His unwanted fiancée was watching all this with no expression on her face, keeping out of everyone’s way, and he wanted to laugh. He couldn’t have chosen a more useless bride. Then again, she’d hardly been a choice. She was a duty that he had no way of avoiding.
He had more important things on his mind than the woman who was now his burden. He turned back to Emma, watching as the other woman. . . Miss Trimby, he suddenly remembered. . . cleaned her bloody face.
It was almost as pale as the white sheet someone had placed beneath her. He cursed beneath his breath, accepting the tightness in his belly. “Be careful,” he told the woman. “She’s got some kind of head injury.”
“I know how to deal with injuries.” Miss Trimby didn’t bother to glance at him, but Melisande was giving him a look that could have sliced his bollocks off.
“Kindly keep your mouth shut if you stay here, Brandon,” she snapped, trying to pull the wet, blood-soaked jacket down her arms. “But I take leave to tell you that you are an arrogant bully, forcing your way on helpless females.”
“My dear sister—” his voice was a deliberate drawl, “—I have never known anyone less helpless than you in my entire life, and that includes war-hardened soldiers. Except,” he added, “for Mrs. Cadbury, who I imagine could rule the world if given half a chance.”
Melisande’s grim expression softened infinitesimally. “You’re not as big an idiot as I thought you,” she said, forcing Brandon to release Emma’s hand so she could free her from the jacket. “There we go. Miss Bonham, woul
d you please hand me a clean rag? I want to get the blood and mud off her arms.”
Miss Trimby stepped forward, a fresh rag in her hand. “Frances is unused to this sort of thing,” she said. “I think it best she sit by the fire while we take care of this woman.” She looked down at Emma’s limp body, and Brandon waited for some snippy, disparaging comment—after all there was no chance she wasn’t fully aware of Emma’s history. If she dared pass judgment on Emma, he would remove her and her charge from the room by force.
“She’s a strong woman,” Miss Trimby continued. “I admire strong women.”
“But Marnie. . .” came his fiancée’s soft voice. “You know what she was!”
Miss Trimby cast her a quelling glance. “I do not feel we are in a place to judge,” she said. “Let she who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Oh, Christ, was he going to be leg-shackled to a religious fanatic? Now was not the time to worry about it, not when Emma was making an occasional soft, distressed sound, her hand jerking in his. He rose, looking over into the wound, ignoring Melisande’s hiss of disapproval. “It could be worse,” he said. “She’s got a deep little cut across her eyebrow—those always look worse than they are. She’ll need stitches, however. Are you up to it, or would you rather I did it?”
“I am perfectly capable of setting stitches, Brandon. I’ve done it more times than I can count. And now that you know what’s wrong with her you could always. . .”
He sat down again before she could continue her helpful suggestion. “We’ll need some laudanum for her to help with the pain. You must have some on hand.”
“No.” The word was soft, a little hoarse, but very, very clear. Emma opened her eyes. “I don’t need it.”
“It’s going to hurt like the. . . like the dickens,” he amended. “You’ll need something to take the edge off it.”
“No!” It was only a whisper, but it was firm and clear. Her eyes were still closed, and there was dried blood stuck to her eyelashes.
“I could make you.”
“You will do no such thing!” Melisande forced herself between them. “Don’t worry, Emma, my dear, I won’t let him.”
His irrational panic had now turned to annoyance and frustration. He knew exactly what she needed, and he could take care of her with a great deal more dispatch than Melisande was offering. “You’re being a fool,” he said, more to Melisande than to Emma, since his sister-in-law would be the one to enforce it. “There’s no need for her to suffer needlessly. . .”
“We are in agreement that Emma is a strong woman, are we not? She has little fear of physical pain. You may distract her while I take care of the wound.”
“Oh, may I?” he countered, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “What would Benedick say if he knew you were going to torture your friend unnecessarily?”
“I agree, my lady,” Miss Trimby said. “Surely she should have something. . .”
“Enough!” Melisande raised her voice, and he felt Emma’s jerk of pain. Oh, yes, she was going to have one monster of a headache. The thought of a needle slicing through her skin made him wince, he who had, on one occasion, had to assist in the amputation of a soldier’s leg and done so with sang-froid, and he opened his mouth for one more protest, when Melisande silenced him for once and for all.
“If you were in her position, would you want me to dose you with opium?”
He stiffened. “The situations are entirely different.”
“No,” said his sister-in-law, “they’re not.”
He closed his mouth with a snap. “At least get her some brandy.”
“No,” Melisande responded sharply.