A Wicked Pursuit Read Online Free

“More,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please.”
    “I can’t, my lord,” she said. “Not if there’s any risk of you falling unconscious again. I won’t have you choke while you’re in my care.”
    “I won’t,” he said, meaning that he didn’t intend to choke or lose consciousness again. He’d lost his memory of how exactly he’d come to this state, too, with little before being thrown from his horse. He’d already been weakling enough, and his determination must see him through this. “Please.”
    “No, my lord,” she said, smiling to soften her refusal. “I do not believe you are capable of making such assurances at present.”
    He grunted, from pain and irritation. Who was she to refuse him anything?
    “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said gently, hearing only the pain. “I fear things will grow worse before they’re better. We’re going to shift you onto a litter and carry you back to the house, where the surgeon will be waiting to tend to you properly.”
    “Send—send for Sir Randolph Peterson, in Harley Street,” he managed to say. “The surgeon.”
    “We will,” she said, her assurance comforting. He was vaguely aware of the men moving around him, making arrangements with the litter. He knew he could not lie here in the leaves forever, but he was not looking forward to being moved. The woman was right: as much pain as he felt now, he was sure to feel far more before he was done.
    “Miss Wetherby?” he asked. In a way he hoped she wasn’t there, and wouldn’t see him like this. What a fetching picture he must make, covered with dirt and leaves and vomit!
    “She’ll be waiting at the house, my lord,” the woman assured him. “The men are ready. They’ll be as gentle as they can.”
    They might have thought they were being gentle, but Harry felt every jostle and bump with excruciating sharpness. His leg hurt more than he’d ever thought possible, hurting so much that he couldn’t even swear. He was shaking with shock and clammy with sweat, and he could sense the dark cloud of unconsciousness coming to claim him again.
    “You’re a strong man, my lord,” the woman said, tucking a woolen blanket around him as if he were a swaddling babe. “A brave one, too. Here, take my hand, and squeeze it whenever you feel the pain’s too great to bear. I’ll be walking beside you, and I promise I won’t let go.”
    Her hand was surprisingly soft, her fingers warm and more comforting than he’d ever dreamed a woman’s could be. She wouldn’t let him go. He felt certain of that.
    She wouldn’t . . . let him . . . go . . .

CHAPTER
2

    In a straight-backed chair, Miss Augusta Wetherby sat beside Lord Hargreave’s bed, watching over the man who loved her sister.
    The curtains were drawn and the room was dark except for the light from the fire in the grate, the way the doctor had ordered. There was just enough light for Miss Augusta—or Gus, as she was known within the family—to see the earl’s pale, drawn face against the pillow, his eyes closed in the deep sleep that the laudanum had brought.
    Sleep, but clearly no peace. Suffering shadowed his closed eyes, and pain had carved its mark on his handsome features. A day’s growth of beard only emphasized his pallor, as did his dark hair tousled against the white linen. The counterpane covered his splinted and bandaged leg, raised and contained in a wood-and-leather contraption called a fracture-box. There was nothing more to be done for him now, and so Gus sat, her hands busy knitting a stocking as she tried not to think of the danger in which the earl so clearly remained.
    She had been here most all of yesterday and through last night, and now this morning as well. It was hardly expected of her, nor was it necessary, either. Dr. Leslie had brought a hired nurse with him from Norwich, a grim-faced woman in a starched apron named Mrs. Patton. His lordship’s distraught servant, Tewkes, was also more than willing to sit by his master’s