somewhat stricken in years, she had never expected to find herself in such close proximity to a nearly nude, blatantly virile stranger.
Trying her best to take no notice of the broad bare shoulders, the wide chest with its thick wedge of black hair, the muscular abdomen, or— blush! —his navel, which was almost fully exposed, Gabby still, with the best will in the world, could not completely focus on the task at hand. In the course of tending to him, it was impossible to keep her fingers from learning the faintly coarse texture of the hairs on his chest, or stop herself from noticing the heat and satiny smoothness of his skin, or the hardness of the muscles beneath, or the faint musky scent of him. Still, she was determined to take his nakedness in stride. At the moment, he was her patient, no more, no less.
Thus, though she perched rather warily on the very edge of the bed, her manner was calm and efficient as she did her utmost to stop the loss of blood, which was, in her judgment, the biggest threat to his well-being. Both hands, one on top of the other, maintained a continuous pressure on the thick pad of lint and towels she had lain over the still bleeding wound, and she was careful to let her eyes stray no farther than her own hands and the pad beneath them— at least, no more often than she could help. It was the second such pad she had employed in the past hour. The first pad had been soaked clean through.
So much blood. The question that troubled her now was, how much more could he stand to lose?
"If you're trying to torture me, ma'am, you're succeeding very well." Wickham, who had regained consciousness some few minutes after being lain in his bed, watched her out of narrowed eyes. His voice was weak, but a sardonic note was evident nonetheless. Brow furrowed, he moved restively in a vain attempt to escape her ministrations. "Your treatment hurts more than the getting of the wound."
"Lie still," Gabby said sharply. "You only do yourself harm by moving about."
"Considering that you put the hole in me in the first place, I am sure you will forgive me if I tell you that I find your expression of concern less than convincing."
"Obviously you have not considered: if you die, having set yourself up as Wickham, then I am left in no better case than I was with my true brother dead."
"Ah." He smiled a little, although the effort obviously cost him. "Then I perceive I may safely trust my well-being to your hands."
"I am sorry to say that you may."
"Ow!"
The exclamation came as she shifted her position to apply pressure directly over the place where blood was beginning once again to break through. Beneath her palm, she could feel the telltale warm dampness….
"Just bind the damned thing up and be done with it, why don't you?" He shifted again as she bore down relentlessly on the pad. "Pressing on it like that hurts like the devil."
"I would say that you are well served, then." Her voice was cool and untroubled as she continued to apply pressure.
He grimaced, and sucked in air audibly through his teeth. "Oh, would you? No doubt you would greatly enjoy subjecting me to thumb screws, or perhaps the rack, as well?" His gaze rolled around to his henchman, who had about him a helpless air as he hovered beside the bed. "Get me something to drink, Barnet. I'm dry as a desert."
"Yes, Cap— uh, milord."
As Barnet moved away to do as he was bid, a soft rap sounded on the chamber door. Jem, an expression of grim disapproval on his face that had only grown more pronounced since Gabby's claiming of the imposter as her brother, went to answer it. There was a low-voiced exchange of conversation, and then Jem opened the door wide.
"The surgeon's arrived," he said sourly. As the portly, white-haired surgeon entered with a bustle of importance, Gabby caught a glimpse of Stivers and Mrs. Bucknell, their faces worried, among a congregation of servants who seemed to have gathered in the hall outside the earl's bedroom. Under
Trying her best to take no notice of the broad bare shoulders, the wide chest with its thick wedge of black hair, the muscular abdomen, or— blush! —his navel, which was almost fully exposed, Gabby still, with the best will in the world, could not completely focus on the task at hand. In the course of tending to him, it was impossible to keep her fingers from learning the faintly coarse texture of the hairs on his chest, or stop herself from noticing the heat and satiny smoothness of his skin, or the hardness of the muscles beneath, or the faint musky scent of him. Still, she was determined to take his nakedness in stride. At the moment, he was her patient, no more, no less.
Thus, though she perched rather warily on the very edge of the bed, her manner was calm and efficient as she did her utmost to stop the loss of blood, which was, in her judgment, the biggest threat to his well-being. Both hands, one on top of the other, maintained a continuous pressure on the thick pad of lint and towels she had lain over the still bleeding wound, and she was careful to let her eyes stray no farther than her own hands and the pad beneath them— at least, no more often than she could help. It was the second such pad she had employed in the past hour. The first pad had been soaked clean through.
So much blood. The question that troubled her now was, how much more could he stand to lose?
"If you're trying to torture me, ma'am, you're succeeding very well." Wickham, who had regained consciousness some few minutes after being lain in his bed, watched her out of narrowed eyes. His voice was weak, but a sardonic note was evident nonetheless. Brow furrowed, he moved restively in a vain attempt to escape her ministrations. "Your treatment hurts more than the getting of the wound."
"Lie still," Gabby said sharply. "You only do yourself harm by moving about."
"Considering that you put the hole in me in the first place, I am sure you will forgive me if I tell you that I find your expression of concern less than convincing."
"Obviously you have not considered: if you die, having set yourself up as Wickham, then I am left in no better case than I was with my true brother dead."
"Ah." He smiled a little, although the effort obviously cost him. "Then I perceive I may safely trust my well-being to your hands."
"I am sorry to say that you may."
"Ow!"
The exclamation came as she shifted her position to apply pressure directly over the place where blood was beginning once again to break through. Beneath her palm, she could feel the telltale warm dampness….
"Just bind the damned thing up and be done with it, why don't you?" He shifted again as she bore down relentlessly on the pad. "Pressing on it like that hurts like the devil."
"I would say that you are well served, then." Her voice was cool and untroubled as she continued to apply pressure.
He grimaced, and sucked in air audibly through his teeth. "Oh, would you? No doubt you would greatly enjoy subjecting me to thumb screws, or perhaps the rack, as well?" His gaze rolled around to his henchman, who had about him a helpless air as he hovered beside the bed. "Get me something to drink, Barnet. I'm dry as a desert."
"Yes, Cap— uh, milord."
As Barnet moved away to do as he was bid, a soft rap sounded on the chamber door. Jem, an expression of grim disapproval on his face that had only grown more pronounced since Gabby's claiming of the imposter as her brother, went to answer it. There was a low-voiced exchange of conversation, and then Jem opened the door wide.
"The surgeon's arrived," he said sourly. As the portly, white-haired surgeon entered with a bustle of importance, Gabby caught a glimpse of Stivers and Mrs. Bucknell, their faces worried, among a congregation of servants who seemed to have gathered in the hall outside the earl's bedroom. Under
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