Chapter 3
The medical tools were stored in the study downstairs.
As they walked through the house to retrieve them, Desmond’s gaze kept flicking to the rosewood display cabinets lining the hallways.
His attention lingered on silver boxes, gilt candlesticks, and ormolu clocks.
All of which would likely retrieve a goodly amount from a London fence.
She pressed her lips together but said nothing.
In the kitchen, they collected soap and water before continuing onward to the study.
There, she went to the cabinet where the tools were kept.
Setting the bag on the desk, she took out the equipment piece by piece.
Once they were laid out, she cleaned them thoroughly with soap and water, just as Father had taught her to do.
“Everything’s in good condition,” Desmond noted, as she gave a second rinse to the knives and needles and tweezers.
“From time to time, villagers come to me for some doctoring. There’s a physician in the village, but…” She cleared her throat. “They’ve said I possess a better bedside manner.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She looked at him as he stood on the other side of the desk, his gaze focused on her cleaning the tools.
“Your hands,” he murmured. “They’re very…skilled.”
Her brows lifted in surprise.
“I’m certain you’re a first-rate physician,” he continued.
“Hold your judgment until after I tend to your friend.” She collected the tools and grabbed the satchel. “We need to go to him. Now.”
They went up the stairs together, turning down the hallway until they reached the open door at the end. Men’s voices rumbled out of the room, including Cyrus’s hard tones. Her steps faltered.
Desmond pressed his hand on her back, and even through the fabric of his coat, her nightrail, and nightgown, the heat of him soaked into her body.
“He won’t hurt you,” Desmond said lowly. “That much, I promise.”
Tipping up her chin, she walked on, until she stood in the doorway of the Blue Bedroom. Cyrus was positioned at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, while on each side stood the other two highwaymen. The injured man lay atop the coverlet, his teeth bared in a grimace.
“She—” Cyrus began.
“Isn’t going to be harmed,” Desmond finished, his voice firm. “In any way.”
“What the hell is that?” Cyrus demanded, eyeing the leather satchel in Clara’s hand. His pale cheeks flushed red.
“A physician’s bag, by the looks of it,” said the man with rich brown skin. His ink-dark gaze held some kindness. “It appears that Hugh’s to have some medical attention, after all.”
“Her?” Cyrus snorted. “Like hell. He’s got to survive until tomorrow night, and I’ve no faith in this mewling little scrap to get him through the next four and twenty hours.”
“Let the lady work, Cy.” This came from the man on the bed—Hugh—as he cracked open his eyes. The rs of his speech rolled with the sounds of Scotland.
“She could kill you,” Cyrus snapped. “One less of us to worry about.”
“I would never deliberately hurt a patient,” Clara said, outraged.
Cyrus took a step toward her, but then, suddenly, Desmond moved between them, shielding her. “I trust Mrs. Ballantine.”
“On the basis of what?” Cyrus sneered. “A fine pair of tits?”
Even though Desmond’s coat covered her, Clara felt stripped just the same.
“Shut the fuck up, Cy,” Desmond said levelly. “Either help her or get out. Gideon and I can handle things from here.”
“And me?” asked the bald man.
“We’ll find the cellars, Liam,” Cyrus said, with a rather unpleasant smile. He stalked from the bedroom, with the bald man quick on his heels.
Clara glanced at Desmond, and then the man with the midnight eyes.
“Your name, sir?” she asked him.
“Gideon,” he said. “Gideon Beaufills.”
“I’ll want a basin of boiled water, Mr. Beaufills.”
“No need for formality,” he answered. “Just Gideon will do.” He gave her a reassuring smile, flashing against the rich brown of his skin.
Something warm opened in her chest at that smile.
“Very well, Gideon. There are clean cloths in the press next to the kitchen. And bring me a bottle of spirits—any kind—from the aforementioned cellars, and a cup.”
“Done.” Gideon strode from the chamber.
Moving to stand beside the bed, Clara smiled at the man lying there. He had close-cropped black hair, threaded with silver. Pain glazed his hazel eyes, but when he looked at her, the lines fanning at the corners seemed to come from humor, not hurt.
“Hello, Hugh,” Clara said to him in her most calm voice. “I’m Mrs. Ballantine. I will tend to your wound. You don’t object to a woman treating you, do you?”
“No objections to a lass tending my wounds,” Hugh said with a tight, strained smile. His rolling Scottish burr was pleasant and warm. “Never trusted male sawbones, anyway. They’re too busy measuring the length of their lancets.”
Despite the situation, a little laugh escaped her. “I’m going to look at your injury. But first, I’ll need to remove these.” She tapped her fingers on his breeches.
“Mrs. Ballantine,” Hugh answered with mock-indignation, “if you wanted me bare arsed, you need not resort to such tactics as having me shot.”
“I’m less concerned with your arse than I am with making sure that the bullet isn’t still lodged in your thigh. Cutting away the portion of the breeches covering the wound might be faster, but I don’t want any potentially dirty cloth to get close to the injury. What?”
She frowned as Hugh looked at her with that same slightly bewildered look that Desmond had worn when they’d gazed at each other outside the attic.
“It’s only…” Hugh tilted his head to one side. “There’s something about you…”
Puzzled, she glanced at Desmond, watching attentively from the other side of the bed. “Help me?”
He gave a nod, and they set about stripping the boots and breeches from the injured man. Hugh groaned and swore as they worked, but followed each curse with an apology for his language in front of a lady.
“I’ve heard worse.” She folded the discarded breeches, though they were torn and bloodstained. Unlikely that they would be salvageable. “I had several male cousins.”
“No brothers?” Desmond asked, as Clara set out a clean cloth beside Hugh.
“Alas,” she said, neatly laying out her tools, “my parents had but one child, and she had the ill manners to be born female.”
“The audacity of her.” Hugh grunted.
Another small laugh burst from Clara. “No one in my acquaintance has ever called me audacious.”
“Facing off against five highwaymen seems awful audacious to me, Mrs. Ballantine,” Desmond said.
“If by facing off, you mean running like a hare, then I suppose I am audacious,” she said wryly, taking the candle from where Desmond had set it. She held the light up and peered diligently at the injury marring Hugh’s bared thigh.
The wounded man fitfully tugged down on the hem of his shirt, covering his groin, but she waved off this gesture.
“Modesty is unnecessary, sir,” she murmured. “When you become my patient, all notions of decorum are declared null and void.”
“All very well for you to say, madam.” Hugh continued to hold the tail of his shirt so that his crotch was obscured. “You aren’t the one with your tackle hanging out.”
“I promise not to harass your tackle.” From the leather satchel, she pulled out a loupe and fitted it into her eye, then bent closer to examine the wound. “Do I have your permission to touch you, sir?”
“If you’re going to fondle my thighs,” he answered, “you’re at liberty to call me Hugh.”
“And you may call me Clara,” she answered.
“Clara,” Desmond and Hugh said at the same time.
A shiver traveled the length of her body.
“A pretty name,” Desmond said.
“A family name,” she replied, “and a commonplace one, at that.” She paid little mind to the taut, hair-dusted muscles of Hugh’s brawny thigh, focusing her attention on the wound. Her hands were light on his skin, but, all the same, her patient hissed in pain.
“Your name sounds like a flower,” Desmond noted. “A shy flower alone in the forest.”
Clara cast him a sardonic look. “Are highwaymen known for their poetic flights of fancy? Or is this simply another tactic to keep me tractable while you invade my house?”
“A little of both.” A sly smile flirted at the corner of Desmond’s mouth.
She quickly returned her concentration to Hugh’s injury. At that moment, Gideon returned to the bedchamber, his arms laden with many things.
“I hope I have all you requested.” Gideon set the ewer, cloths, bottle of spirits, and cup on a nearby table.
Clara examined the array of objects. “This is excellent. Thank you, Gideon.”
A blush stained his cheeks, and it was truly astonishing how these men acted less like dangerous thieves, and more like men who needed something light and gentle in their perilous lives.
He looked at her a moment too long, and a pleat appeared between his brows. Gideon glanced between her and Hugh and Desmond.
“Aye,” Hugh said, “you’re not wrong.”
She’d no idea what any of them were talking about. It had something to do with her, but what, she couldn’t say.
Hugh gave a small groan.
She poured water from the ewer into a basin, then wetted one of the cloths. Returning to the bed, she said, “I need to clean the wound, and then I’ll have a better sense as to what must be done. Alright?”
“You’re very careful,” Desmond said, “for someone who sometimes doctors villagers.”
“All patients deserve meticulous, thorough care. We don’t want the wound going putrid.” She waited for Hugh’s nod before gently but scrupulously cleaning the injury.
Hugh bared his teeth and grunted a little, but he bore her ministrations with stoicism.
“Well?” Desmond asked, once the cloth in Clara’s hand was stained red.
“Will he live?” Gideon pressed.
“They’ll consider it bad news if I am to live,” Hugh said.
“Then,” she announced, stepping back, “I have very bad news.”
All three men exhaled.
“The bullet only grazed him,” she went on. “It’s a deep graze, but it’s fortunate that no arteries were struck. However, it will require stitches.”
“Ah, hell,” Hugh muttered.
“The wound must be kept rigorously clean,” she continued, “to avoid corruption. That also means that you cannot put any weight on it. Moving you during your recovery would be a grave mistake, lest the wound rupture or contagion be introduced to the laceration. It will take several days, at the least. A week, perhaps.”
As she spoke the words, her heart wilted within her chest. They were to be here for a while.
“You won’t need to contend with us so long,” Gideon said, sharing a glance with Desmond she couldn’t interpret.
“I’ve seen wounds of similar severity,” she answered. “A week is the bare minimum.”
“While we’re here,” Desmond said, “we won’t disturb you.”
She kept her focus on Hugh’s wound and the stitches it would require. As of tonight, her own life would need far more than a few sutures in order to return to normal. It might never again return to what it had been.