Chapter 6 On Guard #2
They shared a look of amusement, though both were tinged with apprehension as Clara took a cloth, dabbed it with alcohol, and then wiped away at the small, bloody laceration for a better view. Philip swore and gnashed his teeth.
Dear God. If he was behaving this way now, how would he react once she’d started stitching?
Trying not to focus on this, Clara exhaled before pinching the wound shut with her fingers. “Please don’t move,” she entreated him. “This is going to hurt.”
“Yes, I figured as much,” Philip gritted.
Chewing her lip, Clara attempted to stop the shaking in her hands—Lord above, why wouldn’t they stop?
—before she gave up and swiped the bottle of liquor, pressing it to her lips and guzzling a generous swallow.
She coughed at the burning sensation, startled, before drawing a hand over her mouth.
When she looked at Philip, a spike of annoyance blazed through her at the amused disbelief in his eyes.
“What?” she spat. “Am I not allowed a bit of liquid courage?”
“I didn’t say a word,” Philip promised. “If anything, I’m pretending my nurse isn’t getting all muddled.”
Drawing a breath, Clara shook out her hands, rolled her neck, and muttered a terse, “I am not muddled,” before sharply sticking the needle through Philip’s skin.
“Ouch! Zounds!” Stricken—at least a bit of color had returned to his complexion—Philip scowled and clenched his jaw.
Tensing his hands around the fall flap, he drew in several sharp, shallow breaths through his nose, then growled low in his throat once she weaved the needle through his skin.
In and out she worked, surprisingly resolute despite her aversion.
“You know,” she said, deciding to provide a distraction, “for such a pig-headed sort, you’re actually a decent patient. I thought you said you grow faint at the sight of blood?”
Philip snorted, though it came out as more of a groan. “I didn’t wish to spend time with your father’s friends, so I lied. Was that such a crime?”
Clara shook her head, then challenged, “Well no, not literally, but perhaps if you’d been kinder, you wouldn’t be sporting a knife wound.”
“Where is your family?” Philip asked, ignoring her barb.
“Everyone’s asleep. And so long as you quit with your jawing, they should remain that way.”
He sucked in a slow breath, perspiring faintly. “Far be it for me to disagree, but I seem to only hear your voice carrying above the quiet.”
Clara hummed. “Indeed? Well, I could just forego your stitches and embroider irreverent hob across your stomach instead.”
Philip cracked a smile at that, though it appeared as more of a grimace.
The shaking in her hands finally subsided, and Clara ignored how blood—his blood—oozed between the stitches like teardrops. She laced his wound and pushed out a slow breath. “There, now,” she soothed, “I’m almost done.”
She forced the needle through a particularly stubborn section, and Philip swore anew, agonized and pounding his fist against his thigh.
“Sorry,” Clara whispered, wincing. While he swiped the bottle and took a long, hard pull of whiskey, she worked up the courage to ask, “How did it happen?”
Philip coughed, clearing his throat. Lowering the bottle, he feigned ignorance and asked, “How did what happen?”
“Your wound, of course!”
They locked eyes, he alarmed and she exasperated, before Philip finally replied, “I was attacked at the Grey Whale Tavern.”
Clara’s mouth dropped. “The tavern? What on earth were you doing in town when you weren’t feeling well?”
“Seeking to get stabbed,” he snidely said, only to amend, “I wanted a bloody drink, of course! I thought it might soothe my nerves.”
“All right, all right! There is no need for such nastiness. Fie, I would’ve thrown you into the ocean, too!
Presuming that is what happened, of course.
” Scowling at him, she knotted her stitchwork and leaned back with a sigh.
“It’s going to leave a terrible scar, I think.
” Clara traced the line without touching it.
“Men are lucky, though… Scars are a rite of passage, mapping out their masculinity. But for women? They’re a blemish. ”
Dispirited, Clara rose from off the floor. Once she was standing, she tottered before toppling forward, not having anticipated how drained and weak-kneed this ordeal had made her.
Ever quick to action, Philip reached out and thwarted her fall. His hands slid to her waist and held fast, keeping her upright as she dizzily caught his shoulders.
“My apologies,” Clara whispered. His bare skin was clammy beneath her palms, and as their eyes met, she swore she felt him tremble.
Philip promptly released her, behaving as if her very touch had burned him. Swallowing, he shifted on the bed and nodded toward the floor. “I believe I can take it from here, Miss Boyd. Thank you.”
Bemused, she stepped back and smoothed a hand over her gown, flustered as she caught sight of herself in the mirror over his shoulder.
Her eyes were wide and wild, and there were bloodied handprints on her bodice.
She looked wretched, claimed, and briefly, she wondered if this was how her family viewed her—how the world viewed her: uncomely, unkempt, unclean.
Overcome, Clara tore away and moved to the nightstand. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she grumbled. “You don’t want to tear those stitches, do you?”
Frowning, she lifted some strips of cloth and the jar of honey and moved to sit alongside Philip.
Despite her thigh pressing into his, she felt nothing but determination as she uncorked the jar, then dipped her fingers into the sticky substance before smearing it over his injury.
She’d once read that this practice was an ancient remedy, but she had never actually partaken herself.
After finishing, she set to work on wrapping the thin, frayed strips of cloth around Philip’s lower torso.
With the wound covered, she tucked in the tail end and smoothed her fingers over the cloth, the furrow between her brows softening as she looked to Philip with a nod. “That should do it,” she said.
“I appreciate this…truly.” Philip returned her gaze this time, though a painful shyness kept his eyes darting between her face and the floor.
Incensed by his response, Clara rose and turned her back on him.
While she hid the whiskey and honey inside a trunk at the foot of his bed, she warned, “I’d advise that you be more careful, Philip.
Between this misadventure and that highwayman from earlier, if you keep at it, there won’t be any places left for your assailants to stick a knife. ”
In spite of himself, Philip’s mouth quirked into a wry grin. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Boyd. Thank you.”
“Clara,” she corrected. Catching his gaze, she shrugged and amended, “We are familiars, and I am quite literally witnessing you in an improper state of dress. I think we can lose the formality.”
“Yes, I…all right,” Philip agreed. Embarrassed, he moved to grab his soaked shirt. “I apologize if I’ve ruined your father’s floor. Perhaps I can—”
“No,” Clara assured him, “don’t be absurd. It’s not like you could’ve anticipated a knife to the gut, though I am curious what prompted the attack.”
“Well, you know me…” Philip offered a feeble smile. “I’m sure you could think of a few reasons.”
With a delighted laugh, Clara grinned and folded her hands. “Indeed, I could! Just be grateful I’ve never chosen to act on them myself.”
A moment of soft, surprisingly comfortable silence passed between them, and she dipped into a curtsy.
“Good night, Philip. If you need anything…” She hesitated, then blurted, “You may come to my room—it’s the last one at the end of the hall.
You, yourself said I’ve proven to be a decent nurse, so I’d like to think I could assist.”
Holding his ruined shirt against his chest, Philip nodded in disbelief.
Smug, Clara teased him, “Perhaps I am not so silly and spoiled, after all?”
“I-I never said…” Catching himself, Philip’s face melded into a sheepish smile and he chuckled. “Perhaps not,” he allowed. “Good night, Clara. I hope you sleep well.”
Despite it being a dismissal, the redhead beamed and felt a deeply sunny, befuddling feeling bloom within her breast. “You, as well,” she replied. “Please be alive for breakfast tomorrow.”
He gave an amused bow of the head, and then she turned and grabbed a quilt before rushing into the hallway.
Unfortunately, now that she didn’t wish to tattle on Philip for his misadventure, she had a floor to try and clean—more like blot with this poor, unfortunate coverlet—before anyone awoke and became wise to his accident.
Benjamin barely slept that night. In between the aching throb of his wound and befuddling thoughts of Clara, he was also plagued with nightmares of his assailant.
That stranger was the reason he hadn’t sought professional medical help, fearing that somehow word of his survival might get back to him.
Who was that man? And, more importantly, was his cover officially blown?
Despite the dread of a dawn reprisal, none ever came. Benjamin awoke the next morning, still leery and unsettled, and William came in to help him dress.
Since Benjamin had changed into a fresh shirt before bed, he quickly denied the offer, and instead encouraged William to aid in the other garments. He was terrified of his bandages being spotted. In truth, it was a great mercy that he was able to move without any signs of discomfort.
Once Benjamin was fully dressed, he followed William downstairs into the dining room and was surprised to find Jedediah at the head of the table.
Thus far, he hadn’t made many appearances for mealtime, so it was just Benjamin’s luck that the patriarch decided to be there when he was feeling out of sorts.
Fortunately, Mr. Boyd seemed far too distracted to bear him much mind.