Daniel frowned. “The leather dispatch pouches,” he answered succinctly. “He’s expecting them tonight.”
“But, Daniel, it’s late.”
“No matter.” He winced as he spoke, and Miranda was convinced that his delirium had passed and that he’d awakened. “Merlin requires very little sleep. He’ll be up.”
“I don’t know that I can get there. That stretch of Park Lane has been jammed with vehicles and pedestrians since your mother’s midnight buffet began,” she replied. “And I’ve no way to get there. Rupert hasn’t returned with the coach. And I cannot pay a call on a gentleman at this time of night. Not dressed like this.”
Reaching up, Daniel grabbed a fistful of Miranda’s nightshirt and pulled her closer to him, but there wasn’t a spark of recognition in his eyes as he looked up at her. “Damn it, man, if you’ve no vehicle, then walk. And he may be a gentleman, but Shepherdston isn’t a snob. He won’t give a damn how you’re dressed.”
Miranda begged to differ. Shepherdston would definitely take an interest in having a marchioness appear upon his doorstep in a man’s nightshirt.
“But, Daniel …”
“Look, man, you must go!” Daniel was frantic. “We don’t have a choice. He’s expecting the delivery.” He paused to catch his breath. “You must go in my place and deliver the pouches.”
“Don’t worry, Your Grace,” she soothed. “The pouches have been delivered. You’re tired and hurt and dreaming.”
“With my eyes open?” he demanded. “I don’t think so,” he protested, his words clipped, his tone of voice regal, sounding exactly like the duke he was despite the fact that he was deeply asleep. “Look, my good man, I require your word of honor that you will call upon Lord Shepherdston and deliver the dispatches immediately.”
“But, Your Grace …”
“Very well.” He pushed her hand and the cool cloth away and sat up in bed. “If I cannot have your word, then I shall deliver the pouches myself.”
“No!”
Daniel arched an eyebrow at her as if daring her to contradict him.
“You’ll do yourself further injury, Daniel.”
“Better I suffer further injury than for the pouches to go undelivered.”
Miranda tried to force him to lie back down, but Daniel was as stubborn asleep as he was awake, and he fought to get to his feet. She glanced at the bandage around his ribs and the bandage covering the wound in his side. Afraid that he would manage to undo her needlework this time or do further damage
to his ribs, Miranda relented. “I’ll see that they are delivered.”
“I require that you deliver them personally,” he corrected.
“All right, Your Grace.”
“Have I your solemn word upon it?”
“You have my word, Your Grace.”
Daniel exhaled slowly and painfully sank back against the pillows and relaxed. “Your word of honor that you will act in my stead and report to Lord Shepherdston …”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very good, man,” he conceded. “Remember that you have given your word to a duke and that I shall hold you to it.” He stared up at her. “What are you waiting for, man? Go!”
“Aye, sir,” she replied in quick military fashion. “I shan’t disappoint you, sir.”
“No,” he answered, “I don’t expect that you will.”
Miranda smiled at that. Even in sleep Daniel did his best to have the last word. And she was no better. When would she stop making promises and giving her word of honor to Daniel Sussex?
Never, Miranda acknowledged. Not as long as he had her heart, and Daniel had had her heart almost from the moment she’d met him. Tonight, he had married her and earned it—along with her loyalty and her word of honor. And she had willingly given it to him while he was asleep and believed her to be a man named Micah who had been sent to help him.
That last thought gave her pause. Daniel had been shot. So what had happened to Micah? Who was he, and more importantly, where was he? Daniel hadn’t mentioned him at the duchess’s gala. Had he been there? Or had he gone to deliver the leather pouches to the Marquess of Shepherdston?