“I’m going to have to wash out the wound and disinfect it, and I expect she’s going to find that just as bad. Keep a hold on her, or she’ll probably punch you in the jaw.”
“She’d be more than happy to, even in the best of times,” Kilmartyn said. He whispered in her ear. “One more time, lass. It’ll hurt, but this time I promise it’ll be over quickly, or I’ll throw the bloody sawbones out the window.”
Did he see the faint trace of a smile on her face? He almost thought he did. Until she screamed as the doctor poured alcohol on the wound, her entire body arching, rigid in pain. And then, finally, she fainted.
“About time,” Brattle said. “I’m going to sew her up and she won’t like that either. Keep holding her, just in case she comes to.”
Kilmartyn had no intention of giving her up. He’d asked for her the moment he walked in the door after the police finally let him go, but she was nowhere in the house. When she hadn’t returned in an hour he’d gone looking for her. It was sheer luck he’d come across her as she stumbled home. Home. To him. Perhaps she trusted him after all.
At last the surgery was over. “She’ll do,” Brattle announced, washing his hands in a fresh basin of water. “Make sure she keeps her arm in this sling for the first few days, and have her rest. This kind of thing takes a toll on the body, but I see no reason that she won’t be back on her feet in three or four days.”
“And when will her arm be healed enough for work?” It wasn’t work he was interested in, of course. He wanted to know how long he had to wait before he could get her into his bed.
Not that it had to be his bed, of course. The top of his desk, up against a wall, on the carpet, anywhere he could think of would be acceptable. Except that he liked the idea of curling up on a soft mattress with her, which was strange. He always hated it when his current paramour spent the night. He was a light sleeper, and he couldn’t sleep with someone else in the room.
He wanted Bryony in his room, in his bed. It was illogical, and presumably only a passing fancy, but he looked down at the warm figure in his arms and resisted the impulse to pull her closer.
Brattle looked at him with disapproval for his heartless ways. “She’ll be ready when she tells you so. People heal at different rates, and you’d best leave her be to do so. I’ve brought laudanum for her. She’ll be in pain, and there’s no need for her to suffer.”
Kilmartyn didn’t even notice when the doctor left. Slowly, carefully he let go of Bryony, letting her slip back onto the mattress. He turned to look at Mrs. Harkins, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed. “She needs all that blood washed off her. I don’t suppose you’re going to let me take care of it.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, your lordship!” Mrs. Harkins puffed up in indignation, for all the world like a ruffled chicken. “I won’t be having such goings on, and I’ll tell you that direct. No one’s taking advantage of the poor thing while she’s so bad off.”
“And when she’s better?” he asked with a faint smile.
“It’s a good thing I know you’re funning me,” Mrs. Harkins said with the disapproval of a long-term retainer. “That poor girl hasn’t done you any harm, and I won’t be having you ruining her reputation.”
He glanced back at Bryony. Done him no harm? She’d destroyed his peaceful way of life, confused him, filled him with so much ridiculously impossible need that he was half-mad from it. He took a deep breath. “She’s lucky to have such a fierce protector in you, Mrs. Harkins.”
It was most definitely the right thing to say. The bristles vanished, and she began to look at him with a hint of, was it possible, approval?
“You’ll want to bathe her and change the sheets,” he said, finally pulling himself out of the strange bubble that had seemed to surround his head. “I’ll administer the laudanum as needed, and we’ll leave her in this bed for the time being. That will make it easier on everyone.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mrs. Harkins said in a properly servile voice. She rose, looking at him. Waiting for him to leave.
He wasn’t going to win this particular battle, but there’d be plenty of time in the future. “Very well, Mrs. Harkins. I’ll be in my library.”
“Emma,” the cook said, and one of the maids emerged from the shadows. He hadn’t even realized she’d been there all along. “Go up to Mrs. Greaves’s room and fetch a clean chemise and see if she has a nightdress with loose sleeves.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harkins,” the girl said, moving toward the door.
Kilmartyn rose, and the girl politely stepped out of his way. He, master of his house, was being dismissed by his servants, and he was allowing them to do so.
All for the sake of the spying Miss Russell. He really must be out of his mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHE HURT. THAT WAS all Bryony could think as her mind went swirling around in brightly colored circles. That pain was all through her, but most of all her arm. She tried to sit up, but someone had tethered her to the bed, and through the bright daze all she could think of was Kilmartyn.
She opened her eyes, but that didn’t help. The room was very dark—only the glow of a fire at the far wall provided any light. Not her tiny attic under the eaves, then, unless someone had set the house on fire. She was ready to believe anything.
She closed her eyes again, trying to fight her way through the crippling dizziness. She knew what it was—laudanum. She’d been dosed with it enough when she’d been sick that she’d never forgotten the taste of it. She hated it, and its efficacy against pain seemed just about nil at that moment. If she was going to hurt like hell she’d just as soon be awake for it.
It took a few moments of intense concentration, but slowly she pushed past the smothering mists of the drug, like someone fighting through cobwebs covering a doorway. And she’d been spending too much time cleaning this wretched house if she started to think of things in terms of cobwebs and dust.
She counted in her head, forcing herself to concentrate on pragmatic, mathematical issues. Common sense began to drift back in, and she realized she wasn’t alone in this strange, dark bedroom. Someone was in the chair beside her, and she knew who it was. No one she should find safe and comforting. It was the devil himself.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she turned to look at him. He was asleep, stretched out in a club chair, his long legs propped on a stool. Why had he fallen asleep in her room? Did he think she was going to die? To run away? For some reason his voice echoed in her head, insisting she’d been shot. That was absurd! Why would someone want to shoot her?