Page 27 of Tender Blackguard

She noted his hesitation from the corner of her eye, but he did as she said. Slowly and with some effort.

After wringing out the cloth, she turned back to see him bared to the waist and leaning heavily on his elbow where he’d propped it on the armrest. His head was tipped back, and his eyes were closed while his chest rose and fell with deep, intentional breaths. The defined muscles of his chest and abdomen expanded and contracted with every inhale and exhale, and his lean but powerful torso was smeared with blood.

Angling her head, she focused on the wound. It was several centimeters long and was located just below his lowest rib. Dark red blood seeped slowly from the gash.

It had all the appearance of a slashing knife wound.

It did not look terribly deep, but if his lung or any other organ had been damaged, she might not be able to offer much help.

Putting the thought from her mind, she pressed the clean, wet cloth firmly over the wound. It didn’t seem to be bleeding as heavily as she’d feared, which was a good sign. Holding pressure over the wound, she used her other hand to gently probe the area to see if there was tenderness in the nearby organs.

Watching the marquess’s face carefully for any signs of pain or discomfort, she was concerned by the fact that he didn’t react at all, not even to the heavy pressure she placed on the wound site. His eyes were tightly closed, but his breath remained steady and slow through slightly parted lips, and the pulse visible at the side of his throat was strong and even.

She reached her hand to his forehead to check for fever. He was warm but not hot to the touch. As she withdrew her hand, his eyes opened to stare intently into hers. At such close proximity, she was able to see the fine shards of silver scattered throughout the pale blue. Despite his obvious discomfort, his gaze was intensely direct.

“Still here, Mrs. Evans.”

She cleared her throat then lifted the cloth to observe the wound. The bleeding had stopped, at least for the time being. “I’ll need to clean the area and try to assess how deep the damage goes.”

He glanced down, then sucked a swift breath through clenched teeth before tipping his head back and directing his gaze to the ceiling. “Do what you must,” he muttered thickly, “just be quick about it.”

“Would you like something to dull the pain?”

“No. The pain is tolerable and my head’s already spinning.”

She frowned. She didn’t believe he’d lost as much blood as she’d initially suspected. Yet his struggle to remain conscious appeared genuine.

First, she wiped the dried blood from his skin so she could verify whether he’d sustained any other injuries. He remained unmoving throughout, though the pass of the wet cloth gave rise to gooseflesh on his skin. When she was satisfied there was just the one wound, she probed about with her fingers a bit more, even used careful pressure to part the edges of the wound to determine its depth. None of her actions seemed to bother the marquess at all. He remained still and silent. His eyes closed or his gaze averted during the ordeal.

By the end of it all, she was fairly certain the wound was not as deep as it could have been. She suspected the lord’s tightly woven waistcoat might have managed to hinder the swipe of the attacker’s blade, or he simply hadn’t gotten close enough to cause significant damage.

“I’ll need to stitch you up.”

“Do it.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to dull the pain?”

His hard gaze met hers. “The pain is minimal. Just get it done.”

Lark sighed at his terse response but went about threading the needle before bringing one of her candles closer to shed more light.

“Hold still,” she murmured.

He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment but didn’t even twitch at the poke of her needle. The marquess seemed to have a rather high tolerance for pain.

After completing the task and clipping off the thread, Lark rose to her feet. When Warfield shifted as if to rise as well, she placed her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers tensed at the feel of his warm, smooth skin beneath her palm. “Stay put. I’ve got to fetch some things to prepare a poultice to fight infection. Then I’ll bandage you up.”

He looked up at her with a fierce scowl for a moment, and she half expected him to tell her to go to the devil. But then he settled back in the chair again. “If you must.”

She stepped away and started gathering his discarded clothing. “These will need to be soaked. Hopefully, the blood will come out.”

“Burn them.”

She paused with his red-stained shirt in her hand. “Excuse me?”

“Just get them out of my sight.” His gaze was strictly averted as he waved a hand toward the bowl of red-tinged water and the bloodied cloth. “All of it.”

There was more tension in his body now than there had been while she’d cleaned and probed and stitched his wound. And she noted the way he drew deep breaths through tense, parted lips rather than through his nose.

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