Page 4 of To Heal a Broken Earl
“Damn and blast!”
The door to the bedroom flew open, and a tall, wiry blond man hurried inside. “My lord! I see you’re…in a bit of a predicament.”
“A predicament?” Michael snapped. “What gave you that impression, Hastings? The fact that I’m lying here on my naked arse in a puddle of ice-cold water?”
His tone was sharp enough to cut glass, given the situation was anything but dignified. He cast a glare toward the chair near the bed, where Hastings had left a towel neatly folded for him. If he’d had the sense—or the humility—to ask Hastings to move the chair closer before he climbed into the tub, he might not have slipped trying to reach it.
But pride, as always, had won out over caution.
“Quite right, my lord,” Hastings said, his lips twitching. “Though, had you rung the bell”—he nodded pointedly toward the small table beside the tub— “I might have been able to prevent your current…situation.”
“Help me up, will you?” Michael grumbled.
“Why didn’t you ring for me?” Hastings pressed, moving forward but making no real effort to hide his amusement.
“Because I’m tired of ringing that damn bell like some cranky codger in his dotage, that’s why,” Michael muttered as Hastings helped him to his feet.
Hastings pursed his lips. “Well, you certainly aren’told, my lord.”
Michael shot him a sideways glare. “Glad to hear it.”
Hastings gave a bland shrug. “Cranky, perhaps. Stubborn, most assuredly. But notold.”
“Stop, Hastings—your compliments are making me blush,” Michael said dryly.
Hastings snorted—a familiar sound, one Michael had heard often enough on the battlefield and in far darker places than this room. Without another word, Hastings steadied him, guiding him toward the bed with the same quiet efficiency that had once saved Michael’s life more times than he could count.
Michael clenched his teeth, lowering himself onto the mattress with a hiss. His left leg was throbbing mercilessly.
Hastings, wiping the floor, glanced at him and said with dry precision, “Perhaps next time you’ll ask for assistance, my lord.”
Michael exhaled slowly, his face tightening. “Like hell, I will,” he muttered.
Hastings wisely said nothing at first. Then, with a twitch of his lips, he murmured, “Miracles do happen.”
Michael pointedly ignored his valet’s smart reply. He shifted his weight—and pain lanced through his thigh. His leg had never truly healed—not after the war, and certainly not after he’d been shot, stabbed, and left to drown in a brackish sea cave on the Isle of Wight.
He was lucky he still had it, though some days, it hardly felt like much of a victory.
Seeing him grimace, Hastings added, “You know, my lord, if you would only heed Dr. Enzo Bianchi’s advice, you might not be in such pain. He is much sought after. Even Wellington himself recommends the Italian.”
Michael grunted. “Yes, so you say.”
“When was the last time you allowed me to massage the salve into your leg?” Hastings asked.
“When?” Michael growled, his voice rough with pain. “Surely you remember the last time. Finn woke from his sleep, started howling, and made a quick exit as if he were running for his life.” He grimaced. “My dog ran away because I reeked, Hastings.”
“Aye, I recall,” Hastings said. “Finn hid until mealtime the next day, and that dog never runs from anything.”
“Especially a meal.” Michael rubbed a hand over his face, half in amusement, half in misery.
Finn never missed a meal.
Michael’s mind flickered back to the scruffy, half-starved spaniel he’d found during a mission in France. A special assignment had sent him and his team undercover to hunt down a dangerous smuggler. While inspecting a ship moored off the coast of Brittany, he’d come across a small crate tucked into the hull, housing a trembling, malnourished dog. The crew claimed they’d found the spaniel wandering the woodlands, appearing half-dead.
It had taken months for Finn to trust him—and to get the dog healthy. He had been in the crate, forgotten, for too long, and the dog had little muscle tone. Now, the dog was his constant companion—unless the cursed salve came out. Then loyalty fled faster than French smugglers spotting a revenue cutter.
“Speaking of Finn, where is he? He’s usually sleeping on his bed near the fireplace,” Michael said, glancing toward the empty spot.
