Her head spun with the change of topic. “I—”
He reached for her slippered feet, running his fingers over the ruined, threadbare silk. “You shouldn’t have left without boots. You should have taken the footman’s.”
She shook her head, looking down at the dirty yellow silk slippers. “I didn’t fit. My feet. They’re too big.”
He pulled her tighter to him. “We’ll find you a pair when we get there.”
“Did you find one for yourself?”
“Luckily, my valet is exceedingly conscientious.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
He looked out the window. “I don’t like traveling companions. He was to meet us at the next inn.”
“Oh.” She supposed he quite disliked this, then. “Where is Sprotbrough?”
He took her change of topic in stride. “The middle of nowhere.”
“It sounds just the place to find a team of qualified surgeons languishing.”
He looked down at her, and at another time, she might have been proud of herself at the surprise on his face. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a sharp tongue?”
She offered a little smile. “Not so boring after all, am I?”
He was all seriousness. “No. I wouldn’t call you boring. At all.”
Something flickered in her chest, something aside from the pain of the bullet lodged deep in her shoulder, something aside from the fear that—despite his brash assurances—she might, in fact, die. Something she did not understand.
“What would you call me?”
Time seemed to slow in the carriage, a path of red-gold sunlight casting his face into brightness and shadow, and suddenly, Sophie wanted desperately to hear his answer. His lips pressed into a straight line as he considered his reply. When he finally spoke, the word was firm and unyielding. “Stupid.”
She gasped. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “I beg your pardon. That horrible man was going to take that boy and do God knows what to him. I did what was right.”
“I did not say you were not also exceedingly brave,” he said.
The words warmed her as exhaustion came on an unexpected wave. She took a deep breath, finding it difficult to fill her lungs. She couldn’t stop herself from resting her head on his shoulder, where it had been before she’d regained consciousness. “Do I detect a note of respect?”
His chest rose and fell in a tempting rhythm before he said, softly. “A very, very soft note of it. Perhaps.”
Darkness had fallen before the carriage arrived in Sprotbrough, which could barely be called a town considering it consisted of a half-dozen clapboard buildings and a town square that was smaller than the kitchens in his Mayfair town house.
They would have a surgeon, though. If he had to summon the man from nothingness, this ridiculous, barely there town would have a damn surgeon.
He cursed, the word harsh and ragged in the blackness as he threw open the door and tossed the step out of the conveyance. John Coachman materialized in the space, lantern in hand, the yellow light revealing Sophie’s utterly still, unsettlingly pale figure.
“I still don’t believe she’s a girl.”
King had held her for more than an hour, staying the blood from her wound, staring down at her long lashes and full lips and the curves and valleys of her body. He couldn’t believe anyone wouldn’t see that she was a girl immediately. But he said nothing, rearranging her on his lap for the next leg of their journey.
“Is she—” the coachman continued, hesitating on the word they both knew finished the sentence.
King wouldn’t hear it spoken. “No.”
He’d promised her she wouldn’t die. And this time, it would be the truth. He would not have another girl die in the dark, on his watch, because he wasn’t able to save her. Because he was too reckless with her.
Because he couldn’t protect her.
He gathered her close and moved to exit the coach, her weight putting him slightly off balance. The coachman reached to help him. To take her from his arms. “No,” he said again. He didn’t want anyone touching her. He couldn’t risk it. “I have her.”
Once on the ground, he straightened, finding the curious gaze of a young man several yards away, no doubt surprised that anyone had found this place, let alone a peer and an unconscious lady. “We require a surgeon,” he said.
The boy nodded once and pointed down the row. “Round the corner. Thatched cottage on the left.”
They had a surgeon. King was moving before the directions were finished, not hesitating as he looked to the coachman. “Find an inn. Let rooms.”
“Rooms?” the servant repeated.
King did not mistake the question. The other man doubted that a second room would be necessary. He doubted Sophie would survive the night. King shot him a look. “Rooms. Two of them.”
And then he was turning the corner and putting everything out of his mind—everything but getting the woman in his arms to a doctor.
Sophie made knocking impossible, so he announced his arrival with his booted foot—kicking the door of the cottage, not caring that the movement was loud and crass and utterly inappropriate considering he was looking to secure the help of the doctor. Money would make amends. It always did.
When no one replied to his knocking, he tried again, harder this time, and by the third kick, his anger and frustration brought enough force to do what such blows were often intended to do—the door came out of its moorings, collapsing into the house.
King added the damage to his bill and stepped through the now-open doorway as a tall, bespectacled man came into view. The man was younger than King would have imagined, barely five and twenty, if he had to guess. And exceedingly handsome.
“I require the doctor.”
Wasting precious time, the young man removed his spectacles and cleaned them. “You’ve broken my door.”
He wasn’t old enough to have hair on his face, let alone save lives.
“I shall pay for it,” King replied, moving closer. “She’s hurt.”
The doctor barely looked at her. “I’d rather you’d not broken it in the first place.” He indicated the wooden dining table in the next room. “Put her there.”
King did as he was told, ignoring the twinge of discomfort he felt when he released Sophie from his grasp. Ignoring the fact that as he moved down the table, from her head to her feet to give the other man access to her wound, he couldn’t help but trail his fingers along her leg, as though, somehow, touching her could keep her alive.
The doctor replaced his spectacles and leaned over her. “There’s a great deal of blood. What happened?”
“She was shot.”
The surgeon nodded, rolling Sophie to one side, inspecting her back. When he returned her to the table, Sophie’s head lolled. “The bullet remains inside.” He moved to a large leather bag nearby and extracted a bottle and a long, thin instrument that King did not like the look of. “I don’t like that she’s unconscious.”
“Neither do I,” King replied, watching as the doctor peeled away the fabric to inspect the wound.
The young man waved a hand to a nearby cupboard. “There’s a collection of linen in there. And a bowl of water on top. Fetch it. She’s going to bleed quite a bit when I’ve extracted the bullet.”
King didn’t like the sound of that. He retrieved the cloth and the basin and, once he returned, asked, “Are you the only doctor in the town?”
The man looked up at that. “I’m the only doctor for twenty miles.”
King scowled. “Where did you learn your trade?”
“You broke down my door, sir. I don’t believe you are in a position to question my skills.”
King swallowed, knowing the man was correct. “You’re very young.”
“Not too young to know that your . . .” He paused, his gaze tracing Sophie’s outrageous clothing. “Footman?”
“Wife,” King said without hesitation.
�
��Of course.” The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “—that your wife has a bullet lodged in her shoulder that needs to come out. Would you like to wait outside for a more seasoned doctor to happen by?”
The point did not require a response.
“Will she die?” He hated the question and the edge of uncertainty in his tone when he spoke it. She would not die. Would she?
“The shoulder is not a vital locale,” the doctor said. “She’s lucky in that regard.”
“Then she won’t die,” King said.
“Not from the gunshot. But as I said, I don’t like that she’s unconscious.” The doctor raised the bottle over Sophie’s shoulder, “This should help.”
“What is it?”
“Gin.”
King stepped forward. “What in hell kind of medicine is that?”
“The kind that hurts like a son of a bitch.” Before King could stop him, the doctor poured half the liquid in the bottle onto Sophie’s shoulder.
Her eyes shot open and she sat straight up on the table with a wild scream. “Bollocks!”
The doctor smiled at that. “Well. That is quite a greeting.”
Sophie’s eyes were wild and unfocused. “It stings.”
“Indeed it does,” the doctor said. “But you are with us. Which makes me rather happy.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“He’s the surgeon.” King replied.
She looked to him. “He does not look like a surgeon.”
“I’m not certain of his skill.”
She returned her attention to the doctor. “Do try not to kill me, sir.”
The other man nodded. “I shall do my best.”
“And is it entirely necessary to pour that on my wounds?” she added, “I didn’t care for it.”
“There is some speculation that the alcohol helps with infection,” the doctor replied. “I do hope that’s the case, as I would like to think that I haven’t wasted a half a bottle of gin.”
Neither Sophie nor King found the jest amusing. The doctor did not seem to mind, choosing that moment to raise his strange device and say to King, “Please hold her down,” before saying to Sophie, “I’m afraid this is also going to sting.”
King’s hands were barely on her when the doctor began the bullet extraction, Sophie screaming, blood oozing, and King feeling a thousand times the ass for allowing this entire situation to happen. She protested his grip, writhing beneath him, and it took all King’s residual energy to hold her still rather than pull the doctor from her and end her pain.
“Finished,” the doctor said eventually, removing the forceps and showing the bullet to King before mopping up the river of blood that he’d summoned and moving to his bag once more.
King was riveted to Sophie, who had returned to the table, eyes closed, with a sigh that became a low whimper, and the sound nearly broke him. He resisted the urge to strangle the handsome man-child who called himself a surgeon. And he might have, had the doctor not returned with needle and thread. “Madam, would you like a drink before I stitch you up? It might well dull the pain.”
Sophie, already pale, blanched further and nodded. The doctor thrust his chin in the direction of the sideboard. “There is whiskey there.”
That, King could manage. He grasped the bottle and uncorked it. “As this is for business rather than pleasure, I’m not going to put it in a glass,” he said, putting the bottle to her lips. She tilted her head back and drank deep. “Good girl,” he said quietly before she coughed, the alcohol no doubt stinging down her throat.
She shook her head. “Bollocks!”
He smiled at that. “You say that word like it is second nature.”
She looked at the needle. “More coal miner’s daughter than Society lady.”
He laughed, but the sound was cut off by her gasp of pain as the doctor began stitching. King did his best to distract her. “Do you miss it?”
Her blue gaze found his. “Life before London?” He nodded, and she turned away, watching the needle do its work. “I do. I’ve never felt quite right there.” She smiled. “Now I can’t go back. They’ll never have me with a bullet wound.”
He smiled at that, imagining that if Sophie Talbot decided to return to London, she could make them take her back. “What happened at the Liverpool party?”
She met his eyes. “I shall tell you what happened to me if you tell me what happened to you.”
His brows rose. “You know what happened to me.”
“Before that.”
“I imagine you can guess,” he hedged.
“I suppose I can,” she said, and there was something soft in her tone. Censure. Disappointment.
It wasn’t as though King hadn’t been on the receiving end of such disdain before; he had. He’d just never cared. He made his reputation on it. But somehow, this woman made him feel like an insect, despite having done nothing at all wrong.
“Excellent,” said the doctor, seemingly unaware of the discussion around him, snipping the string on his perfect row of stitches and halting King’s thoughts as he produced a pot of honey.
“What is that for?” King asked.
“For her wound,” the man said, simply, spreading the golden stuff over the wound as though it was perfectly normal.
“She’s not toast.”
“The ancient Egyptians used it to stave off infection.”
“I suppose I’m to think that’s a good enough reason to do it now?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
King did not like this man. “Does it work?”
The doctor shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”
King blinked. “You’re mad.”
“The Royal College of Surgeons certainly thinks so.”
“What do they know about you?”
“My membership was rescinded last year. Why do you think I’m in Sprotbrough?”
“I see now that it’s because you’re as foolish as the name of this place.” King grabbed the man by the neck. “Let me be clear. She shan’t die.”
“Killing me won’t help with that,” the doctor said, utterly calm.
Goddammit. King released him. Spoke again. “She shan’t die.”
“Not from the gunshot,” the doctor said.
King heard the repetition. “Not from the gunshot. You keep saying that.”
“It’s the truth. She will not die from the gunshot.”
“But?”
There was a long silence while the doctor dressed the wound. Once finished, he turned away to wash his hands in a nearby basin and said, “I can’t guarantee she won’t die of what comes next.”
Sophie opened her eyes and focused on the doctor, a small smile on her face. “He won’t like that.”
The doctor looked down at her with a smile. “I gather not.”
She blinked. “You’re very handsome for a surgeon.”
The man laughed. “Thank you, madam. Of course, I would have preferred that compliment without the ‘for a surgeon.’”
She inspected him for a long moment before she nodded. “Fair enough. You’re very handsome. Full stop.”
King wanted to break something when the doctor laughed. “Much better.”
It was nonsense, obviously. King didn’t care if she flirted with the damn doctor. She could live here forever if she wanted. It would make everything easier for him. He could leave her and head north and live a life without her troublesome—
The doctor put his hand to Sophie’s forehead, and King could not help but want to hurt someone. Someone specific. “Is it necessary that you touch her so much?”
Unruffled, the doctor said, “If I’m to judge if she has a fever, I’m afraid so.”
“Does she?”
“No.” The doctor turned and exited the room without further comment.
It was not every day that King was dismissed so easily, and he had half a mind to follow the young man and tell him precisely whom he was disrespecting. But then he looked down at Sophi
e. And everything changed.
She was watching him, her blue eyes seeing everything. Her lips twitched in a little half smile. “You see? The universe does not bend to your every whim after all. I might, in fact, die.”
“Of course you’re smug about that.”
“Better smug than the other.”
He shouldn’t ask. Later, he would wonder just what it was that made him ask. “The other?”
The emotion in her eyes was clear and unsettling. “Afraid.”
The word struck at his core, and he was reminded of another time. Another girl. Equally afraid, standing before him, begging him to save her. But he’d been a boy then, not a man. And while she had died, Sophie wouldn’t. “You won’t—”
She shook her head, interrupting the insistent assurance. “You don’t know that.”
“I—”
Her gaze found his again, full of certainty. “No. You don’t. I’ve seen fevers, my lord.”
He remained silent, his gaze flickering to the bandage on her shoulder, to the blood dried on her clothes, on her skin—that smooth, unsettlingly soft skin. It shouldn’t be bloodstained. She was young and wealthy, the daughter of an earl. She should be clean and unscathed. She should be laughing with her sisters somewhere far from here.
Far from him.
He turned his attention from her, hating the guilt that flared, dipping a long length of linen in the basin of water, now pink with her blood. Wringing it out, he began to tend to her stained skin.
At the first touch of the cloth, she started, and he imagined she would have pulled away at the sensation if she’d had the strength. Or the room. Instead she lifted her good arm and captured his wrist, her fingers cool and stronger than he would have imagined, considering the events of the last several hours. “What are you doing?”
“You’re covered in blood,” he pointed out. “I’m washing you.”
“I can wash myself.”
“Not without moving, you can’t.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and he wondered if she would let him help her. He bit back the words that he was somehow desperate to speak. Let me take care of you.
She wouldn’t like them. Hell. He didn’t like them.
But damned if he didn’t want to say them.
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