Page 19 of The Devil Himself
“For what?”
“Making such a commotion in your club.” Luc’s voice began to fade.
“Luc. I need you to stay awake for the physician. Can you do that for me?” Rys kept his own voice even by sheer dint of will.
“If you need me to, I shall endeavor.” Luc’s lips curved in the faintest smile.
“I do.” He reached up with his free hand to touch Luc’s cheek. “Stay with me, Fitzwilliam.”
“You might— call me Luc. You did before.” Luc was panting like an overheated dog.
The door opened again. “The physician is here, Grey.”
“About damn time.” God knew, half the time the good doctor was actually in the club.
Dr. Grange set his bag down by Luc’s hip. “Let me see the wound, Mr. Grey.”
Luc cracked open an eye again. “May I have some whisky now?”
“A small draught only,” the doctor said. “It won’t do for you to cast up your accounts with your wound where it is.”
Rys allowed Grange to take his place, going to pour Luc a drink. A hard grunt and the rip of fabric told him the doctor was examining Luc’s wound, and Rys found he had broken out in a cold sweat.
Surely Luc would be all right.
“Harris,” Grange snapped. “Bring the whisky bottle. And I will need strong thread and a needle.”
“Right away.” Harris was off and running once more, and Rys paced over to lift Luc’s head.
“Drink.”
“Ugh.” Luc drank as ordered, grimacing as the doctor prodded him.
“I’ll need to stitch you up, though you are lucky that the bullet did as little damage as it did. The danger will be infection, but I will clean the wound well and treat it with a poultice I have, but I’ll use the whisky to cleanse it in the absence of hot water.”
“Do I need to be awake for this?” Luc asked, the pattern of his breathing concerning.
“No, my lord. In fact, it might be better if you are not.”
“Oh good.” Luc’s golden lashes fanned his cheeks as his eyes closed, and he drifted out of consciousness immediately.
Rys stared at his face, which was pale as milk.
He could only pray that Luc actually woke after all the stitching was done.
Luc woke feelingstiff and hot, his body and face on fire, and with pain throbbing in his arm and shoulder. He was thirsty, he needed to piss, and he had no idea where he was.
The slight light from a dimmed lamp showed when he opened his eyes. He was in a decadent bedchamber with gold and cream on the walls, intricate mahogany furniture, and a huge four-poster bed.
And there was the shadowy figure of a man sitting in a chair next to said bed, in which Luc lay.
“Rys?” His voice sounded as if he had gargled rocks.
Rys started up from a doze, he thought. “Luc. Fitzwilliam. How are you feeling?” Rys’s gray eyes gleamed in the low light, the expression hard to read.
“Sore. Thirsty.” He had a mouth that tasted like an army and all of its horses had camped there.
“Let me get you some water. You’ve been a bit feverish. The doctor left some willow bark tea, but you haven’t been awake to drink it.”
