Shirley Kerr (14 page)

Her face went even paler than before, and she was biting her bottom lip.

He rested his hands on her shoulders, gave her upper arms a reassuring squeeze, and leaned close to whisper. “I’d promise not to peek, but it would make things even more awkward if I can’t see what I’m doing.”

She didn’t laugh at his jest, but at least looked a little less grim. “Just hurry up and do it already.”

“Your wish is my command.”

It was only as he bent down to grasp the bottom hem of her shift did he remember she was not wearing stays. Once he removed her shift, nothing would hide her from his gaze. Nothing but her stockings, which offered little protection for her modesty.

Waiting was only going to make it more difficult. For both of them.

He swallowed hard, grabbed the bottom hem, and tugged it up and over her head.

He tried not to look at her intriguing freckles, sprin
kled across her shoulders, back, legs, and other areas no man should see before her wedding night.

He balled up the shift and tossed it onto the dress, and turned his back to retrieve the bundle of bandages from the table. He waited a few seconds after he heard the creak of wood as she got on the bunk, to give her a chance to settle, before dropping to his knees beside the bunk.

Crimson smears stained the creamy skin of her back, across her backside, and spread in a rivulet down her left thigh. Some of the blood had already dried, while more oozed from the torn flesh, a deep gash as long as his index finger running at a forty-five degree angle, halfway down her left cheek.

He’d had only one task to perform tonight, to protect her. He clenched his fists.

He forced a cheery tone into his voice. “Well, the good news is, the bullet grazed you. We don’t have to dig it out.”

“Thank God for small mercies.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow that she grasped with both arms. Gooseflesh had risen on her skin, and there was a fine tremor shaking her body that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

He needed to hurry, get her covered, get her warm. But he’d never personally tended to anything worse than a nosebleed or a cut from shaving himself. What to do first?

Warm. Covered up. Right.

He wrung out a cloth in the hot water and washed her with one hand, immediately drying her with a towel in the other. He draped the blue dressing gown over her
back as soon as it was clean, doing his damnedest not to linger over her smooth, soft skin.

Blood had dripped onto her left stocking, so he untied the garter and slid her stocking down her shapely calf and off her delicate foot. It seemed almost sacrilegious to wad up the black silk, but it was the only way to toss it onto the pile of velvet and cotton near the door.

With the blood cleaned off her thigh, he arranged the sheet to cover her legs and right side and then adjusted the dressing down, so her only exposed flesh was the wound itself and immediately around it, an area smaller than the palm of his hand. He pressed a clean cloth to it, to stop the bleeding, which had already slowed considerably.

Miss Parnell had remained quiet while he worked, her eyes closed as though she wasn’t in a mortifying situation if she couldn’t see it, but now she looked at him over her silk-covered shoulder. “Thank you.”

A hundred replies raced through his mind, from the serious to the sublime. “Your freckles are safe with me,” he finally said.

That must have been the correct response, as she gave a tiny answering smile.

The cabin door slid open and Nick entered, neatly stepping over the pile of clothing without jostling the tray he carried. “Candied plums, brandy, cheese and bread.” He set the tray on the table and lit the lanterns in the gimbals beside his desk and the bunk, tripling the light in the small cabin. “Get her to eat something sweet first, then a little cheese and bread.”

“
She
can hear you just fine,” Miss Parnell ground out.
“No need to speak about her in the third person. And I don’t want any sweets.”

“You were shaking and you’re still pale, Charlie. Trust me, you need to eat.” He poured a small glass of brandy and held it up in one hand, a brown bottle and spoon in the other. “Pick your poison. Laudanum or brandy?”

“Is that the good stuff, or rotgut?”

Nick looked affronted. “My best brandy, smuggled straight from France.”

She gave a resigned nod. “That should help ease the sting.”

Nick knelt on the floor at the head of the bunk with the glass. “Here you go, drink up.”

Alistair picked through the medical supplies while Miss Parnell downed a few swallows of brandy.

She coughed and pushed the glass away. “No more.”

Nick shrugged and tossed back the rest of the glass. Alistair considered asking for a shot for himself, but he needed to keep his head clear and his wits about him. Nick refilled the glass and brought it to him.

“No, thank you.”

“It’s not for you, you dolt.” Nick pointed at the open wound, where Alistair still had his hand pressed. “That would be an especially nasty place to develop an infection. Have to make sure it’s clean.” He knelt beside Alistair and peeled back the bloody cloth, seemingly unperturbed by the deep gash marring her perfect skin. “Afraid it needs stitches, Charlie.”

Miss Parnell groaned.

“I’ll just get—”

“You’re not going to touch me, Nicky.”

“What? Why not?”

She stared at Alistair. “Can you do the stitches?”

He gulped. “I made do without a valet while at school, and sewed on my own buttons.”

“Close enough. Please get on with it. I’m still cold.”

He nodded, and held a needle to the lantern flame.

“Really, Charlie, you know I’ve had a lot more experience at stitching up flesh than Alistair here.”

“Yes, I do know. I’ve seen the jagged scar on Steven’s arm. Pardon me for not wanting similar handiwork on my arse.”

Nick harrumphed and folded his arms.

Alistair threaded the needle.

“That’s not fair. We were at sea during a storm. I can’t help it if the ship was being tossed about on the waves. Would you rather he’d bled to death?”

“Steven loves his scars. Thinks they’re very manly.” She turned back to Alistair. “Are your buttons neat?”

Wordlessly, he removed his coat and held it out for her inspection, featuring the section where he’d sewn three buttons back on.

“Divine. Get out, Nicky.”

“But—”

“I love you dearly, Nicky, but if you don’t get out right now, I may have to hurt you.”

He sputtered one more protest.

Alistair rolled up his shirtsleeves. “You heard the lady. Go.”

“I still have my knife, Nicky.”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose having
your fiancé do this is best.” Nick scooped up the soiled clothing, but lingered near the door.

Alistair was ready to reach for Miss Parnell’s knife himself. “Will you leave already?” He needed to get this over with before he lost his nerve, or did something unforgivable.

Nick stepped out but stuck his head back in. “Make sure she eats something before you let her pass out,” he said before closing the door.

As if Alistair had any control over what she did.

“Finally.” She turned her gaze back on him. “One more thing before you use the needle.” She licked her bottom lip. “I think I need a little more Dutch courage.”

“Of course, Miss Parnell.” Alistair refilled the brandy glass and brought it to her. “Anything else?”

“Formality seems a bit silly under the circumstances. You should probably call me Charlotte.”

“Not Charlie?”

“I’m going to strangle the next person who calls me Charlie.”

He smiled. “Then we have much in common, since I have often felt the urge to strangle Nick.” He helped her rise up so she could drink. “You should address me as Alistair, then.”

She coughed, but didn’t let him take away the glass until she had downed all the brandy in it. “I’m ready, Alistair. Let’s get this over with.”

He made sure he had all the supplies close at hand. Looking at the assortment of instruments and bandages and powders reminded him of two years ago, when a surgeon had treated his father after a duel. Intrigued by
the science of treating the wound, a gash on the arm from a pistol ball, Alistair had bombarded the surgeon with questions. He’d never expected to actually put the knowledge into practice.

He worked as quickly and smoothly as he could. His stomach clenched in sympathetic pain with every strained gasp and muffled yelp, but Charlotte did not ask him to stop. Nor did she ease her white-knuckled grip on the pillow.

By the time he finished, her face was as white as the pillowcase, her breathing ragged. His wasn’t much smoother. He pressed a square of folded cloth over the neat row of ten stitches, a long strip of cotton in his other hand, and pondered how best to apply it.

“I need you to rise up a little so I can wrap this around you.” He guided her with his hands on her hips, and did his best not to let his touch on her silky skin cross over to a caress. With enough clearance between her and the mattress to slide his hand beneath her, he wrapped the strip around her twice to hold the bandage in place and tied it off. She slumped down to the mattress, shaking and pale.

“The worst is over, Charlotte.” He draped the dressing gown down the length of her back and helped her work her arms into the sleeves.

“For tonight, at any rate.”

“How’s that?”

She pushed up to her knees, closed the gown around herself and tied the sash with shaking hands. “For the next fortnight at least, every time I try to sit down, I will be forcibly reminded of my failure tonight.” She gave a slow shake of her head.

“A setback, certainly, but not a failure.”
He
was the only one who had failed tonight.

She put her hands on her hips. “How do you figure that? Not only did I not get the snuffbox, I’m no longer certain who does possess it. Did the smoking man find it before Toussaint interrupted him, or is it still hidden in Toussaint’s study?”

He rested his hands on his hips. “A sword is not a sword until it’s been tempered in fire.”

“Fire, eh? Well, I’ve certainly been branded.” She held her hand out, and he grasped her icy fingers, helping her slide off the bunk until she stood beside him on unsteady legs. She let go of his hand to wrap her arms around herself, shivering.

Alistair hurried to drape his coat over her shoulders. “Nick was right. You need to eat something.”

“N-Not hungry. Where’s a roaring f-fire when you need one?”

“Three bites. You eat three bites, and I’ll find more blankets.”

She picked up one of the candied plums from the dish on the table and stared at it. “I usually try to avoid sweets. I’m stout enough as it is.”

Alistair paused in the act of rifling through the chest at the foot of the bunk. Though he had no siblings of his own, he was well acquainted with Nick’s five sisters and their constant concern about their figures. He shook out the blanket and closed the chest lid.

“At the risk of being ungentlemanly, I remind you that I have seen your figure. Quite recently, and at close range, in fact.” He removed his coat from her shoulders and
draped the blanket around her instead. He drew the edges together in front, over her chest, and tilted her chin up. He waited until her gaze rose to meet his. “So you can be assured that I speak with some authority when I say that your figure is lovely and perfectly proportioned just the way it is.”

Her rosebud mouth formed a silent
Oh
.

He wanted to lean in and kiss her. He went so far as to raise his hand to cup her downy soft cheek, but slid his fingers through her shimmering hair instead, taming the wild sun-kissed curls, removing the last of the hairpins. Her eyes closed and she stayed perfectly still, almost purring, letting him smooth tendrils back from her face, the curls tumbling down her back, sliding across the silk dressing gown.

At last, her hair danced around her shoulders, just as he’d envisioned when they sat in the dappled shade of the elm tree in the corner of the garden, the first day they’d entered into their agreement.

Had that been only two days ago? Now he couldn’t imagine his life without Miss Parnell in it.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand to her temptingly curved mouth, until the sugared plum pressed against her parted lips and her eyes flew open. “Eat, Charlotte.”

She obediently popped the plum in and chewed. Her eyes widened. “This is good.” She reached for another, and Alistair selected one for himself.

“Bread and cheese, too. Don’t forget.” He sliced the cheese into smaller, bite-size pieces and fed one to her.

She accepted it without comment, though she looked vaguely surprised.

Alistair was rather surprised himself. He’d never before felt the inclination to feed somebody else, but now it seemed the most natural thing to do. He fed her another piece, and allowed his thumb to linger on her full lower lip.

The tip of her moist pink tongue darted out and touched his thumb before retreating.

He cleared his throat. “Good, that’s three bites. Do you want any more? Food, that is.”

She graced him with a crooked smile. “Actually, I’m famished. I was too excited to eat much at dinner.”

Alistair pulled out a chair from the table. “Then you should sit down and—” He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry.” He sliced off some chunks of bread, arranged them within easy reach of the cheese and plums, and refilled the brandy glass. “You
stand
here and eat, and I will clean things up.”

He gathered the soiled linen and other supplies he’d used in dressing her wound and set them on the floor by the door.

The bloody water sloshing in the basin and the bloodstained cloths mocked him. If he’d gone over the gate first, it would have been him injured instead of Charlotte. It
should
have been him. He should have been able to protect her. That was the whole purpose for him coming along tonight.

He’d failed her, utterly.

She clutched the blanket closed with one hand. The
hand she ate with shook, and the edges of the blanket danced from her constant trembling.