Page 66 of The Texan Duke
The housekeeper didn’t answer her, merely took the scissors from one of the maids who had fetched her sewing kit from her room. With deft precision, she cut off Connor’s bloody jacket and shirt, revealing the wound.
Elsbeth closed her eyes, surprised at the wave of dizziness. She had never before been affected by the sight of blood. But this was a different matter entirely. This was Connor.
Mrs. Ferguson bent close. “I think it would be best if you left, Elsbeth. Especially before the duchess gets here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said. She was already in for a lecture. How much worse could it be if she remained a few minutes?
The room was growing crowded. She turned her head to see Lara and Felix standing in the doorway. Behind them were a few maids and footmen. She could also see Muira and Anise. Any moment now, the duchess would arrive and demand to know what had happened.
What would she say? Should she even mention her suspicions? Or merely announce that Connor had been shot by a poacher?
She had to figure out something before Rhona arrived.
Someone grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down on a chair that had been moved to the side of the bed. She grabbed Connor’s hand again, clasping it between both of hers, wanting to warm it somehow.
Why hadn’t she become more adept at treating wounds? She knew how to handle burns in the kitchen or minor cuts and scrapes. Where did she go for education on how to handle bullet wounds? And why did she think that she would have ever needed such knowledge?
Who’d done such a thing? That thought had vied with another all the way back to the house until it was a refrain: Was he going to be all right? Who had done such a thing? Was he going to be all right?
Now all she could do was sit and watch as Mrs. Ferguson cleaned the wound.
Connor didn’t say a word. He didn’t moan. He didn’t gasp in pain. He only lay there, his eyes closed, his thinned lips the only indication that he felt what was being done to him.
She wanted to tell him that she would protect him and make sure that no one did anything that would bring him undue pain. Nothing more than was necessary to heal him. She wanted to reassure him somehow, but what words would she use?
It’s all right, Connor. I’m here.
She didn’t know many men, only the ones that visited Bealadair. Or Gavin, of course. She’d cited him as a model for others. But not even Gavin had been stoic and uncomplaining. He occasionally whined about his ailments, and she listened and commiserated when necessary.
Connor still hadn’t said anything. When Mrs. Ferguson began to probe the wound he gripped Elsbeth’s hand tighter.
She wanted to ask him if he would like some Scottish whiskey, something to dull the pain.
“The bullet is still lodged inside,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It will need to come out.”
There was entirely too much blood. It was soaking into the sheets. Elsbeth averted her eyes, concentrated on Connor’s hand.
“Can you do that?” she asked.
“I’ve never removed a bullet,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “But if the physician doesn’t arrive soon, I’m going to have to. The longer we delay the more blood he’ll lose.”
“Do it,” a voice said from behind her.
Elsbeth glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Kirby standing there, his expression somber, his gaze fixed on Connor’s face.
“I can help you,” he said. “I’ve had some experience with bullet wounds.”
What kind of place was Texas?
As if he had heard her unspoken question, Mr. Kirby glanced at her.
“Men are occasionally hotheaded, Miss Carew.”
Within moments, Mrs. Ferguson had arranged what she needed: extra toweling, hot water, two pairs of tweezers—one pair long and one short—embroidery scissors, and a needle and fine thread.
She would’ve moved away except that Connor wouldn’t relinquish her hand.
“I’m in the way,” she said to him, so softly that only he would hear.
