Mrs. Harkins moved closer, a suspicious look on her face. Damn, she was a protective old bat. “I think brandy is a good idea, don’t you, Mrs. Harkins?” he said in a louder voice.
“Unless the doctor brings ether,” the cook replied, and he noticed she didn’t say “my lord” this time.
“I don’t know when the goddamned doctor plans to get here,” he said harshly. He expected the cook didn’t like his language, but that was something she was used to. When it came to her pet lamb she was willing to break all generations of training and stand up to him, but with everything else she was the perfect servant. The more champions Bryony had, the better.
The towel he was holding against her arm was soaked, and he tossed it on the floor, grabbing another and holding it against the wound. That bullet had to come out, and soon. He’d removed bullets before, when he’d traveled in India and run into trouble, but the thought of digging around in her tender flesh made him feel slightly ill. He’d do it if he had to…
“Doctor’s here,” Bertie announced from the door to the room, slightly breathless.
“Then where the hell is he?” Kilmartyn roared.
“He’s climbing the stairs, my lord.
He’s not as young as I am.”
“No excuse,” Kilmartyn said, rising from beside the bed. Bryony had closed her eyes again, but he was pretty sure she was still conscious. Unfortunately.
A moment later the stocky figure of Dr. Brattle appeared in the doorway. “What’s all this?” he said, surveying the sickroom. “I hear your housekeeper had some kind of accident. And who’s this young woman?”
“She’s the housekeeper,” Kilmartyn said. “And she’s been shot.”
Dr. Brattle knew him too well to stand on ceremony. “Awfully young and pretty to be a housekeeper.”
Kilmartyn shrugged. “She needed the work.”
Brattle had already removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves as he surveyed his patient. “So who shot her?”
“I have no idea. And if you’ve finished this endless discussion perhaps you’d consider getting the bullet out of her arm?”
Kilmartyn’s acid tone had no effect on Brattle. “Don’t rush me. I need to see whether I can use ether to knock her out.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because it would take me too long to render her unconscious, and judging by the look of that arm, the sooner I get it out the better. It’s a simple enough extraction,” he continued, sitting down in Kilmartyn’s vacated chair and examining the wound, “and I might be better off just going in and getting it, quick-like, before it has a chance to fester.” He leaned over. “Young lady, can you hear me?”
Bryony opened her eyes for a moment, staring at the doctor with hazy eyes. “Who…” she managed one word, and Kilmartyn broke in roughly.
“This is the doctor, Mrs. Greaves. He’ll tend to your arm. He’s good at what he does—you may trust him. He’s going to take the bullet out, and he’s going to do it right now, without ether. Or we can wait until an anesthetic takes effect.”
He saw her strong little jaw firm. “Now,” she said.
Brattle nodded. “My lord, if you will hold her down, and Mrs. Harkins, you could hold her legs. That’s right. Put your arm across her, my lord, and keep a strong hold of her arm.”
Kilmartyn had taken the seat on the opposite side of the bed, and he leaned over her, sliding one arm beneath her to hold her still, wrapping the other one around her, just below her breasts, to clasp her forearm. She let out a strangled cry—the pain must be radiating down her arm—and he felt his stomach twist. “For God’s sake, man, get the bloody thing out. Fast,” he growled.
Brattle had pulled out a variety of lethal-looking instruments, and he’d put on a thick pair of glasses, further endangering Kilmartyn’s peace of mind. “Don’t rush me, young man,” he said sternly. “My lord,” he added belatedly.
The next five minutes were some of the worst in his memory. She fought him, fought the doctor, and he held her fast, murmuring in her ear, soft, comforting words, endearments, praise for her bravery. He could sense she was trying very hard to hold still, but the pain was simply too much, and for some goddamned pathetic reason he wanted to kiss away the tears that ran down her face.
“Got it,” Brattle announced, holding the bullet up in his forceps, and Bryony slumped back against him. He didn’t let go of her, didn’t stop his soft, soothing litany, some in English, some in the old language his mother had used when he was a baby, and he stroked her forearm with the gentlest of touches.
“About time,” Kilmartyn said, even as he whispered in her ear.
“It was a bit more complicated than I expected. The good thing is she hasn’t broken any bones, and the torn f
lesh should heal quite well. I expect she’ll regain full use of her arm.”
“You’d best hope so.” There was no mistaking the menace in his voice, but Brattle was unimpressed.