish death on you."
"That's good to know." He closed his eyes once more and settled his hand at his side. He cracked one eye open again when the driver returned with a small black bag.
"Pardon me, my lady."
Mena moved away to let the driver work. He pulled back the blanket and examined the cut while he spoke to the marquess on what he was seeing. The bleeding had stopped, which made the driver believe that nothing serious had been cut. He went to work cleaning the wound before producing a needle and thread. He moved with a deftness that made Mena believe he'd done this sort of work before.
"Don't look," he told her.
She turned away, instead watching Durham's face. She touched it again, this time with her bare hands since her gloves were now covered in blood. His skin was cool, probably from the perspiration and breeze coming through the window.
He closed his eyes tightly and that was the only reaction he gave to let her know that the driver had begun stitching him up. She moved her hands through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp to relax and distract him. He tried to move closer to her touch, and she unfolded her body to rest his head on her lap. She continued then at stroking his hair and was ever glad she stayed. She tried to find a peace inside herself to give to him, as though his own senses would find it and take it as his own.
He opened his eyes. "Tell me about your father."
Her eyes widened. Had he known she'd been thinking about him? About his death? "What do you wish to know?"
"What was he like?"
She continued to move her hands through his hair and thought that it should be her asking the questions. Yet instead, she answered, telling him one story after another about the man she'd loved most in the world.
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8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
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“How do you feel about him?”…
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There was one thing Morgan was certain of as Philomena spoke. His driver David's touch was not as pleasing as hers and broke his concentration more than once. His side radiated with pain, but he worked to keep it from showing on his face. Since she'd refused to leave, he'd had no other choice but to distract her from shedding more tears, each one like another knife in his gut. He'd only asked after her father as a way to entertain her, but when Morgan managed to clear his mind of thoughts about the needle that dug repeatedly into his flesh, he listened to her and even without understanding the words, he could hear the deep love and affection she'd had for her father. Theirs was a love so rare amongst the ton, not that the beau monde didn't love their children—Morgan's own upbringing was just as odd—it was only that the upper-class didn't spend as many hours with their children as Philomena had obviously spent with hers.
He closed his eyes, holding back a grunt and a moan as her fingers worked their own healing upon him. He'd never been touched this way before. Not by a lover and definitely not by his mother. Now that he knew just how cruel his mother's touch could be, he was glad she'd left him in the care of a nursemaid.
Her fingers stilled, and he opened his eyes.
Some of Philomena's golden hair had come loose of her bonnet and trailed toward him like a gleaming river. She stared down at him with an inquisitive expression, her blue eyes just as searching as her touch. Her fingers trailed the bone that curved his upper cheek before slipping to his jaw. "You seem nearly harmless on your back."
"I'd never bring you harm." He stiffened at the searing agony of David's pulls on the thread.
Her eyes moved down to the cut.
"Why did you stop?"
Her gaze returned to him. "You won't bring harm to me, but you will to others? Why did you beat that man?"
He felt David still as well but only for a second before continuing.
Morgan sighed. He had no clue what to say. He couldn't tell her he'd been running after a common criminal and a man who'd once worked for her uncle. She'd never believe him.
Or would she?
It wasn't as though her knowing part of the truth could bring him any more harm. Creed already knew he was after him. Creed even knew that they were spies sent to destroy him. He probably didn't know about the Order and if he did, like most of England didn't believe that the legends were true, that since the beginning of England, there had been an order of four men comprised of the sons of men from strong allies to the Crown.
Besides that, there were other benefits to telling Philomena the truth. It would be yet another step closer to her understanding of him.
David stopped and said, "I'm finished, my lord, but you shouldn't be moved. I'll send word to the others that you're here."
Morgan looked down at the swollen reddened skin. The stitching was perfect. The wound wasn't long, but as David had guessed, it was deep. Less than an inch in any direction and he might have bled out. "I can stand." He started to move, but Philomena put pressure on his shoulders to keep him down.