the circumstances— who knew what her false brother might blurt out in a state of semi-consciousness, or under the influence of pain? —she had thought it best that only she, Jem, and Barnet should attend the injured man.
"Water? Water?" Wickham, spluttering, protested in an outraged tone even as Gabby kept her head turned to observe the entrance of the surgeon. "I want wine, or spirits. Take that away, and bring me something decent to drink."
Barnet, who had tenderly lifted his master's head from its nest to assist him in sipping from the glass he had brought, barely managed to keep said glass from being dashed to the floor by snatching it from Wickham's hold in the nick of time. As a result he allowed the wounded man's head to drop with a little less care than he had shown in lifting it.
"Damn it to hell, Barnet. Are you trying to kill me, too?"
"Sorry, Ca— er, milord."
The surgeon reached the bedside then, rubbing his hands together, bowing at Gabby. "I am Dr. Ormsby, my lady. Now, let me see, what have we here? A bullet wound, I was told? Yes. Excuse me, dear lady, if I could just have a look…."
Gabby relinquished her place without a murmur, and stood up.
"Get off. I have no wish to be mauled by such as you." Wickham glared at the surgeon, who was in the act of lifting the blood-stained pad to peer beneath it. Surprised, Ormsby dropped it and stepped back, looking very much affronted.
"My lord…"
"Don't be such a baby," Gabby intervened, speaking crisply to Wickham. "Of course the surgeon must look at that wound. If you are afraid of being hurt, I am not surprised at it, but it is something that you just must set yourself to endure."
Wickham transferred his glower to her. "I am not afraid of being hurt."
"Oh, I thought that must be it," Gabby said.
He looked at her as if he wanted to throw something at her.
"Very well," he said through his teeth, to the surgeon. "Examine me, then. But have a care what you are about."
Gabby was careful not to smile as Ormsby, now wearing a slightly wary expression, once again lifted the pad away from the wound. He pursed his lips, and probed, and tested the patient's hipbone and abdomen with his hands. By the time he looked up again, Wickham was several shades paler than before, and sweating profusely. Though not a sound had escaped his lips, Gabby was very sure the examination had hurt.
Under the circumstances— the man had threatened her life, and Jem's, after all, among many other notable transgressions— she was not entirely sorry.
"The bullet is still lodged in the wound," Ormsby pronounced, straightening up at last and addressing his words to Gabby. "An operation for its removal will have to be performed."
The look on Wickham's face was pure horror.
"I'll not have any bloody sawbones cutting on me."
"Blue Ruin, milord." Barnet reappeared at the bedside at that timely moment, proffering a silver flask. Wickham, tight-lipped, looked at his henchman and nodded. The flask was put into his hand, his head was lifted, and he drank.
" 'Twill be easier if he's drunk," Ormsby said approvingly, already removing his coat.
"I told you, I'll not have…." Wickham's voice was a growl. He was once again lying back against the pillows, his eyes mere glittering slits, his jaw clenched.
Gabby's lips compressed. It was an effort to remind herself that his recovery was as important as if he were her true brother.
"If the bullet is in there, then it must be removed for healing to occur," she said shortly.
"If the bullet stays where it is, there can be little doubt that the wound will putrefy," the surgeon agreed, handing his coat to Jem and rolling up his sleeves. "Is there hot water? Excellent."
Gabby had indicated the pitcher and basin with a nod.
"There is really no choice," she said to Wickham. He met her gaze for a long moment, during which she was silently given to understand that he considered his current situation to be entirely her fault. Then he looked at
"Water? Water?" Wickham, spluttering, protested in an outraged tone even as Gabby kept her head turned to observe the entrance of the surgeon. "I want wine, or spirits. Take that away, and bring me something decent to drink."
Barnet, who had tenderly lifted his master's head from its nest to assist him in sipping from the glass he had brought, barely managed to keep said glass from being dashed to the floor by snatching it from Wickham's hold in the nick of time. As a result he allowed the wounded man's head to drop with a little less care than he had shown in lifting it.
"Damn it to hell, Barnet. Are you trying to kill me, too?"
"Sorry, Ca— er, milord."
The surgeon reached the bedside then, rubbing his hands together, bowing at Gabby. "I am Dr. Ormsby, my lady. Now, let me see, what have we here? A bullet wound, I was told? Yes. Excuse me, dear lady, if I could just have a look…."
Gabby relinquished her place without a murmur, and stood up.
"Get off. I have no wish to be mauled by such as you." Wickham glared at the surgeon, who was in the act of lifting the blood-stained pad to peer beneath it. Surprised, Ormsby dropped it and stepped back, looking very much affronted.
"My lord…"
"Don't be such a baby," Gabby intervened, speaking crisply to Wickham. "Of course the surgeon must look at that wound. If you are afraid of being hurt, I am not surprised at it, but it is something that you just must set yourself to endure."
Wickham transferred his glower to her. "I am not afraid of being hurt."
"Oh, I thought that must be it," Gabby said.
He looked at her as if he wanted to throw something at her.
"Very well," he said through his teeth, to the surgeon. "Examine me, then. But have a care what you are about."
Gabby was careful not to smile as Ormsby, now wearing a slightly wary expression, once again lifted the pad away from the wound. He pursed his lips, and probed, and tested the patient's hipbone and abdomen with his hands. By the time he looked up again, Wickham was several shades paler than before, and sweating profusely. Though not a sound had escaped his lips, Gabby was very sure the examination had hurt.
Under the circumstances— the man had threatened her life, and Jem's, after all, among many other notable transgressions— she was not entirely sorry.
"The bullet is still lodged in the wound," Ormsby pronounced, straightening up at last and addressing his words to Gabby. "An operation for its removal will have to be performed."
The look on Wickham's face was pure horror.
"I'll not have any bloody sawbones cutting on me."
"Blue Ruin, milord." Barnet reappeared at the bedside at that timely moment, proffering a silver flask. Wickham, tight-lipped, looked at his henchman and nodded. The flask was put into his hand, his head was lifted, and he drank.
" 'Twill be easier if he's drunk," Ormsby said approvingly, already removing his coat.
"I told you, I'll not have…." Wickham's voice was a growl. He was once again lying back against the pillows, his eyes mere glittering slits, his jaw clenched.
Gabby's lips compressed. It was an effort to remind herself that his recovery was as important as if he were her true brother.
"If the bullet is in there, then it must be removed for healing to occur," she said shortly.
"If the bullet stays where it is, there can be little doubt that the wound will putrefy," the surgeon agreed, handing his coat to Jem and rolling up his sleeves. "Is there hot water? Excellent."
Gabby had indicated the pitcher and basin with a nod.
"There is really no choice," she said to Wickham. He met her gaze for a long moment, during which she was silently given to understand that he considered his current situation to be entirely her fault. Then he looked at
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