Page 101 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“You’ll want to lay on your side, sir.”
An exhausted Alexander obliged, rolling with his right arm up. Amber light flared over his cricketer’s body. Lithe, compact muscles, his breeches gapping at a lean waist. She’d been judicious, looking everywhere but the wound. Her barrister-cum-government-man would take a scar with him for the rest of his life. Not the best remembrance of her, but she’d make sure his arm didn’t fester.
“The wound must be cleansed before closing it.” She uncorked the brandy with a softpop.
“Do you want me to do it, miss?” Mr. Baines asked.
This was a test, Alexander waiting and vulnerable, his sodden queue sticking to his muscled back.
“No.” She leaned forward and touched his hip. “Brace yourself.”
Sweat sprang up in her hairline. This would sting something awful. She tipped the bottle. A quick, good dousing and he cursed between clenched teeth. His breath was fast and shallow.
“I can think of a hundred better uses for that brandy,” he said between gritted teeth.
“I can think of a few myself.” She dabbed excess wetness off his arm and his back. “We’ll compare notes another night.”
Alexander’s regal profile tilted toward her, firelight touching the red in his whiskers. There was a rugged, timeless quality about him. A wounded minor king in repose or the demigod who saved her life.
Mr. Baines pushed up on his knees and reached for the glowing knife.
She stopped him. “No, I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure? I’d prefer not to endure this twice should you err.” Alexander’s voice was gruff from pain.
“I will not err.” To Mr. Baines, “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. For everything.”
Mr. Baines blushed.
“Please go home and get warm,” she said. “I will take care of him.”
Home, for the wherryman, was a short walk to Ebb Gate Lane. She saw him out and walked back to her salon, pulling the scarf from her head. Rain stamped her roof. The night was not fit for man nor beast and their venture a fool’s errand. The page of evidence was a soggy lump in her pocket, and her father’s pistol at the bottom of the Thames.
The night had been a disaster.
Alexander was half turned to her. “Ready to brand me?”
“Not really.” She knelt behind him and tossed the wet paper they’d taken from the countess’s warehouse into the fire. “I regret this night. I fear it cost us so much... and for what?”
Tired bronze eyes pinned her. “Never regret doing the right thing, even if you get the wrong outcome.”
What about your blood on my hands?
Orange light danced on his chiseled torso. With glowing skin and a lean muscled form, the rest ofAlexander Sloane appeared hale and hearty and very touchable.
But his eyelids were heavy and his vitality draining fast.
“A blanket... please,” he rasped.
“You don’t want me to take off your wet breeches?”
“I don’t want to move another inch. Besides, I could use a good steam,” he jested sleepily. “It’ll be like a Turkish bath.”
She covered him with a blanket. His head was down and his breathing had slowed to normal, but another painful shock was coming. She reached for the knife and found the handle was warm and the blade hot and ready.
She touched his shoulder.
“Prepare yourself.”
