The evening had settled over the manor like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. Isabella sat in the chair beside Miriam's bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she watched the unconscious woman's chest rise and fall with steady breaths.
Whitmore was bent over Miriam, checking her pulse and examining her with cool eyes. His face was set in concentration, giving nothing away.
Across the room, Leofric leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes boring holes into the back of Isabella's head.
She could feel his gaze like a physical weight, but she refused to turn around and acknowledge him. They had unfinished business, yes, but right now all that mattered was making sure Miriam and the baby were safe.
Even if that baby might be his. Even if looking at this woman made Isabella's heart ache with betrayal and hurt.
Whitmore finally straightened up, tucking his instruments back into his medical bag. Isabella immediately leaned forward.
