Smt3 The Sum of All Kisses by Julia Quinn

Smt3 The Sum of All Kisses by Julia Quinn

Author:Julia Quinn
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9780062072924
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00


Chapter Twelve

For a moment, Hugh had thought himself whole again.

He was not entirely sure what had happened inside the carriage, but moments after Sarah placed her warm hand in his, she let out a cry and came toppling toward him.

He held out his arms to catch her. It was the most natural thing in the world, except that he was a man with a ruined leg, and men with ruined legs should never forget what they are.

He caught her, or at least he thought he did, but his leg could not support their combined weight, not when amplified by the force of her fall. He did not have time to feel pain; his muscle simply crumpled, and his leg buckled beneath him.

So it didn’t really matter if he caught her or not. They both crashed to the ground, and for a moment Hugh could do nothing but gasp. The impact had sucked the very breath from his body, and his leg . . .

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. Strange how one pain could lessen the intensity of another. Or at least it usually did. This time it did nothing. He tasted blood and still his leg felt shot through with needles.

Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to his hands and knees so that he could get to Sarah, who was sprawled on the ground next to him.

“Are you all right?” he asked urgently.

She nodded, but it was that jerky, unfocused type of nod that said that no, she was not all right.

“Is it your leg?”

“My ankle,” she whimpered.

Hugh knelt beside her, his leg screaming in agony at being overbent. He would need to get Sarah into the Rose and Crown, but first he should check to see if she had broken the bone. “May I?” he said, his hands hovering near her foot.

She nodded, but before he could even touch her, they were surrounded. Harriet had jumped down from the carriage, and then Lady Pleinsworth had run out from the inn, and God knows who else was pressing in, and pushing him out. Finally Hugh just hauled himself to his feet and backed up, leaning heavily on his cane.

The muscle in his thigh felt as if someone had impaled him with a burning knife, but even so, it was a familiar sort of pain. He hadn’t done anything new to his leg, it seemed to tell him; he’d just pushed it to the limit.

Two gentlemen arrived on the scene—Sarah’s cousins, he thought—and then Daniel was there, pushing them away.

Taking charge.

Hugh watched as he checked her ankle, then he watched as Sarah put her arms around his neck.

And still he watched as Daniel swept through the crowd and carried her into the inn.

Hugh would never be able to do that. Forget riding, forget dancing, and hunting, and all those things he mourned since a bullet had mangled his thigh. None of those seemed to matter anymore.

He would never gather a woman in his arms and carry her away.



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