Eight

Emma walked boldly to the side of the bed where the strange man was lying. She was acting as a medical practitioner, nothing else. “I need to undress you to examine your injuries. Would that be acceptable to you?”

Dare gave no response.

“I will accept your silence as tacit approval.” Emma pulled back the blanket and took another deep breath. She needed to undress him. His skin was like ice, and she feared that without immediate help, he would not last the night.

She began by removing his Hessian boots and wet stockings. She could discern no injuries on his lower extremities. His trousers were cold and wet, clinging to muscular thighs, but inspecting his legs did not reveal further injury, so she ignored them while she inspected his wound. She glanced quickly over his midsection and then up to his right side, which was caked in blood, some fresh, some dried. She removed the hasty bandage and tugged off his wool greatcoat and jacket, managing to remove them by gently rolling him from side to side to get them off. Next came the cravat, followed by the waistcoat.

His clothes marked him a gentleman. Emma was no expert in fashion but she had read her fair share of society papers and fashion plates, and could easily tell this man was well heeled. What had happened to him? What kind of a name was “Dare”? Were the men who accosted her on the road sent by Eustace, or were they random brigands?

Emma was puzzled to find the man’s watch fob and money pouch still on him. If the motive of the highwaymen was robbery, they had done a poor job of it. She hoped he would have answers to these questions, but the only way to hear them would be to save his life.

She stared at him in his current state of undress. No respectable man would ever be seen wearing nothing but shirtsleeves, and it was only going to get worse, for his linens must be removed. She pulled his bloody shirt up and over his head, focusing on her duty to keep her mind off the fact that she was undressing a perfect stranger.

A perfect, muscular stranger.

A perfect, muscular, handsome stranger, with rippling abdominal muscles that appeared to be cut from stone.

Which was completely irrelevant.

Except that it was entirely important.

Emma blinked at the man, now half-naked before her. He had dark-brown hair tied at the nape of his neck, though several strands had come loose and rested on the pillow. His face was tanned from the sun, showing the effects of working outdoors, unlike the pasty skin of her stepbrother. No, the man before her was one accustomed to action.

She stared at his trousers, knowing she had one last responsibility. He could not remain in cold, wet clothes. To do so was to risk his life. The trousers needed to go. And she needed to do it.

Her hands hovered over the button fall of his trousers. Was she really going to do this? Though she had tended many sick and injured people, this was something she had never done. She forced herself to undo the two buttons on one side of the fall, and then the two buttons on the other side. She glanced at the unconscious man. The wound was still oozing blood. She needed to work fast.

She took a deep breath, her hands hovering over his now-undone trousers. With any luck, he was wearing short pants underneath—or maybe with any luck, he wasn’t. She pushed the lecherous thought aside. She was caring for a man in need. That was all. With a quick flick of the wrist, she flipped down the fall of his trousers to reveal he was wearing linen short pants.

“Good. Very good,” she said to no one particular. She began the work of pulling off his wet trousers, which required some effort and repositioning of him, not to mention that the short pants wanted to come off with the trousers, since they were all wet. She was forced to come very close to certain parts of his anatomy to effectively remove the trousers, her cheeks burning at the positions in which she found herself. She finally succeeded in her efforts, but not before she had become intimately aware that the man she was assisting was, indeed, quite all man.

Emma cleared her throat and covered the lower half of the man to keep him warm and protect his modesty, not to mention prevent her from becoming overly distracted by the undeniable, chiseled perfection of his physique.

Emma dipped one of the towels into the water and began to cleanse the wound. She needed to stop the bleeding. A close inspection showed he was suffering from a gunshot wound to his right side, several inches above his hipbone. The warm water brought the injury into focus, but also encouraged it to bleed more. She needed to work fast, as he had lost a good deal of blood.

She felt around the wound, trying to ascertain if any major organs had been struck. She was most concerned about his kidney or intestines, but the bullet had angled up and away from anything vital. An exit wound showed the bullet had pierced through, so hopefully it had done so cleanly.

Emma went back to the shirt and laid it out, searching carefully for the place where the bullet passed. A hole in the garment filled her with dread. Any material left within him could cause the wound to fester. She went to her medical bag and selected some long tweezers. She needed to retrieve that bit of material.

“Forgive me,” she muttered. She drew a lantern closer and began to probe the wound.

“Arrrgh.” Dare’s eyes flew open with a start. His hand shot out and grasped her arm.

“Trying to help,” she gasped, pulling at his viselike fingers.

His eyes roved around the room in short anxious darts, then fixed back on her and immediately released her.

“Sorry,” he rasped.

Emma rubbed her arm where she was sure he had left a bruise. “No, perfectly understandable. It appears you have been shot.”

He nodded.

“Did those men do it?”

He nodded again.

She wanted to ask who they were and why they shot him, but she needed to save his life first. “There is a bit of your shirt missing,” she began.

He frowned. “Need to get it out. Call a surgeon. No…they may track me. Don’t want to put you at risk.”

She was pleased at least he understood what needed to be done. “With your permission, I can try to do it myself.”

Dare’s frown deepened.

“My father was a physician. He trained me to assist.”

Dare stared at her, his black eyes piercing through to her very soul. Even lying on his back, bleeding to death, the man was intimidating. As she returned his gaze, she realized his dark eyes were not black, but actually a very dark brown with tiny flecks of amber. It gave him a searing look.

“Are you able to do it?” he asked.

Emma swallowed down doubt. “Yes, I believe I can.”

“Then do it.”

Emma reached for a bottle of laudanum. “Here, this will help. A little at least.”

Dare seemed reluctant to take it.

“I fear you will want it.” She prepared a tincture and handed it to him. He swallowed it down with a grimace, for the medicine was extremely bitter.

Emma took a calming breath. She would need a steady hand and a bit of luck. She prayed that luck would be providentially provided. She rinsed the wound and took the long tweezers and a metal probe and began carefully to do her work. Dare gritted his teeth and went rigid.

“I cannot thank you enough for protecting me,” said Emma, trying to distract Dare from the pain. “I cannot think what might have happened if you had not come along.”

“Did…what anyone would.” His words came out in short breaths.

“My dear sir, I fear I do not know anyone who would have done as you did. Forgive me, for I know that I am hurting you but…I think I… There!” Emma pulled out a small piece of fabric. Had it been left inside, it could have cost him his life. “I think we have it.” Emma took the piece and compared it to the shirt. It looked complete.

“Now all we need to do is close.”

“Thank…you.” His low voice was strained with pain.

“Most of my patients are very unhappy with me at this point in the operation. You are very kind. And now I fear you will hate me.” Emma cleansed the wound with hot water and then drenched it with alcohol.

Dare gritted his teeth so tight she feared he would crack a tooth, but he did not cry out. His face was tight, sweat pouring down his brow, as she stitched the wound closed.

“I am sorry. It is for the best, but I know it is unwelcome.” Emma took another stitch. The entry wound in the front was not as bad as the larger one in the back. “You are fortunate it did not hit a kidney, or you would be dead by now.” She tried to make cheery small talk. From his pallor, she doubted it was working.

She finished stitching and bandaged the wound. She was running short of bandages, so with a nod from him, she cut up the clean parts of his shirt and used his cravat to tie it around him. She removed the towels she had placed under him to soak up the water and blood and helped him to move under the sheets, into the bed. He paused, noting that he was naked but for his short pants. He stared up at her, his eyes questioning.

“You were wet and cold. I…I had to remove the damp clothing or you might take a fever.” Heat crawled up the back of her neck as though she were the one with a fever.

He nodded slowly in understanding and carefully slid under the covers. “Most improper.”

“Yes, please forgive me.”

“No, I am in your debt. Sorry to trouble you so. Few ladies would have the presence of mind you have. Blasted lucky to have met you.”

“I suppose now we are even, for you saved me first. I was only returning the favor.” She pulled up a chair beside him. “Now you need to rest.” She had done what she could for the man. Whether he lived or died was no longer in her hands.

His eyes closed, but his hand emerged from the bedclothes and landed on her knee. “You need to rest too.”

She stared at the hand on her knee, warmth spreading from where he touched through her whole body.

She placed her hand over his and held it.