He nodded.
She put one hand to her mouth, letting her elbow rest on the opposite arm, which was banded across her waist. “I wish I knew what you were thinking.”
He gave a tiny shrug.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re not thinking of much of anything?” She pointed a finger at him. “Because that I will not believe. I know you far too well.” She waited for another response, no matter how small. She didn’t get one, so she kept on talking.
“You’re probably figuring out how best to maximize your corn harvest for the year,” she said. “Or maybe wondering if your rents are too low.” She thought about that for a moment. “No, you’d be wondering if your rents are too high. I’m quite certain you’re a softhearted landlord. You wouldn’t want anyone to struggle.”
He shook his head. Just enough so that she could tell what he meant.
“No, you don’t want anyone to struggle, or no, that’s not what you’re thinking about?”
“You,” he rasped.
“You’re thinking about me?” she whispered.
“Thank you.” His voice was soft, barely even audible, but she heard him. And it took every last ounce of her strength not to cry.
“I won’t leave you,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Not until you’re well.”
“Th-th—”
“It’s all right,” she told him. “You don’t need to say it again. You didn’t need to say it the first time.”
But she was glad that he did. And she wasn’t certain which of his statements had touched her more—his two words of thanks, or the first, his simple, solitary “You.”
He was thinking about her. While he was lying there, possibly near death, even more possibly at the brink of an amputation, he was thinking about her.
For the first time since she had arrived at Fensmore, she wasn’t terrified.
Chapter Thirteen
The next time Marcus woke up, he could tell that something had changed. First of all, his leg hurt like the devil again. But somehow he suspected that wasn’t such a bad thing. Secondly, he was hungry. Famished, in fact, as if he had not eaten in days.
Which was probably true. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d fallen ill.
Lastly, he could open his eyes. That was excellent.
He wasn’t sure what time it was. It was dark, but it could just as easily have been four in the morning as ten at night. It was bloody disorienting, being sick.
He swallowed, trying to moisten his throat. Some more water would be nice. He turned his head toward the bedside table. His eyes still had not adjusted to the dark, but he could see that someone had fallen asleep in a chair by his bed. Honoria? Probably. He had a feeling she had not left his room throughout the ordeal.
He blinked, trying to remember how she had even come to be at Fensmore. Oh, yes, Mrs. Wetherby had written to her. He could not imagine why his housekeeper had thought to do so, but he would be eternally grateful that she had.
He rather suspected that he would be dead if not for the agony Honoria and her mother had inflicted upon his leg.
But that wasn’t the whole of it. He knew that he had been in and out of consciousness, and he knew that there would always be huge gaps in his memory of this terrible time. But even so, he had known that Honoria was there, in his room. She had held his hand, and she had talked to him, her soft voice reaching his soul even when he hadn’t been able to make out the words.
And knowing she was there . . . It had just been easier. He hadn’t been alone. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been alone.
He let out a little snort. He was being overly dramatic. It wasn’t as if he walked about with some invisible shield, keeping all other people at bay. He could have had more people in his life. He could have had many more people. He was an earl, for the love of God. He could have snapped his fingers and filled his house.
But he’d never wanted company for the sake of idle chatter. And for everything in his life that had meant anything, he had been alone.
It was what he’d wanted.
It was what he’d thought he wanted.
He blinked a few more times, and his room began to come into focus. The curtains had not been pulled shut, and the moon shed enough light for him to make out the barest gradations of color. Or maybe it was just that he knew that his walls were burgundy and the giant landscape hanging above the fireplace was mostly green. People saw what they expected to see. It was one of the most basic truisms of life.
He turned his head again, peering at the person in the chair. It was definitely Honoria, and not just because she was the person he expected to see. Her hair had come partly undone, and it was clearly light brown, not nearly dark enough to be Lady Winstead’s.