Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I didn’t see that dumb tree.”

He felt an unwilling smile curve up the corners of his mouth. “So, little one, you wanted an accident, but not a real one.”

Shut up, Chauncey! Are you out of your stupid mind?

She turned her head away as she whimpered softly and fell into blessed darkness.

Delaney eased down beside her and took her limp hand in his. A lady’s hand, he thought inconsequentially, studying the slender fingers with their immaculate buffed nails. He unfastened the brass buttons of her riding jacket, not that it would help ease her breathing much.

“Damn,” he said softly, gazing at the fast-rising ugly bruise on her temple. Head injuries were serious business and he had never felt so damned helpless in his life. He was aware of every tick of the clock. Why wouldn’t she wake up? “Elizabeth,” he said softly, but she didn’t stir. To his profound relief, he heard Doc Morris’ stertorous breath as he climbed the stairs.

“Well, Del, what’s all this?” Saint Morris asked as he walked into the bedroom. “It is the English lady. What the hell happened? Lucas muttered about a fall from a horse.”

Delaney rose from the bed. “It’s her head, and she whispered something about her ribs. She took quite a spill. A tree branch got her.”

“Has she been unconscious the whole time?”

“No, in and out.”

As Saint Morris spoke, he stripped off his frock coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Let’s take a look.”

Delaney moved aside, watching with narrowed eyes as the very competent Saint, one of the few real doctors in San Francisco, gently prodded at the growing lump at her temple. Delaney had always thought of Saint as the most substantial man he’d ever known. He had more the look of a lumberjack—barrel-chested, huge shoulders. But his large hands were incredibly competent and gentle.

“She’s alive,” Saint said matter-of-factly. “Concussion, most likely. Damn all these ridiculous clothes women persist in wearing! Get me Lin Chou, Del. I can’t examine her through all of these layers.”

Delaney felt a spurt of relief at doing something, anything, of help. Lin Chou was standing in the corridor with Lucas.

“Missy all right?” she asked.

“Right now Doc Morris needs to get her clothes off. I’ll be out here when you’re done. Oh, Lin, put her in that nightshirt of mine I never wear. It’s in the bottom drawer.”

“Shit,” Lucas said again, studying Delaney’s face.

“Yeah,” Delaney said, running his hand distractedly through his hair.

“What the hell was she doing out on Rincon Hill?”

“You should know,” Delaney said. “Didn’t you tell her maid all of my habits?”

“So that’s the lay of it,” Lucas said thoughtfully. “She wanted to meet you.”

“So it appears. Damn, what’s taking so long?” He swallowed convulsively, picturing her pale face and white lips. It was all his fault, he admitted. If he hadn’t played the elusive fool, she wouldn’t have been forced to go to such lengths.

“I’m a bloody fool,” he said.

Lucas snorted at this, and said, “I’d best go get her maid, Mary. She’s likely worried sick.”

“Good idea, Luc. And don’t mind me. Saint said something about a concussion. I doubt Miss Jameson will be leaving here for a while. Have her maid pack Miss Jameson’s things and her own. They’ll be our guests.”

Delaney wanted a drink but he was loath to leave his post outside his bedroom door. He could hear Saint talking to Lin, but couldn’t make out his words. It seemed a week passed before the door opened and Saint came out, rolling down his sleeves over his muscled forearms.

“Well? How is she?”

“The tree branch won,” Saint said. “She’ll live, Del, but you’ve got yourself a boarder for a while. Can’t let you move her, not with that concussion. As for her ribs, as far as I can tell, she may have cracked a couple. She won’t be feeling like waltzing much for the next couple of weeks.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Nope, and it’s probably just as well. Lin told me you’ve a store of laudanum. She’ll need it.”