Andrew swung a leg over the withers, then gave Magic the signal to rise so Ezra could take his reins.
“Magic loves you,” Astrid said, as Ezra led the horse away.
“Hah,” Andrew retorted, making his way up the front steps and into the house, Astrid in his arms. “He loves his oats. He thinks I am a member of his herd, and you too, apparently.”
“You are an idiot, and your horse has more sense than you do.”
How reassuring to hear her scold like that, and he was an idiot. “If you say so.”
“My shoulder still hurts, but not as badly. I’m afraid to look at my arm.”
“You’re bleeding a bit,” Andrew informed her as he took the stairs with her still in his arms. And the sight of blood had never made him ill—before. “I think a knot on your head, the cut on your arm, and a wealth of bruises will be the extent of the damage to you, but I would like to send for Dr. Mayhew.”
“Don’t,” Astrid said as he set her down on a sofa in the sitting room of their suite. “I am sure the good doctor will be looking in on Felicity regularly. He can add me to his usual list of calls at that time.”
“Astrid,” Andrew began as Gwen joined them, “you may have internal injuries.” He remained standing over her, unable to move away even a few paces.
“Andrew,” she shot back in the same repressive tone he’d used, “if I have internal injuries, and if I lose the baby, there is nothing the doctor, or anyone else for that matter, can do.”
She’d put it into words, matching him bluntness for bluntness, which reassured on some level.
Gwen stepped between them and bent to look at Astrid’s arm. “Why don’t we tend to this first, look you over for other injuries, and then you can decide what the next step should be?”
So reasonable, her suggestion, and yet Andrew wanted to pitch his dear cousin through a window and bolt the door.
They were joined shortly by a maid carrying the medical supplies, and another carrying bandages and hot water.
Andrew stayed beside Astrid—and she didn’t ask him to leave—while Gwen cleaned the wound on Astrid’s arm. No doubt it stung, it burned, it ached, it throbbed, and it just plain hurt. When Gwen threaded her needle, Andrew wanted to be sick.
Instead, he laced his fingers through Astrid’s and tucked his arm around her more securely. “Do you want me to hold your arm still?”
“No,” Astrid said, as Gwen knotted the thread, “but don’t let go of my hand.”
As if he could have. When Gwen finally snipped off the last knot and sat back, every freckle across Astrid’s cheeks stood out against her pale complexion, and Andrew’s hand had deep crescent marks where her nails had bitten into his flesh.
“A bath is on the way up,” Gwen said as she sprinkled a white powder on Astrid’s arm. “I’ll wrap up your arm, but you must keep it dry. The dressing should be changed every day. With luck, as much as it bled and as carefully as we cleaned it, it shouldn’t become infected. Shall I stay to assist you with your bath?”
“No need,” Andrew said, cutting off Astrid’s reply. The servants began to troop in with the bath and a dozen buckets of steaming water. “I will see to my wife.”
Gwen shot Astrid a questioning look, but withdrew without further comment.
“My cousin has allowed me the privilege of privacy with my wife,” Andrew said. “So, come along, you.” He rose from the sofa and extended a hand to Astrid—a hand that, to his surprise, did not shake. “I want to assure myself you are not injured elsewhere, and get you into the bath while the water is hot. Shall I wash your hair?” he asked, coming around to the back of her to start on the hooks of her dress.
***
Andrew’s competent fingers began the process of undressing her, and just like that, Astrid suffered an upwelling of self-consciousness. A blush crept past her neck, one Andrew could not fail to see.
They had made that reluctant, desperate sort of love in the darkness, doing things with each other that required trust and intimacy under the blankets. But it had been weeks since Andrew had seen her naked, and in those weeks, Astrid’s body had continued to change.
Andrew’s hands paused on her shoulders. “You are shy of me.”
Of course she was shy of him. He was the only man ever to see her naked, and in his own way, he rejected her daily.
“Ah, sweetheart,” Andrew said on a sigh, “I am sorry.” He brought her against his chest and used the embrace to complete the process of unfastening her dress. She sensed his apology was general, for transgressions past and present, but also future, and that hurt worse than all her injuries put together.