Page 134 of A Portrait of Love

“I’m sorry I missed dinner, love,” he said as they made slow progress up the stairs; Simon might have held her tighter than strictly necessary.

“You were missed,” she said, and then asked, “Why didn’t you send Lady MacLeish for help?”

Simon frowned. “Bella wasn’t with me,” he said. And then it hit him. “Oh, you saw us leave together. She only rode as far as the turnoff to Frampton Park and then headed home. I told her she could stable Bacchus at her father’s.” Simon actually felt the tension drain from her long, slender body. So, she still worried about Bella.

Honey took control of matters when they reached his chambers. She ordered Peel to strip him, inspect him for injuries, and then put him in his bath.

“Your meal will be waiting for you in a quarter of an hour,” she told Simon, before bustling from the room.

A throat cleared beside him and Simon realized that he’d been staring after his wife, likely with a foolish, adoring grin on his face. One look at his valet’s faintly amused, superior expression told him he was right.

Simon was notorious for loathing coddling of any sort.

Until now.

He smirked down at his valet and then dropped into his chair, lifting up one dusty, battered boot. “We’d best do as my lady says and get me into that tub, Peel.”

***

Honey was seated across from Simon at a small table that a footman must have had brought up.

Her husband was wearing only his robe and his gold curls were damp from his bath. His poor feet were bare rather than in slippers due to the bloody blisters he had from toe-to-heel on both feet.

“This cannot be normal,” she said, absently watching as Simon took a second piece of ham from the platter of cold meats Cook had sent up.

“Hmm?” he said.

“That’s twice you’ve been shot in less than three months, Simon.”

He nodded, finishing chewing before taking a drink of wine to wash the food down.

“It’s outrageous,” he agreed. “But last year’s brutal winter and this year’s lingering chill have been damnably hard on people. Both Wyndham and I have opened up more land to hunting—but not near where Saturn was shot. It’s bloody irresponsible to hunt so close to a road, no matter how lightly trafficked it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What can I do? When people learn that one of my horses was killed nobody in their right mind will come forward to take responsibility. I can only hope it will be enough to stop such dangerous behavior in the future.” He cut her an intense look. “That bullet came closer to me than any during the war, Honey.”

There was a sort of wondrous horror in his voice.

Honey just felt sick.

“Can you imagine that?” he asked, visibly stunned. “To spend over a decade at war and then die from a stray bullet on my own land?”

Honey grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard. “Don’t.”

His eyes met hers and he seemed to come back to himself. He laid a hand over hers. “Why, I believe you’d miss me, Lady Saybrook.”

“That isn’t funny,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

His expression shifted from teasing to concerned and he leaned toward her, caressing her cheek. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a damp finger.

She sniffed and pulled away. “Nothing.”

But he wouldn’t release her. “Don’t cry, Honey.” He stood and pulled her up and into his arms. “I didn’t mean to worry you—the bullet didn’t hit me. I’m fine. I’ve always been fortunate when it comes to bullets—it’s cannons and cannon balls I have to worry about, and there aren’t many of them in East Shropshire.”

Her tears were running freely now, and she pushed her face into his neck. “This bullet didn’t hit you, but the last one did, Simon.”

She felt him chuckle. “So, it did. I’m guessing I’ve now had my full complement of stray bullets, love. Please don’t cry, Honey.” He held her at arm’s length, tipping her face toward his. “It was an accident, sweetheart. And I am as fit as a fiddle—except for a few blisters.” He smiled and brushed a tear from her cheek.