Fortifying courage with anger, she turned to Richard. “I’d like to slap you,” she said conversationally, placing the candle on a higher step to illuminate his wound.
“You can’t hit an injured man.”
“Which doesn’t stop me wanting to.” Still, her hands shook and sweaty palms threatened her grip on the knife. She firmed her hold and stretched his coat sleeve tight. She stuck the knife into the sodden material. “Don’t move.”
“What in Hades are you doing?” He jerked away, then hissed as the movement jarred his wound.
“I need to see how badly you’re injured.”
“I could take it off.”
“Won’t that hurt?”
“I can bear it.”
“I’m not sure I can.” She gritted her teeth. The wool parted under the blade. Sirius, bored with the lack of attention, wandered into the darkness.
“You must meet my tailor.” Richard’s sangfroid was unconvincing.
She hardly listened. Her jaw ached with clenching and the rusty stench of blood made her feel sick. “Why?”
“By the time you’re finished, I won’t have a decent coat left. He’ll be in work for decades.”
She didn’t bother pointing out the odds against Richard escaping to need new clothes. “You were always overdressed for the country.”
“By Gad, I wasn’t!” He sounded mortally offended. “I always look comme il faut.”
“In Belgravia, maybe.” A hard tug ripped the sleeve away. His stifled groan resounded in her bones.
“Genevieve?” he asked with no hint of teasing. “Genevieve, speak to me.”
She made herself glance up from the saturated mess of his shirtsleeve. While all she saw was blood, blood everywhere.
“Take a deep breath and listen. It’s only a nick.”
Vaguely she was aware that she should reassure him, not the other way around. “How can you tell?” she asked thickly, her vision flooded with red. She struggled to focus on his face.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. The bullet didn’t stay in the wound.”
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry.
She cried.
“Darling—” He stretched out his good arm and curled her against his chest. For one weak moment, she rested there. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat with ineffable life, welcome proof that he wasn’t at death’s door.
She sniffed and without success, tried to sit up. “I have to clean your wound. Stitch it.”
“To Hades with that idea. My social credit would never survive a pregnant elephant etched into my hide.”
Laughter bubbled up, uncertain, unsteady, but restoring as a day at the seaside. His embrace was strong and sure. When he held her, she couldn’t believe that they’d die without seeing the sun again.
She hid her face against him and struggled for composure. There was a miraculous hollow between his chin and shoulder perfectly shaped for her. “I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s a peony.”
Steeling herself, she straightened and shifted to his wounded side. This time, she handled his arm without swooning. Ruthlessly she tore his shirtsleeve off.
“Oh.” She swallowed the bile stinging her throat.
“Is it that bad?” He watched her with an unquestioning trust that she didn’t deserve.