Chapter Twenty-Two
“G ood heavens, what’s happened?” Mrs. Langford rushed to Amelia’s side and took her hand between her warm fingers. “Ye look as if ye’ve seen the devil himself.”
“It’s not so bad as that,” Amelia said. Her uneven voice was not convincing even to her own ears. The sight of a knife-wielding ruffian intent on cold-blooded murder had sickened her. Thank heavens for Logan’s quick reflexes. If he had not dodged the worst of the strike, the coward might have driven the blade into Logan’s back. Might have landed a lethal blow. The very thought of it made her tremble.
Logan joined the women in the front hall, the slightest of smiles curving his mouth as he took in Mrs. Langford’s worried expression. Her gaze had settled on the gaping slash on his sleeve and the tint of blood on the wool of his coat.
“It’s naught to worry yer head over.” Shrugging off the jacket, he glanced at his shoulder. “God knows I’ve had worse.”
Mrs. Langford leaned closer to look at his stained linen shirt. “Who in Hades did this?”
“That is a matter Finn and I will investigate in the morning. For now, the weasel is locked away in a cell. With any luck, he will live through the night.” Logan plowed a hand through his hair. “If Finn was here, I would trust him to guard this place while I paid the cur a visit. But I will not leave you all unprotected. There’s no telling who else is lurking about.”
The thought of ruffians lying in wait twisted Amelia’s nerves into knots. Mr. Hawk, whoever the vile man was, had her in his sights.
And now, Logan was also in danger.
How could Hawk and his accomplices be so foolish as to think she knew the whereabouts of some mysterious treasure? Why, they might as well have expected her to lead them to Merlin’s wand or some other such creation of someone’s imagination.
“I’ll tend yer wound,” Mrs. Langford volunteered, concern in her tired eyes.
Logan shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll pay Doc Stevenson a visit in the morning. He’ll know the best course of action.”
Amelia steeled herself to take another look at his bloodied shirt. When she was a girl, her father had insisted she and Paul receive training in skills he regarded as essential for survival. Proper application of a bandage had ranked high on Papa’s list.
“The bleeding appears to have stopped,” she observed, noting the stain had not spread. “But your wound still needs to be bandaged.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he replied gruffly. “The best medicine for all of us now is sleep.”
*
Sitting on the edge of the feather bed, Amelia brushed her bare toes against the cool floor. Her mind raced, blurring thoughts and memories and fears. Sleep would be elusive, if it came at all.
The moment the would-be assassin’s dagger had sliced into Logan’s arm had been seared into her mind. He’d insisted the injury was minor, but without examining it, she could not be certain. All she knew for sure was that he’d suffered harm because he had acted to protect her.
Someone had her in their sights.
And Logan was paying the price.
The stubborn man intended to tend the injury on his own. She suspected he’d wanted to spare her and the other women in his household from performing the task. Did he think she was too delicate to endure the sight of blood?
Moonlight through the curtains cast shadows against the walls. Try as she might to distract herself with the play of light and dark against the wood paneling, her thoughts kept leading back to Logan. Wrapping the wound without assistance would surely be difficult. Certainly he would benefit from her help.
Giving in to her instincts, she lit the lamp on the bedside table and donned a wrapper over her prim gown. There would be no harm in checking on his well-being. After all, he’d been injured while defending her. Any decent woman would do the same.
She retrieved a small quilted bag from her traveling case, a long-ago gift from her grandmother. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the ever-efficient, ever-cheerful woman with her. Grandmother Beth had insisted one needed to be prepared for any emergency. If she could see Amelia now, shoring up her courage to enter the bedchamber of a man who was not her husband—not even her betrothed—would she be shocked at Amelia’s lack of propriety? Would the smile Amelia had so cherished fade to a frown?
No, she reassured herself. Grandmother Beth would surely have understood. During her lifetime, she’d never shrunk from a challenge. She’d been bold. Rather fierce, actually. She would agree that Amelia could not allow Logan’s wound to go untended. Her grandmother would expect nothing less from her. Caring for the man who’d become her defender was only right.
The fact that Amelia was drawn to Logan like a flower to sunlight was not truly a consideration.
Or was it?
Bag in hand, Amelia tiptoed along the corridor from her room to his. Somehow, the passage seemed longer than reality, with each step weighted by doubt.
As she reached the chamber, her fingers clutched the handle on her bag. She hesitated for the span of several heartbeats, praying that she would not live to regret this moment. Heaven only knew what Mrs. Garrett’s or Mrs. Langford’s reactions would be if they discovered her alone with Logan at this hour of the night.
Enough of that. She had no cause to be so skittish. She’d survived gossip before. Even in the worst case, she’d come through it with her head held high. She always did.
Squaring her shoulders, she willed herself to rap lightly upon his door.
“It’s Amelia,” she said in a near whisper.
“Is something wrong?” His tone was gruff as he opened the door.
Oh, dear.
Lamplight illuminated his body in a casual state of undress. He had stripped off his shirt and fashioned a makeshift bandage that covered his wounded arm. In place of trousers, he’d fastened a kilt in shades of green and black low on his lean hips. Her mouth went dry.
She pulled in a low breath. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely proper—not even a bit proper, she corrected herself—to enter his room, especially given the fact he was only half-dressed. But it was not as if she were a blushing girl fresh from the schoolroom. It was not as if she had never seen a man’s bare chest. Or a man’s muscular legs. Not that it mattered. She’d simply focus on tending to his injury. That was why she was here.
At least, she could tell herself that. Even if the part of her that longed for his warmth knew her noble motive was not the whole truth.
“Nothing is wrong,” she said quickly. “But I will not be able to rest until I know that you’re well.”
“Well enough. Ye’ve no need to worry over me.”
She shored up her resolve. “I beg to disagree. May I come in?”
“Never let it be said I would turn away a lovely lass—a lovely lass wearing cotton to her chin, no less—in the middle of the night.”
He stepped aside, motioning for her to enter. Perhaps too eagerly her gaze drifted over him, drinking in the masculine appeal of his lean-muscled arms and broad shoulders. Sable brown hair, even darker than that on his head, feathered over his chest, tapering over his sleekly muscled abdomen, trailing beneath the top of his kilt.
Logan’s intelligent brown eyes regarded her with a blend of curiosity and a masculine hunger he could not conceal. His mouth quirked at the corner in that endearing way of his. Had he realized the direction of her gaze?
And of her thoughts?
“Ye’re well aware of my reputation,” he said, his voice gruff. “Ye’re sure of this?”
“Quite so. After all, it’s not as if you’re the Big Bad Wolf,” she said, infusing her voice with a lightness she did not feel.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
With that, he closed the door behind her. Hearing the slight creak of the hinges, she gulped another breath as if that might clear her head.
“I understand you are weary,” she began, determined to keep her focus on the task ahead.
His eyes twinkled with good-hearted challenge. “A rogue is never too tired to allow a beautiful woman to—”
Heat washed over her cheeks. “I would not get your hopes up.”
“Tend my injury,” he said, looking rather full of himself. “Making assumptions, are ye now, Amelia?”
“In this case, it is a logical inference.”
“Ah, a man can harbor hope, can he not?” Absently, he brushed a rebellious lock of dark hair from his brow. A streak of crimson marked his temple.
“You’ve been injured…and not just your arm.”
She leaned closer for a better look. So near, faint hints of soap on his skin filled her senses. Forcing her attention to the matter at hand, she examined a small cut not far from his left ear. The laceration was narrow and, thankfully, did not appear to go deep. Had the point of the dagger grazed him during the fight?
His brow furrowed. “’Tis nothing to worry yerself over.”
“My, you are a bit impatient, aren’t you,” she mused. “In my far-from-expert opinion, I’d wager a guess you will survive this wound. But nevertheless, it needs to be cleaned.” Her gaze roamed to the strip of cloth he’d tied around his bicep. “And your arm as well.”
“I’ve already taken care of that.”
“As well as anyone could dress their own wound.”
She set her bag on the bedside table and selected a bottle of antiseptic and a square of clean linen.
His brows lifted again. “Ever prepared, eh, Amelia?”
“In some respects.”
In truth, she was starting to have her doubts. Though born of necessity, the intimacy of the moment unleashed butterflies flitting about wildly in her stomach. She composed her thoughts.
“My Grandmother Beth’s father was an apothecary,” she went on, dousing the fabric with the antiseptic. “Before her marriage, she assisted him in his shop. Later, when I was a girl, Grandmother taught me to have the proper solutions at hand. One never knows when they will be needed.”
“So you just happened to bring them along?”
“Of course. Now be still,” she said and dabbed the antiseptic against his temple. “This may sting.”
The low hiss between his teeth confirmed the truth of her words. “By Lucifer’s ghost.”
Retrieving a strip of bandage from the bag, Amelia set her attention on his injured arm. “Let me take a better look.”
He shot her a playful scowl. At least, she hoped it was playful.
“I presume this will entail that blasted liquid torture.”
“I must say, I didn’t expect so much protest from a man rumored to be an outlaw.”
“Blackbeard never had to suffer yer ministrations.”
“Perhaps if he had, he would have lived longer.”
Logan regarded her for a long moment. “Even after he was decapitated, eh?”
She gave her head a brisk shake. “Sadly, I don’t believe I could have offered much help.”
“But ye’d have given it a valiant try,” he quipped.
“Highly unlikely,” she replied. “Now, hold out your arm. I am going to unwrap the bandage.”
“There’s not a blasted thing wrong with this binding.”
“You’ve made a commendable effort, but the wound must be disinfected to reduce the chance of infection.”
“More of that bloody torment in a bottle?” he grumbled as he extended his arm.
“Honestly, I had no idea you were so dramatic,” she said lightly, even as her heart beat ever so slightly faster. The acceleration of her pulse had nothing to do with his protests, but everything to do with this tempting man who stood near enough to kiss.
Doing battle with her own rebellious thoughts, Amelia affected a serious demeanor and set about her task. “Fortunately, the wound is not overly deep,” she observed after she peeled away the cloth. “But I predict you are not going to like what comes next—”
His gaze locked with hers. “I’d wager ye’re right.”
“As I told you, I need to disinfect the injury.”
“I will make an effort to be brave,” he teased.
Keeping her voice bland, she liberally applied tincture of iodine to the laceration. “I do hope so.”
“Bugger it,” he muttered between his teeth.
“The worst is over,” she said. “Now, I will dress the wound properly.”
“I had no idea I was watching over blasted Florence Nightingale.”
“I consider that high praise, indeed.”
As Amelia set about bandaging his arm, she noticed Logan had grown quiet. His jaw was set in a serious expression, though not one wrought by pain. Rather, he appeared deep in his thoughts.
“I do believe you will live to see another day,” she said cheerfully as she finished securing the bandage.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Humor flavored his tone.
She could not help but smile. Watching over blasted Florence Nightingale. The truth washed over her. He had watched over her, regardless of the danger to his own life.
He had set his mind to keeping her safe. To protecting her. To helping her uncover the coward responsible for Paul’s death.
“The very thought of what might have happened—what might have happened to you—twists my stomach in knots. You could have been killed.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
The teasing spark in his eyes faded, replaced by a look of solemn determination. “I let my guard down. It will not happen again.”
“Logan, tell me the truth. Why do you feel you owed my brother a debt? Why do you feel a duty to protect me?”
He dropped his gaze to the braided rug beneath his bare feet, seeming to mull over her questions. When he lifted his gaze, he caught her hands in his and drew her gently to him.
“Believe me when I tell ye this, Amelia. Before I knew ye, I wanted to protect ye because I made a vow. But now...” He brushed a kiss over the bridge of her nose. “Now, I want to keep ye safe because I cannot imagine a world without ye in it.”
His words stunned her. Emotion welled in the back of her throat. “I couldn’t bear it... if something happened to you.”
Logan’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Ye’ve no worries about me. I’ve come through worse than this and lived to tell the tale.”
“I know you have courage. But that won’t keep you alive.”
“Those bastards will not get the better of me. Ye see, Amelia, I have something they don’t.”
She met his eyes. The irresistible spark that so tempted her flared within their depths.
“And what might that be, Mr. MacLain?”
He cupped her face in his hands. Light as a petal floating in the breeze, he brushed his lips over hers.
Tender.
Delicious.
Maddeningly seductive.
He dipped his head. Softly, he claimed the kiss she so willingly gave.
“Amelia, ye are the best reason any man could have to keep himself alive.”
She drank in the heat of his body. “Is that so?”
“I do not want to leave ye. I want to learn everything... everything about ye.”
She pressed a kiss to his lips, craving every moment of contact. “I do hope that’s true.”
“It’s true, my sweet Amelia. Ye see, lass... ye’re in my heart.”