Chapter 6 On Guard
Chapter Six
On Guard
When Benjamin was seven years old, he nearly drowned.
Stubborn and determined at that young age, he’d ignored Daniel’s pleas to come ashore.
In spite of the waves growing rough and sweeping his little body farther out to sea, he’d been too proud to cry out for help.
And once he weakened and panicked, powerless to fight against the crashing current, he’d been unable to tamp down that pride and scream.
Daniel came in after him regardless, four years older and a much better swimmer.
That marked only the beginning of his rescues.
Between boyhood and adulthood, Daniel fended off imaginary creatures under the bed, town bullies, and absolutely anything that served as a potential danger to his little brother.
And then once the time came to save Daniel in return, Benjamin found himself incapable—he did nothing.
He failed him. He had failed.
In the end, he’d been reduced to little more than a frightened, drowning child all over again, unable to do anything but watch his brother be destroyed by a dark, seething fate far too vast for his biggest hero to vanquish.
There was no longer anyone there to lend a helping hand, no one left to pull his head above water…
With a wheezing breath, Benjamin emerged from the ocean’s deadly embrace and greedily sucked in gasps of air, faint and disoriented as the stars blurred dizzyingly above him in smears of soft, lambent light.
Treading the waves despite the pain searing through his midriff, he blinked the water from his eyes and scanned the docks. His assailant was gone…
Trembling, Benjamin swam up to the wooden structure and grabbed the edge. If that man did intentionally target him, he needed to return to the Boyd estate, and fast.
Miraculously, his horse was still tethered to the post where he’d left her, so with a pained little groan, he hefted himself out of the water and staggered toward his mount.
When the front door opened, Clara didn’t bother to investigate. She kept reading in the sitting room, absently worrying her thumb over her lips until a sharp, distinctive thud drew her attention.
Alarmed, she raised her head just as Philip staggered into a small table, soaking wet and barely able to hold himself upright.
“Oh…Mr. Ashby!” she exclaimed. Tossing aside the book, she gathered up her skirts and rushed toward him, her hands extending as he slumped to his knees. She caught his coat and drew down at his side. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “How on earth did you get so wet?”
Gritting his teeth, Philip swore and lifted his hand.
Clara peered at the crimson stain and gasped. “You’ve been injured!”
“You truly are a woman of intelligence,” he muttered.
Frustrated, Clara nearly struck him. “Why are you making sport of this situation?” she demanded.
“You are bleeding all over Father’s parquet floor!
Not to mention, the torrents of water!” When Philip spared her a withering glare, she chewed her lip and amended, “You’re right, that was unkind…
” Touching his back, she pressed, “Can you stand?”
“I think so…” Wincing, Philip tried to rise again, but this time, Clara moved underneath his arm, bearing his weight while the two slowly drew to their full heights. “Miss Boyd,” he implored, “I need you to stitch my wound.”
“Me?” Wall-eyed, she scoffed while her face grew bone white. “I barely excel at my own needlepoint!”
“Please,” Philip begged. “I would rather not wait for a surgeon…”
“Whyever not?” Frustrated, Clara spat, “No respectable man has a slapdash, ill-advised surgery, and of that I can assure you!”
“Yes, well last time I checked, I was the one stabbed here,” Philip hissed, “so please leave it at that and help me!”
Clara flinched, nettled by his tone, but nevertheless heeded his command, and started guiding him toward the staircase. “We’ll go to your room,” she decided. “To stay here would risk making a mess—one that I would rather not explain.”
Philip grunted. “Ah. And heaven forbid I ruin your father’s precious floors, correct?” he muttered, stumbling alongside her.
She spared him a sidelong glance. “Alas, I am beginning to see why you were assaulted.” Rolling her eyes, Clara gently squeezed his flank and coaxed, “Come along then…move your feet, one after the other. That’s it.”
Philip leaned into her side, his steps wobbly as they attempted to move faster.
“You are stepping on my foot,” Clara groused.
Despite his tremendous discomfort, Philip laughed. “I have been stabbed, yet your foot is what’s in jeopardy here?”
She huffed and helped him onto the first stair.
“If you keep poking fun at my sensibilities, you’ll soon find a lump on your head, as well.
” Looping her arm more securely around Philip’s waist, Clara grew disgusted once she realized the bodice of her pink, floral-patterned zone front gown was streaked in scarlet and seawater.
So much for not making a mess… Once it was safe to do so, she would find a place to hide her short gown.
Gripping the bloody spot above his hip bone, Philip instructed, “I am going to need a needle, thread, bandages, some honey, if you have it, and a bottle of whiskey.”
Clara hummed, attempting levity as she teased, “Well, you certainly know how to show a girl a rousing good time. That sounds like the start of a good hazing.”
Philip smiled—grimaced?—as they stopped at the head of the staircase. Exhaling through his nose, he implored, “The supplies. Please fetch them.”
Clara was torn on what to do—stay by this clotpole’s side and ensure he made it to his room, or leave said clotpole and head outside to the kitchen—before she frowned and ultimately slipped free of his hold.
“Very well,” she agreed. “Go to your room. I’ll come by once I’ve gathered what you require. ”
She started back downstairs, only to turn and fearfully glance up at him. “Please don’t die,” she entreated, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Before Philip could respond, she turned and rushed down the remainder of the staircase.
By the time Clara returned with the necessary materials, Philip was shirtless and seated upon his bed, pale and sweaty, and pressing on his clotting wound.
Golden candlelight flickered across his features in a shadowy dance, making him look sallow and gaunt as her eyes drifted toward his breeches.
It appeared he’d changed into a dry pair, thank the Lord.
Ruining the silk sheets with his soaked, bloodied clothing would be difficult to explain.
“I collected whatever I could find from the kitchen,” she told him.
“Our cooks and farmhands get injured from time to time, so we keep a medical chest out there.” Determined, she cut across the room and set everything onto his nightstand.
“I see your breeches are already unfastened. Lower your fall front, if you please.”
When she glanced over her shoulder, she frowned at the clear horror in his eyes. “Oh, come now,” she admonished. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before!”
Flustered, Philip was quick to shake his head. “I’m sorry, but I’ve changed my mind… Now that I’ve gathered my bearings, I feel it would be far more appropriate, were I to do this myself.”
Clara turned with her hands on her hips.
“All right, let’s make this plain and simple, shall we?
Either you open up your breeches, and I potentially see your pego and help you, or I let you remain modest and you die from a putrid wound.
” She gestured with impatience. “Hurry up and decide. I may not wish to do this, but I also don’t want you dying in my home. ”
Disquieted, Philip shifted and swallowed, his throat bobbing reflexively. With a few strands of wet, matted hair obscuring his vision, he avoided her eyes and nodded in acquiescence, his body tensing once she took a needle and thread, then lowered to her knees.
While he held onto his fall front in a tight, unrelenting grip, Clara laughed thinly. “You know, whenever I’m usually between a man’s legs, there is a far more pleasurable outcome.”
Philip blanched at her quip, but was too weakened to blush or laugh.
Holding up a hand, she amended, “I know, I know. You think I’m a trollop. Just let me ramble, won’t you? I’m bloody nervous!”
Slowly, Philip’s grimace softened into that of disbelief. “I don’t think you’re a trollop,” he said.
Ignoring his eyes on her, an unexpected warmth flowed through Clara’s limbs and pooled into her stomach.
“Yes, well I’m afraid you’re the only one,” she mumbled.
Properly threading the needle, she exhaled, then gestured to his bloodstained hand.
“Let go of your fall front,” she commanded.
“I can’t stitch you up if your breeches are in the way. ”
Philip swallowed. “B-but—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, you noddy! Let go.”
Hesitant, his eyes darted in between her face and the floor with an acute, boyish panic she would’ve found endearing, had she not been asked to stitch up an actual man’s flesh.
At long last, Philip lowered the material from his stomach, opening his breeches and baring his wound.
Despite the bloodied midriff on display, he kept his indecency covered.
“Keep your hands where they are,” Clara instructed. “Don’t let your breeches move while I’m working.”
“See?” Philip quipped, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. “You’re already sounding like a nurse.”
Clara snorted. Admittedly, his attempts at levity were comforting. Glancing at him, she breathed in, breathed out, then earnestly entreated, “Try not to scream. I don’t know what in God’s name I’m doing, and I’d much prefer that you not startle me while I’m wielding a sharp implement.”
Philip scoffed. “Believe me, I feel much the same way.”