Page 38 of To Wed an Heiress
The cut was beginning to bleed more. She grabbed a cloth, batted his hand away, and pressed gently on the wound.
“It really doesn’t look that bad,” she said. “Not something that needs to be stitched.”
“Mercy.”
She liked the way he said her name, even if it was an admonition.
“The faster I get sewn up, the better. Delaying it will only cause me more pain.”
With his good hand he pushed the sewing kit over to her.
“Very well,” she said crossly. “It serves you right if I make a mess of everything. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
He only smiled.
She frowned at him again and reluctantly threaded the needle, even though her hands were shaking. She was still cold and now she was terrified.
Before she began he doused his wound again with whiskey.
“Do you just want to cause yourself more pain?”
He shook his head. “No, but I’ve found that wounds treated with whiskey first tend to heal faster.”
“I’m certainly not going to argue with you. After all, you’re the one who studied medicine. But it seems to me that there should be a better way. One that doesn’t sting as much.”
He took another cloth, doused it with whiskey, and began to blot at the cuts on his face.
“You’re missing a few spots,” she said. “Your face is a mess.”
“And you’re delaying.”
She was, and it annoyed her even more that he’d called her on it.
Chapter Eighteen
“Do you realize that the only time we’ve seen each other is when one of us is hurt?” she said.
He didn’t respond.
Taking the whiskey-soaked cloth, she placed it at the widest part of his wound, hoping that it deadened the skin a little. Unfortunately, she had some experience with being stitched up and she could attest that it was not a painless process.
“Either you’re sewing me or I’m sewing you,” she said. “I would much rather have met you at a dinner party or luncheon.”
She made the first poke into his skin with the needle, feeling nauseated when he flinched. The best thing to do in this situation was to simply finish this task as quickly as possible.
She made two stitches, blotting with the cloth as she went. She felt each stitch as if it were her own flesh she was sewing.
“Or a ball,” he said, surprising her. “I used to attend quite a few of those in Edinburgh.”
“Did you?” she asked. “Were you a man-about-town?”
He smiled. “Hardly. Normally I was always the one to even out a dinner party. Or I followed along with a bunch of friends. However, if I’d had my way I would’ve spent my time studying.”
“Who pushed you to be more social?”
“Friends,” he said. “One in particular, the mother of a fellow student. She’s a lovely woman but I’ve never met a more interfering female.”
She’d made a total of six stitches, each one making her tremble more.
