Page 77 of The Bachelor Spy
God was here. Even here.
And He promised never to leave her. No matter the dark.
“How badly is he hurt?”
The faintest smile touched Brandon’s face. And for some very strange reason, she thought the dear man might be … proud of her.
“I cannot say with certainty, my lady. But … his eyes are bandaged, and Dr. Ross has been called for. Lord Astley is being supported by two soldiers who traveled with him from the hospital in France, a Lieutenant Marsh and Private Douglas.”
His eyes.
Grace’s knees went weak, and her fingers tightened on the stair railing.
Frederick loved to read. Loved designing their gardens. Loved looking at her across the breakfast table with those dark, intelligent eyes.
“My lady?” Brandon moved closer, concern evident in his voice. “Perhaps you should sit—”
“No.” Grace straightened, drawing in a shaky breath. She pressed both hands to her stomach, feeling the baby flutter as if in response to her distress. “Where is he?”
“He’s being settled in the morning room as his bedroom is being prepared for him.”
“Of course.” She nodded, her gaze moving down the hallway.
So close.
Grace’s hands quivered. She looked down at them. When had they started shaking?
“The bandages,” she whispered, raising her attention back to the dear butler. “On his eyes. Does that mean …?”
She couldn’t finish the question. Couldn’t voice the fear that was clawing at her throat.
“I do not know, my lady.” Brandon’s voice remained so gentle. “But Lord Astley is home. And he asked for you the very moment he arrived.”
Something in Grace’s chest unlocked at those words. He was asking for her. Which meant he was conscious. Coherent. And wanting her.
Whatever else was wrong, they would work it out together.
Grace bypassed Brandon and hurried down the corridor, her loose hair flying around her shoulders, her breath coming in bursts.
The door to the morning room stood partially open, and the sound of voices tumbled out into the hallway. And laughter.
Laughter?
And then …
Frederick’s voice. Deeper than she remembered, rough with exhaustion, but unmistakably his.
It was one thing to hold letters from her beloved husband.
But quite another to hear the voice she adored best in all the world.
She pushed through the door, trying to prepare herself for whatever she might see.
And there he was.
Her Frederick.
Sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, still in his mud-stained uniform, his face gaunt and shadowed with exhaustion. And wrapped around his eyes, stark white against his olive skin, were bandages.
