Margo felt sick again, clear through.
”Not to worry,” Rachel said with a smile. “We’ll take good care of you. Put her to bed, Kit, and feed her when she feels like eating.”
Margo felt like a complete fool when they settled her in a wheelchair. Kit wheeled her back out onto the Commons.
”What happened, exactly?” Kit asked quietly.
Margo told him.
”You were lucky,” he told her when she’d finished “Medieval war horses were trained to kill foot soldiers. If the charger hadn’t been so spooked by the gate, he’d have crushed you. I’ll question the Welshman more closely to see if we can pinpoint more or less when you emerged through that gate.”
Don’t I even rate a well-done for saving that kid?
she wondered miserably.
Evidently not, as Kit didn’t say another word on the subject. He took her back to his quarters and tucked her in, the only concession being that he put her in his own bed and carried his pillow and blanket to the couch.
”Hungry?” he asked, settling down beside her.
She turned away. “No.”
He hesitated, then touched her shoulder. “You did okay, kid. But you have so much to learn … .”
”I know,” Margo said bitterly. “Everyone keeps telling me.”
Kit dropped his hand. “I’ll check on you again later. Call me if you need anything.”
Margo didn’t want anything more from Kit. She was tired and sick and her injuries throbbed and the best he could manage to say to her was “You did okay.”
She muffled her face in the pillow and drowned out all sound of a misery she could hardly bear.
Kit sat in the darkness, nursing a shot glass of bourbon. So close … dear God, she’d come so close, and didn’t even realize it. His hand was still a little unsteady as he drained the glass and poured again. A knock at the door interrupted an endless stream of graphic images his mind insisted on presenting had the confrontation gone even a little differently.