The Lady's Disgrace by Callie Hutton Page B

happened to my arm?”
    “You were shot.”
    “Shot!” Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “I was shot?”
    He nodded. The guilt at having brought her to a place where she’d had to rescue a child from a charging pig, then suffered a bullet wound, sickened him. Dear God, what she must think of him and his village? The rage that rose up when he’d first heard about the shooting threatened to engulf him again, twisting his gut, causing his hand to itch, wanting to punch his fist into something. Or some one .
    “I spoke to the constabulary and the decision was that a careless hunter let go a poorly aimed shot.” He held the glass of water to her lips. “Easy. Don’t take too much.”
    The constabulary’s announcement did not sit well. The road he’d found Abigail on was not a place where hunters would be found. It was a well-trafficked path used by villagers going to and from town. In fact, the place where he’d found her might not even have been where she had been shot. Well off the beaten path, it was quite possible the shooter had dragged her farther from the road.
    Abigail took a few sips and wincing with pain, eased back down again. “I’m quite cold. Can you see about building up the fire?”
    Joseph leaned down to kiss her forehead, the method his mother used when he was a youth to determine if he had a fever. Her skin was dry and warm. No doubt infection had set in, rendering her chilled. “I’ll send for more coal, but in the meantime, I’ll bundle you up with blankets.”
    “Th-th-ank you.”
    After covering her with more bedding, he notified the footman to bring additional coal and asked that he have Mrs. O’Neill prepare more of the elixir for infection.
    For the next couple of days, Abigail shivered and demanded more heat, then threw off the many blankets he’d tucked around her and attempted to remove her night gown.
    Joseph vacillated from pacing the room in agitation to sitting by her side, just staring at her. He rarely left the room, snapping at Mrs. O’Neill when she suggested she take a turn with Abigail, and allow him to sleep or eat other than from a tray brought to the room twice a day by the footman.
    Manning showed up each morning to shave and admonish him—by forceful looks—on his disarray. He didn’t care. When he grew too fatigued to even keep his eyes open, he’d crawled onto the bed and lay alongside his wife, holding her close when she shivered, and wiping her with a cloth when she perspired.
    How frightening to watch someone you cared about toss and turn, mumbling incoherent words. She begged for water, which he ended up spilling all over her nightgown as she thrashed about in her fever-induced frenzy. He’d soon given up having Sanders change her, and did the chore himself, wincing each time he saw the bullet wound. Evidence of his neglect. Keeping her quiet became difficult, and he worried that she would break open the stitches.
    On the fourth morning, he stood alongside the bed, taking in her wax-like countenance as the sun rose slowly over the horizon and bathed the entire room with light. Never in his entire life had he felt so helpless. He’d attended many a sick bed in his time as rector. Always, he would leave the distraught patient’s loved one with words of comfort. He now realized they meant absolutely nothing. No words of comfort would relieve the fear of losing Abigail.
    Weary to his soul, he removed his boots and stockings and crawled in alongside his wife.
    …
    Abigail opened her eyes to a disheveled Joseph lying alongside her. It appeared he’d had scant grooming or a change of clothing for days. His cravat and jacket were gone, and several buttons down the front of his linen shirt had been unfastened. He wore breeches, but his feet were bare of stockings and boots.
    She had memories of him forcing liquid down her throat and wiping her with a cloth when she would have preferred to run naked in the cold. Her body itched with dried perspiration, and