When poor Miss Lockhart had been glued to the bed, Phillip’s first emotion had been rage at his children. With Eloise, he’d spared only the merest of thoughts for them until he’d assured himself that she was not seriously injured.
She looked up at him with watery eyes. Am I bruised?He nodded grimly. You may have a blackened eye. It’s still too soon to tell.
She tried to smile, tried to put a game face on it, but she just couldn’t manage it.Does it hurt very badly? he asked softly.She nodded, wondering why the sound of his voice made her want to cry even more. It reminded her of when she was small and she’d fallen from a tree. She’d sprained her ankle, quite badly, but somehow she’d managed not to cry until she’d made it back home.
One look from her mother and she’d begun to sob.Phillip touched her cheek gingerly, his features pulling into a scowl when she winced.
I’ll be fine, she assured him. And she would. In a few days.
And of course she knew exactly what had happened. Something had been strung across the hall, put in place to make her trip and fall. It didn’t require very much intelligence to guess who had done it.Had she been like this with John? Had she taken charge? Had she-
He stopped, his feet freezing into place on the carpet.He had forgotten about John.
How was that possible?For years, every time he’d seen Francesca, every time he’d leaned in for one intoxicating whiff of her, John had been there, first in his thoughts, and then in his memory.