“What did Dr. Winters say?” Marcus asked, then clarified, “The younger one.”
She smiled. “He thinks you’re going to keep your leg.”
“What?” He shook his head, trying to understand.
“We were afraid we might have to amputate it.”
“Oh, my God.” He felt himself sinking down into the pillows. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s probably for the best that you didn’t know it was a possibility,” she said gently.
“Oh, my God.” He couldn’t imagine life without a leg. He supposed no one could, until they had to.
She took his hand in hers. “It’s going to be all right.”
“My leg,” he whispered. He had an irrational urge to sit up and look at it, just to make sure it was still there. He forced himself to lie still; she’d surely think him beyond foolish for wanting to see it for himself. But it hurt. It hurt a lot, and he was grateful for the pain. At least he knew it was still where it was supposed to be.
Honoria pulled her hand free to stifle an enormous yawn. “Oh, excuse me,” she said when she was done. “I’m afraid I haven’t slept very much.”
His fault, he realized. Yet another reason he owed her his gratitude. “That chair can’t possibly be comfortable,” he told her. “You should take the other side of the bed.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“It couldn’t possibly be any more improper than anything else that’s happened today.”
“No,” she said, looking as if she might laugh if she weren’t so tired, “I mean really, I couldn’t. The mattress is still wet from when we cleaned your leg.”
“Oh.” And then he did laugh. Because it was funny. And because it felt so good to smile.
She squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable in the chair. “Maybe I could lie on top of the blanket,” she said, craning her neck to look over him to the empty spot.
“Whatever you wish.”
She let out an exhausted sigh. “My feet might get wet. But I don’t think I care.”
A moment later she was up on the bed, lying on the blanket. He was, too, actually, although most of him was under a second quilt; he supposed they’d wanted to leave his leg open to the air.
She yawned again.
“Honoria,” he whispered.
“Mmmm?”
“Thank you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
A moment went by, and then he said, because he had to, “I’m glad you were here.”
“Me, too,” she said sleepily. “Me, too.”
Her breathing slowly evened out, and then so did his. And they slept.
Honoria woke the next morning delightfully snuggly and warm. Her eyes still closed, she pointed her toes, then flexed her feet, rolling her ankles one way and then the other. It was her morning ritual, stretching in bed. Her hands were always next. Out they went like little starfishes and then back into claws. Then her neck, back and forth and around in a circle.
She yawned, balling her hands into fists as she stretched her arms forward and—
Crashed into someone.
She froze. Opened her eyes. It all came back to her.
Dear heavens, she was in bed with Marcus. No. That was not the right way to phrase it. She was in Marcus’s bed.
But she wasn’t with him.
Improper, yes, but surely there was a special dispensation given to young ladies who find themselves in bed with a gentleman who is clearly too ill to compromise them.
Slowly, she tried to inch away. No need to wake him. He probably had no idea she was even there. And by there she meant right next to him, side to side, feet touching his. Certainly not on the far end of the bed, where she’d started the night before.
Bending her knees, she planted the soles of her feet on the mattress for traction. First she lifted her hips, moving them an inch to the right. Then her shoulders. Then her hips again, and then her feet to catch up. Time for the shoulders, and then—
Whomp!
One of Marcus’s arms came down heavily across her.
Honoria froze again. Good heavens, what was she supposed to do now? Maybe if she waited a minute or two, he’d roll back to his previous position.
She waited. And she waited. And he moved.
Toward her.
Honoria swallowed nervously. She had no idea what time it was—sometime after dawn, but other than that, she had not a clue—and she really did not want Mrs. Wetherby coming in to find her pressed up against Marcus in bed. Or worse, her mother.
Surely no one would think badly of her, especially not after all that had transpired the day before. But she was unmarried, and so was he, and it was a bed, and he was wearing very little clothing, and—