“Old Connor knows which side his bread is buttered on,” Mather said with such loyalty, Phoebe wanted to roll her eyes.
“My father is the one who butters Connor’s bread,” the highwayman said.
“Speaking of,” Mather began.
“Please," he cut in, "no more lectures on how my father will whip you should you allow me to stray from the path of righteousness.”
“As you wish, sir. If I must, I can face him with the news that you collapsed from fatigue.”
“I doubt he'll pay that news much heed.”
Phoebe could contain herself no longer. She opened her eyes and said, “Such a paragon of a father would surely have your despicable hide for this foolish stunt.”
Both men looked at her.
She stared back at them. “I heartily wish to meet your father and inform him what a beast of a son he sired.”
“I see that crack to your head did nothing to diminish your wit,” the highwayman said.
Phoebe gingerly touched the gash on her forehead. “My head pounds dreadfully. What happened?”
“You jumped from the carriage.”
She shot him a reproachful look. “I know that. What I do not recall is how I came to be here. How did you find me?”
He raised both brows. “I believe I mentioned you might have done better to leave off eating those honey cakes.”
Phoebe frowned.
“When you jumped,” he explained, “the carriage rocked.”
She narrowed her eyes, but ended up squinting due to the sudden sharp throb in her head. The pain subsided, and she said, “If the carriage rocked, it was your large girth tramping about up top that caused it to do so.”
The highwayman angled his head. “As you say, madam. We shall call it luck, then.”
“Whose?” she muttered. “Certainly not mine.”
“I beg to differ. If I hadn’t discovered you, you might be among the dead instead of the living.”
“Rubbish,” she retorted, then added in a quieter tone when the pounding in her head again thrummed, “Where are we?”
“Glaistig Uain.”
“What is that and where is it?”
“The Green Lady Inn, not far from where you jumped from the carriage.”
“Oh,” she replied, then, “I require some privacy.”
“Whatever you need, Miss Ballingham, just ask.”
Phoebe flushed.
He regarded her more closely. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing that a moment of privacy won’t cure.”
“Mather or I can attend to anything you need,” he insisted.
“Of all the bloody inconvenience,” she burst out. “The day I can't manage a chamber pot myself is the day I meet my maker.”
A distinct stillness cloaked the room. “Considering the circumstances,” he said in a tight voice, “I find that jest in bad taste.”
“Never mind.” Phoebe sat upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Miss Ballingham,” he strode around the bed, “you are to remain in bed.”
“I can't remain in bed when the chamber pot is in the corner.”
She shoved to her feet as he neared. The room spun. Her stomach lurched and she felt herself falling forward. Strong arms grasped her shoulders and pulled her against a solid body. Phoebe recognized the smell of sandalwood and clutched at the lapels of the highwayman’s open jacket. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut against the nauseating sense of spinning.
“B-by heavens.” Her voice, she noted with distress, was not as clear as it had been when she lay in bed. “I am a bit dizzy.”
Phoebe felt herself lifted in his arms. She tightened her grasp on his coat against a sense of falling she knew was ridiculous, but she couldn't keep from burying her face in his chest in an effort to anchor herself.
"Easy," he soothed.
"Stupid," she managed in a mumble.
He didn't answer, and she was eternally grateful when he didn't move. She became aware of the warmth that seeped through his shirt and into her cheek, then the sure, strong beat of his heart. She released a slow breath and he must have sensed that her orientation had returned for he settled her back onto the bed.
Despite the heat of the room, he pulled the blankets up to her chin then began a methodical tucking in of the blankets around her. When he bent over her and switched to the other side, she found herself staring at his angled profile. A hint of whiskers shadowed his jaw, giving him a dangerous look that had been absent when he'd appeared in her carriage. His raven dark hair brushed the collar of his shirt. She had the urge to see if the tresses were as soft as they appeared.
He paused and turned his face to her. Phoebe pressed back into the pillow before realizing the action. He lifted a brow and she flushed. Damn the devil, he was pleasant to look upon and knew it—knew she'd been thinking just that. Something flicked in his eyes—understanding—and she cursed him again. He went back to securing the blanket in a business-like fashion until she felt as if she were being mummified.
She squirmed.
“Lay still,” he commanded.