The lady lost all patience. "Juggs-open this door! What if the gentleman dies, all because you decided he'd swooned when that wasn't so at all? We have to check."
"He's swooned, I tell you-not a mark on him that Thompson or I could see."
Lucifer gathered every last shred of his strength. If he wanted help, he was going to have to assist the lady; he didn't want her going away defeated, leaving him with the uncaring innkeeper. He lifted one hand-his arm shook… he forced the hand to his head. He heard a groan, then realized it was his.
"There! See?" The lady sounded triumphant. "It's his head that hurts-the back of his head. Why, if he'd simply swooned? Quickly, Juggs-open the door! There's something very wrong here."
Lucifer let his hand fall. If he could have, he would have roared at Juggs to open the damned door. Of course there was something wrong-the murderer had coshed him. What on earth did they think had happened?
"Maybe he hit his head when he fell," Juggs grumbled.
Why the hell did they imagine he'd fallen? But the jingle of keys pushed the thought from Lucifer's mind. The lady had won; she was coming to his aid. A lock clanked, then a heavy door scraped. Quick footsteps briskly crossed stone, heading his way.
A small hand touched his shoulder. A warm, feminine-soft presence leaned near.
"Everything will be all right in a moment." Her tone was low and soothing. "Just let me check your head."
She was hovering over him; his senses had returned enough to tell him she wasn't as old as he'd thought. The realization gave him the strength to lift his lids, albeit only a fraction.
She saw and smiled encouragingly, brushing back the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.
The pain in his head evaporated. Opening his eyes further, Lucifer drank in the details of her face. She was not a girl, but she would still qualify as a young lady. Somewhere in her early twenties, yet her face held more character, more strength and blatant determination than was common for her years. He noted it, but it was not that that held him, that captured his awareness to the exclusion of the debilitating pain in his head.
Her brown eyes were large, wide, and filled with concern-with an open empathy that reached past his cynical shields and touched him. Those lovely eyes were framed by a wide forehead and delicately arched brows, by dark hair, almost as dark as his, cut short to curve about her head like a sleek helmet. Her nose was straight, her chin tapered, her lips…
The sudden surge of sensual thoughts and impulses for once didn't sit well: Horatio was dead. He let his lids fall.
"You'll feel much better directly," she promised, "once we move you to a more comfortable bed."
Behind her, Juggs snorted. "Aye-he's that sort of gentleman, I'd wager. A murderer and the other, too."
Lucifer ignored Juggs. The lady knew he was no murderer, and she now had the upper hand. Her fingers slid through his hair, carefully feeling around his wound. He tensed, then bit back a groan when she gingerly probed.
"See?" She pressed aside his hair so the air touched his wound. "He's been hit on the back of the head with something-some weapon."
Juggs harrumphed. "P'rhaps he hit his head on that table in the Manor drawing room when he swooned."
"Juggs! You know as well as I do this wound is too severe for that."
Eyes closed, Lucifer breathed shallowly. Pain was rolling over him in sickening waves. In desperation, he conjured the image of the lady's face, struggled to concentrate on that and hold the pain at bay. Her throat had been slender, graceful. That augered well for the rest of
her. She'd mentioned a bed-He broke off that train of thought, once again disconcerted by its direction.
" 'Ere, let me see," Juggs grudgingly said.
A heavy hand touched Lucifer's skull-his head exploded with pain.
"Papa, this man is seriously injured." His guardian angel's voice drew Lucifer back to the living. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since last he'd been with them.
"He's been hit very violently on the back of the head. Juggs has seen the wound, too."
"Hmm." Heavier footsteps approached. "That right, Juggs?"
A new voice, deep, cultured, but tinged with the local county accent-Lucifer wondered just who "Papa" was.
"Aye. Looks like he's been coshed good and proper." Juggs-the clod-was still with them.
"The wound's on the back of his skull, you say?"