“Then fetch me a needle and thread.”
“You can’t possibly think to—”
“The doctor is with Mrs. Randall. Her labor could last all day. Not to mention, the rain is coming down in sheets. While I’m still up to it, I’d better do what I can to tend to this injury.” He gestured to the wound, and Belle made the mistake of looking at it. Her gaze caught on the angry red gash, oozing dark, thick blood. Black thread held the top of the jagged flesh together, but it had ripped through at the bottom, leaving the skin ragged and raw.
“Damn,” she murmured as the room spun and she fell back. Thankfully, she had been kneeling beside the bed, so she did not have very far to fall. That was her last thought before her head hit the wooden floor with a thunk.
HEW STARED AT THE WOMAN who had been arguing with him a moment before. Suddenly, she had gone as pale as the moon and fallen over. What had she been saying about having no fear of blood?
“Sir!” Hew called. He couldn’t remember the father’s surname. He only remembered the woman was called Belle. The name suited her as she was a pretty thing—a bit thin with big brown eyes and wispy honey-blond hair. Pretty in a delicate way, though it had taken him only thirty seconds with her to realize she was not delicate at all.
Except, apparently, when it came to knife wounds.
“Sir!”
Footsteps sounded and the man appeared in the doorway. Hew noticed he didn’t hold a bottle of sherry, which meant he hadn’t found it yet. His eyes widened as he saw Belle sprawled on the floor.
“Belle!” He ran to his daughter and knelt beside her, cradling her head in his lap and patting her white cheek softly. “What happened?”
“She saw my wound and fell over. She denies it, but I think she’s afraid of blood.”
“She would deny it.”
“Here.” Hew handed him a pillow, and the man placed it under his daughter’s head. Hew put the man at about fifty. He had light brown hair, thinning on top and made lighter with the gray threaded through it. His face was thin and long, as was his body. If he was twelve stone, Hew would have been surprised. But like his daughter, he seemed to possess an inner strength. He moved with assurance and calm. In fact, as soon as he’d returned to the room, Hew had felt much of his anxiety fade away. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any worries—after all, as Belle had pointed out, he was burning with fever and had a bleeding knife wound. He had seen enough in his time in the field to know he might very likely die. He also knew this lucidity of thought would not last. The longer he burned with fever, the more likely he’d succumb to delirium. He had to act quickly in the time he had.
“I made the mistake of asking if she could sew.” Hew indicated his wound.
The man looked over at it and nodded. His eyes expressed concern but not revulsion or panic. “We were waiting for the doctor.”
Hew flicked a glance at the window, where the rain pelted against the glass. “I think he might be some time yet. If you fetch me a needle and thread—”
“I can do it,” the man said. “I’ve sewn my share of hems and buttons, made a stitch or two in a minor cut on occasion.” He brushed his daughter’s hair back from her forehead and rose. “I’ll fetch the needle and my thickest thread.”
“Perhaps some smelling salts?” Hew suggested with a nod at Belle.
“After we patch you up,” her father said. “And then I have just the trick.”
He left again, and Hew lay back on the bed, missing the pillow now under Belle’s head. He turned and looked down at her, noting her breathing was steady. His gaze traveled from her abdomen to the curve of her breasts. She wore a loose robe, so they were not exactly outlined, but he could make out enough of their shape to want to see more. He’d been trained to observe, but he shouldn’t allow his thoughts to stray to the personal. That was the male part of him intruding on the agent part.
Trying to be more objective now, his gaze traveled down the length of her slim body. Her robe more than covered her, but it had pulled up slightly on one side, revealing a sliver of pale ankle and one foot which had lost its slipper.
She had a small foot, and he thought he could have closed his hand around her ankle or at least come close. Her toes were blunt, the big toe the longest and the others a bit shorter and in neat succession. The nails were neatly trimmed showing that she took some care, though her calluses—those he’d seen on her hands and now on her feet—proved she worked very hard at whatever it was she did.
She was clearly not a seamstress. She’d bristled at that suggestion. Considering her bedside manner was somewhat lacking, he didn’t think she was a nanny or teacher either. What other sorts of professions did women have?
The father entered again this time with the sherry in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. “I think you’ll need this. Unless”—he looked hopeful—“you want to try the laudanum?”
“No laudanum,” Hew said. He’d seen too many men—and women—take laudanum for a minor ailment and then develop a craving for it that necessitated daily dosing. Hew had no intention of living his life in a stupor.
The man poured Hew a large glass of sherry and handed it to him. Hew drank, looked at the glass in confusion as this was the worst sherry he’d ever had, but then drank again.
“It’s cooking sherry,” the man said. “I’m sure you are used to better quality.”
“No matter.” Hew drank another sip. It was weak, but it was something.
The man was drying his hands on a cloth after pouring water over them. “Ready?” He set down the cloth and held up a needle he had threaded with a thick black material.
No, Hew thought. He said, “Of course.” He turned on his uninjured side, ignoring the pain the movement caused him, and presented his wound. The man moved closer and raised the needle. Hew knew this would hurt. He’d been stitched up before. Still, he hissed in a breath, attempting to mute his gasp, when the needle entered his battered flesh. He forced himself to remain still even as his every instinct was to pull away from this unimaginable pain.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I know this hurts.”
“It’s fine,” Hew lied. Then because he needed to do something other than dig his nails into his palm or scream, he clenched his teeth and gritted out, “What is your name, sir?”
“George Howard.” Howard glanced at Hew’s face. He had brown eyes like his daughter, but his were full of concern.
“And Belle is your daughter?” Hew asked, closing his eyes against the pain and making a monumental effort not to scream.
“Isabelle Howard, yes. My other daughter is married to Mr. Dormer, Mrs. Randall’s brother.”
For a long moment, the string of names meant nothing to him. The pain blotted out everything else, and Hew struggled to focus on something—anything—but the needle poking through him. “Ah. I see now,” he said. “I wasn’t certain of the connection before.”
“Rather a distant connection, I know,” Howard said, “but under the circumstances the best Mr. Randall could do, I think.”
Hew tried to reply, but he couldn’t do anything other than grip the mattress and force air into his lungs.