A Ravishing Redhead (7 page)

“You will not have what?” Margaret asked, utterly bewildered.

“I will not have you risking your bloody life!” In two strides he had crossed the distance that separated them and taken her by the arms. He gave her two quick shakes, and she felt her head spin, but it was nothing compared to the flips her heart was doing. “When that maid came to tell me you had fallen off I thought –”

“What maid?” Margaret interrupted.

“What?”

“What maid, Henry? Her name, if you would.”

His jaw clenched. “For the love of – Angela, her name was Angela!”

“Very good.” Margaret nodded. “You may continue.”

“So help me God I am going to kill you,” he vowed darkly.

“No,” said Margaret, suppressing a smile. “You’re not. Now do go on with why you think shooting your horse is a good idea. First, however, may we sit down? I am feeling quite dizzy.”  

Henry did not hear her. Reaching out, he gently touched the side of her temple and stared at his fingers when they came away stained with blood. “You’re bleeding,” he said dumbly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But it is nothing to worry about.”

“You’re bleeding,” he repeated.

Margaret reached out and clasped his hand. “Yes, dear, you have said that already. It’s just a little scratch, I think I may have hit the side of the stirrup iron when I fell and it really is nothing to worry –”

“HASTINGS!” Henry roared, so loud that Margaret winced. “HASTINGS, GET OUT HERE THIS INSTANT! CALL THE DOCTOR!”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Henry, I have to say you are over reacting just a tad. I have fallen off a horse before I do not doubt I will do it again. If you would simply calm down we –”

“And you,” he said, cutting her off. “You – you should be laying down! In a bed!” Ignoring her protests, he scooped her up in his arms and marched her inside, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom.

“You’ve gone mad,” she gasped as he tucked her under the covers, surrounded her head with pillows, and ordered her not to move a single muscle until the doctor arrived. Ignoring him, Margaret threw the blankets off and sat up, her blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Henry, this is ridiculous! I know you are upset that I rode Finnegan without your permission and I truly am sorry, but going on like this is not going to help anyone.”

Head bent and arms held rigidly behind his back, Henry turned away from the window where he had been watching for the doctor’s carriage and fixed Margaret with a glare so furious it had her hastily laying flat on her back as ordered and pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Henry,” she tried again after a few minutes of strained silence. “I really am fine. A nick on my head and a few bumps and bruises here and there. If you would just let me take a hot bath I am certain I will feel better in no –”

“YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!” he shouted.

Stunned, Margaret dropped the covers. “Oh Henry, no,” she said as understanding finally dawned. Henry wasn’t angry because she had ridden Finnegan. He was angry because he was afraid of losing her. A sense of cozy warmth started in Margaret’s chest and slipped all the way down to her toes. She smiled, which only served to provoke Henry’s anger to a fever pitch.

“You little idiot,” he snarled. “You could have broken every bone in your body.”

“Would that have upset you?” she asked tentatively.

Henry gaped at her. “Would that have – of COURSE that would have upset me! You’re my damn wife and I – you’re my wife, Margaret, and I
forbid
you to risk your life anymore. Do you hear me? I forbid it!” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you smiling? It’s your head injury. You must be concussed. Bloody hell, where is that worthless doctor? HASTINGS! HASTINGS, GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”

When the doctor finally arrived he prescribed Margaret laudanum and two weeks bed rest. She refused the laudanum and agreed to three days of bed rest, which the doctor consented to on the condition he never be called again to deal with “that woman”.

Henry, who had watched the two argue from the corner of the bedroom, made no move to intervene on behalf the doctor. He simply put laudanum in Margaret’s tea after the doctor left and held her hand while she drifted off to sleep.

“Henry?” she said, her eyes already closed and her breathing quiet and steady.

“Yes darling?”

“You won’t… really shoot… Finn?”

Leaning close, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, just below the bandage the doctor had applied. “No, I won’t,” he said.

A troubled line appeared between her eyebrows. “You promise?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, only slightly exasperated that his wife was fighting off the effects of the laudanum just so she could make sure the horse who had thrown her was safe. “I was only speaking in anger. But you are never to scare me like that again, do you hear me Margaret?”

Her lips curved. “Not because of my dowry,” she said.

The words made little sense to Henry, which meant the laudanum was finally taking effect. “Not because of your dowry,” he agreed.

“Henry?”

“Go to sleep Margaret,” he said firmly. “I will still be here in the morning.”

 “You will?”

“I will stay here all night,” he said. It seemed to be the reassurance she needed, for with a little sigh she finally fell asleep and Henry, as promised, remained by her side until morning.

CHAPTER SEVEN

By the third day of bed rest Margaret was ready to murder someone. She would prefer it to be her husband, but really anyone would do the trick. Hastings, who watched her like a hawk and sounded the alarm if she even looked at the door. Angela, the poor dear, who burst into tears whenever she came into the room to change the linens. Even Petey the stable boy had managed to raise her ire without stepping foot in the bedroom. She had been forced to watch out the window, hands clenched into fists of frustration, as he led her beloved Poppy straight out to the field without allowing her eat even a
nibble
from the lawn.

 For a woman who was used to doing everything for herself, being forced to remain in one place and be waited on hand and foot was absolute torture. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to see it that way. They actually had the nerve to say
she
was the difficult one! Margaret’s lip curled in disgust as she set aside the book she had been trying in vain to read for the past two days. If she didn’t get out of this room soon she would not be responsible for her actions.

Hearing the door knob turn, she looked up from her chair expectantly, only to scowl when she saw who it was and snatch her book back up.

“How are you feeling today?” Henry asked pleasantly.

He was, Margaret saw as she peeked over the top of the book, dressed in his finest riding clothes. Fawn colored breeches hugged his legs in all the right places and a scarlet jacket tailor fit to his muscular frame was buttoned to the throat. Even his tall leather boots had been polished to a sheen, which immediately aroused Margaret’s suspicion. Closing the book with a snap, she said dourly, “And just where are you going today? Fox hunting?”

“Quite right,” he said, grinning broadly.

Margaret’s mouth dropped open. “You wouldn’t. Oh, take me with you. I feel perfectly fine,” she pleaded. “Better than fine. If I remain locked in this room a second longer I shall go positively mad!”

Henry walked past her to perch on the edge of the bed. Arms crossed, he began to tap his heel against the floor. “Per the doctor’s orders—”

“Stuff the doctor’s orders!”

He raised one eyebrow. “—your bed rest officially ended this morning.”

“I always thought he was a dear, dear man.”

Henry’s grin widened, but he was wise enough not to laugh. “I need to go to London for a fortnight. I was going to ask if you would like to accompany me.”

Had Henry asked her to go to London last week she would have heartily declined, but after three days of doing nothing save staring at the ceiling a visit to the city sounded absolutely divine. “I’ll go,” she decided at once. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as you are ready.”

 Margaret glanced down at her plain blue dress and frowned. “I shall need to change and to pack.”

Henry stood. Crossing the room, he gently kissed her cheek, something he had been doing on a regular basis since she had woken up the morning after her accident. “You look beautiful just as you are,” he murmured. “And I had Angela ready your things last night.”

“L-last night?” said Margaret, hoping he wouldn’t notice the quiet hitch in her voice. It quite undid her when he paid her compliments out of the blue or touched her lightly, as he was doing now, running his fingers through her hair without even seeming to realize it. Something had shifted between them in the past few days, something Margaret could not define, but definitely liked.

Henry was… warmer, she decided. Softer. Kinder. He had treated her like a queen during her bed rest, flowering her with so many gifts (many of the chocolate variety) that she had started turning them away, protesting that she would get too fat, to which he had replied she was perfect no matter what.

She should have been over the moon with happiness. After all, it was not every day one’s husband was so loving and attentive. And yet… And yet like a puzzle not quite complete, there was a piece missing. It was not a piece she could name or describe. It was simply something she felt.

“Margaret, are you ready then?” Henry asked, interrupting her thoughts. 

Pasting a smile on her face, she nodded and pushed herself to her feet. “Yes. Quite ready.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, studying her closely. “You seem a bit… off. If you are not feeling well I can postpone the trip. Go next week when you are feeling better. Let me just ring Hastings and tell him to send the carriage away.”

“No, no,” she protested, placing a hand on his chest. “I am fine. I promise.”

Henry frowned. “If you’re sure…”

“Quite sure,” she said brightly.

Still not looking entirely convinced, Henry wordlessly extended his arm. She took it and together they went to the waiting carriage outside.

For the first week in London it rained unmercifully. Henry could tell by Margaret’s glum expression that being stuck inside their townhouse was driving her crazy, but she did her best not to complain, and he did his best to keep her distracted with games of chess and reading in front of the fireplace well into the night.

He had not told her the real reason he had decided to come to London: to track down Peterson. About a month ago the accountant had disappeared into thin air. Henry had hired the best detectives money could buy and when they had come up with no leads he had decided to attend to the matter himself.

Three dead ends later he was almost ready to admit it had been plain arrogance that had made him think he would be able to succeed where trained detectives had failed. Like a weasel gone to ground Peterson was truly gone; whether he even remained in London was yet to be determined, but something in Henry’s gut told him he was still out there… somewhere.

Pulling his watch out of his vest pocket he glanced down at the time. A quarter past ten. He sighed and stretched out the stiff muscles in his neck and shoulders. Another day gone with no answers. Another night to spend alone.

He had foolishly hoped that a change in scenery would be the spark he and Margaret needed to ignite the flames of desire that had been licking at their heels. Yet every evening she wished him good night as she always had and made a point of going to her own private bedroom and locking the door behind her, shutting him out until morning came and they began the entire bloody dance over again.

It infuriated him to no end to hear that tumbler click into place night after night. Did she honestly think he would force himself upon her? He had considered breaking down the door just to prove that he could, but had ultimately decided that would serve no purpose save to incite her anger, something which he definitely did not want to do. His wife was terrifying when she was angry, but damn it all to hell he was tired of on walking on egg shells in his own bloody house.