“Anything?” his voice rasped, reluctant, desperate hope stifled for both their sakes.
Warrick frowned. “A flailing fish on the line would be more primed to poke.”
“Ah. Damn.” Was there hope for either of them?
“Aye. I cannot decide what is worse—never bedding a fine wench again, or the title ending with me.”
Ed thought back to the lively, determined-their-sons-would-recover conversation between their respective mothers when the two women had visited last, how they cozed over the generations to come—once their “boys” healed. “Or the lifelong disappointed glances for not providing grandchildren.”
“There is that.”
After a full minute of silence, Ed caught Warrick’s gaze. “Hang our mothers’ disappointment.”
Warrick nodded. “Hang the title.”
As one they finished, “Wenches.”
Of a certainty. That’s what they would both miss most, should their bodies fail to cooperate with their parents’ dictates of full recovery and nothing less: Bedding a wench. Wanting to bed a wench.
“I keep telling myself”—Warrick lifted the sheet and shot an irritated look beneath, then let the light covering fall back—“concentrate on walking first. The right lass will no doubt stir things back to life.”
“Least until then, you can attempt to fetch mettle on your own,” Ed grumbled, raising his left hand and giving the distorted fingers a jerky wave. “Never have I claimed any rhythm with my left. And since the horse landed on this arm? Sometimes feels as useless as the one that went missing.”
“Which, my fine Lord Redford, brings us full circle. Again I say— Either of my hands for one of your good legs?”
“Go prig yourself,” Ed said, laughing.
“I shall if you shall.”
He could chuckle about it in the weeks since. For time had been good to him, returning a good portion of the dexterity back to his once-crippled left hand, even if it did ache abominably in cold weather. And his hip and leg? Recovered even better. Though the limp was noticeable, especially when he overdid—as he most definitely could be accused of doing today—it wasn’t horrid. Really, not even something that bothered him overly much. He was simply thankful he’d arrived back in England with both of his lower limbs, and in working order.
And if the crooked fingers or limp bothers your new betrothed?
Then to the devil with her, for Ed knew full well the value of life and was thankful for his, as imperfect as it might very well be.
Warrick hadn’t been quite so fortunate, still praying for first feeling and then strength to return to his legs. Still firmly in that Merlin’s chair when Ed had left London. “Use the lodge,” Warrick had pressed. “Or the cottage. Mother insisted on readying them both for the holiday, hoping I’d make the trek with a few friends. Now, I ask you, what would I do in the country? I have a difficult enough time getting around in London and my doctor is here, along with plenty of amusements close by. Go. Give yourself a few more days’ peace before you descend upon your family in all their noisy, welcoming glory.”
If Warrick could see you now?
Arms—nay, arm—wrapped around a willing lass? Your eager stand the happiest of hammers, primed to poke…your John Thomas jolly to be roused and ready to roger.