When she opened her eyes Hunter was looking down at her, his face shrouded in shadows. But even in the darkness she could see fury lining his face—remnants of the warrior that had saved her in that Spanish countryside village years ago.
Her head snapped backward, almost stung by the ferocity emanating from him. Then she realized she wasn’t holding her own weight up. Hunter had his arm around her lower back, holding her upright.
Her hands flew up, pushing at his chest, her voice hissing in a whisper. “That—that was not necessary.” She flung the top of her head in the direction of the boy now crumpled in the muck of the alley. “Now I’ll have to stitch him together tomorrow.”
“The boy?” Hunter’s words were an equally harsh whisper as he started moving, half dragging, half carrying Bridget out of the alleyway. “He’ll show up at the hospital?”
“He will. He’s one of Bournestein’s boys.”
“Keep your head down. We need to get out of here.” They stepped out into the main thoroughfare and Hunter yanked her tighter to his side, blending in along the edge of the busy street as he walked them with a casual swiftness that belied how fast he truly wanted to be walking.
Her toes only touched the ground every third step, as Hunter’s iron grasp around her waist told her exactly how much he needed to get her out of Bournestein’s domain. His fingertips jabbed into her belly, ripping the knife wound from earlier open even further. The searing jolt of pain made her yelp, her hand wedging up to push free of his grasp.
His fingers dug tighter into her side, his voice a deadly whisper. “Bournestein’s outside by his carriage. Don’t look up. Don’t shove.”
Bridget sucked in a wheezing breath and ducked her head, her chin knocking onto her breastbone. Every step sent a slicing pain across her side. Her eyes squinted shut as she tried to stem the wide circles her head was determined to spin into.
A quarter of a mile, five cross streets away, Hunter’s feet finally slowed, his grip around her back easing.
His support suddenly gone, her knees buckled the moment her feet were solid on the ground catching her own weight. She fell away from Hunter, clunking into the glass pane of a milliner’s shop.
“Bloody hell, Bridget.” His hands went to her shoulders, yanking her upright to face him.
The light from the lantern by the shop’s door lit his face. All three of his faces. Her eyes flickered from face to face, attempting to figure out which one she should be looking at. In all his faces, his dark eyes seared into her, concern evident.
“Bridget?”
“I have…I have to sit down…” She had to swallow three gulps of air before she could get further words out. “My side. Your fingers. It is not that dire. But…sit…”
His face disappeared, dipped out of her view. Just as well, her eyes didn’t want to stay open.
He popped back up into view, looking directly into her face before she could close her eyes. “Is that blood on your side, Bridget?”
She nodded, her head bobbing out of control as words tumbled from her lips. “A blade hit my side. Your fingers tore it. It is not that dire.”
“Hell, Bridget.”
She had the distinct feeling of air rushing up her skirts, of her legs swinging into the air, and then nothing. Floating. Warm and comfortable.
She settled her head into the warmth and closed her eyes.
For as long and as hard as she fought for everything, every day. Fought for the hospital to exist. Fought to save the lives of innocent children—of innocent women. Fought the sneers. Fought for more funds. Fought for more medicine. Fought every man coming through her doors and trying to take over.
Fought to not feel.
For all of that, the constant state of battle, this was different. So very different. Something she hadn’t felt in years.
Safe. Calm. Not one part of her wanted to fight it.
She let her eyes drift closed.
{ Chapter 5 • To Capture a Warrior }
His gait changed.
Not quite asleep, but floating just far enough into the darkness to be above the pain, Bridget had become accustomed to Hunter’s gait in the past fifteen minutes. A long stride. A distinct jerk in his body as his weight shifted. A short step. Long Stride. Jerk.
For what had been the mangled mutilation of his ankle and foot in Spain, the change in his gait was slight, probably unnoticeable if one was merely observing him. But in his arms she could tell. How his body moved around her. He was solid, steady. But she knew her extra weight in his arms was straining the rhythm he had become accustomed to compensating for with his foot.
Now he was moving upward. A short stride. Shift to the left. A grunt as the next foot landed. Clunk. Stairs. Stairs would be difficult with his foot.
She had allowed this too long. She opened her eyes, her mind settling fully back into her head. Settling fully into the pain that sent sparks of fire along every nerve in her body.
She looked up. Even at this angle, she could see the deep lines creasing around Hunter’s dark eyes.
“I can walk.”
He didn’t look down to her. “Can you? Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding, Bridget?” His boot clunked onto a step and his mouth tightened with a grimace.
“I can walk, Hunter.”
His arms tightened around her torso and legs.
She stifled a sigh, looking about under the light of the moon shining in from a window at the top of the stairs as he ascended the last four steps. The staircase was simple, a handrail of smooth walnut, simple balusters, and the wall along the stairs was barren, no paper-hangings adorning the white plaster wall. Plain, as though he had taken her to an empty house.
At the top of the stairs he turned to the left, walking to the last door of the short hall and entering a room. Hunter brought her to a dark blue wingback chair set next to the fireplace and gently set her down. Only moonlight from a half-open window filtered into the room.
He stood, pulling his shoulders back as he stretched. That he had been carrying her for almost a half hour and barely looked winded was impressive. He always had been strong.
For as many times as he was given up for dead. By the soldiers in that village. By the surgeons at the hospital. He was strong, a survivor every time.
She remembered that in a rush—his strength was unmistakable, even when he had been sitting in a sick bed she had never once thought of him as weak, not for a moment.
In the shadows of the room his dark eyes went to her and he pinned her with a look. “What is the immediacy—do we need to do this by a lantern or can I start a fire?”
“Do what?”
“Attend to your wound.”
Her hand went to her left side as she searched her blood-soaked dress for the torn opening. “Are you to get a surgeon?”
“You said it wasn’t but a slice.”
“I don’t know what it is.” She shifted in the chair and couldn’t hold back the cringe the stab of pain caused.
“The only surgeon I trust is occupied at the moment. But I will get him if needed.” He eyed her for a long moment. “Or we can handle this—you have all the skills of a surgeon and can tell me what to do.”
She nodded. Just because it was her pain didn’t mean she needed to pull a surgeon away from some other poor soul. She flicked her hand toward the mantel, leaning back into the cushion of the chair to curl around the pain in her side. “Then a fire will be helpful. The more light the better.”
Her muscles tightened against the shards of agony slicing into her body from her side. She couldn’t close her eyes again. Not unless she wanted to enter darkness that would take hours to escape from.
Hunter moved quickly in front of her, cuts of timber over the coals, the tinderbox out and flames started before she could gain enough strength to readjust herself on the plump chair she was quickly staining with blood.
He stood, his dark grey eyes assessing her, his look landing on her hand clutching her bloody side. “Water. C
loth. Do I need anything else?”
“It will be enough until I see how deep the cut is.”
He moved across the room, his boots clunking along the floorboards. She didn’t have the fortitude to wedge her body forward and watch where he disappeared to, so she stared at the fire, watching flame after flame come to life. Within a few minutes, Hunter reappeared balancing a wash basin, pitcher, and a mound of white cloth draped over his arm that he set down next to her feet. He had removed his black coat and waistcoat and had folded the sleeves of his white linen shirt up to his elbows.
“Lean forward.”
Still clutching her wound, she shifted, doing as told. There was no energy left in her to fight what needed to happen next.
Hunter worked down the row of buttons along her spine that held her serviceable black cotton dress in place. He untied her apron, then pushed her dress down and helped her tug her arms free from the fabric. Moving to her short stays, he loosened the laces and then let them drop to her lap.
Only for a moment did his fingertips pause on the tips of her bare shoulders. Then he gripped the simple straps of her chemise and without preamble—without warning her—he slipped them down her shoulders.
They both knew it needed to happen in order to tend to the wound.
But she was startled at just how he had done it. The unique kindness in the direct matter in which he stripped her. Giving her no room to protest. No apologies.
She had always envisioned the first time Hunter stripped her. The pads of his fingers trailing along her skin, the torture of the slow pace as he slipped down her dress, her stays, her chemise. He had always cherished her body, every touch in what limited moments of connection they could make at the hospital grounds in Spain.
This was nothing like her imaginations.
This was necessary. Pragmatic. Nothing more.
Even with that, modesty forced her to lean further forward, hiding her front side from him as her chemise settled about her hips. A blush she couldn’t control warmed her cheeks, juxtaposed to the shiver that ran across her bare back. She was grateful for the heat of the fire even as she loathed the flames for how they lit her bare skin.
A piece of white linen clutched in his hand appeared in front of her face.
“Drape this in front of you. I can see the blood, Bridget, and I don’t think we have time for prudery.”
She took the cloth from his hand, wedging it awkwardly in front of her breasts as she sat upright. She looked down at her throbbing side.
Her mouth went dry, her head instantly light.
The cut the length of a hand along her ribcage, blood still oozed from the open wound. She winced with her next breath—actually witnessing the root of her pain made the throbbing all the worse.
Hunter poured water into the bowl on the floor and then dropped to his knees and dunked one of the short cloths into it. Wringing out the linen, he looked up at Bridget’s mangled flesh and his eyes narrowed.
He lifted the wet cloth, setting it to the length of her wound, his large hands managing to be gentle.
“Stop.” Her fingers went onto the back of his hand. “I can do it.”
“No, you stop, Bridget.” He glanced up at her, his gaze hard. “For all that you once kept me alive, let me take care of your wound for a change.”
She sighed, leaning back into the chair but keeping her wound angled toward him. “It first needs to be cleaned so I can see how deep it is.”
His focus went back down to her side and he started dabbing along the outer edges of the cut where blood had dried. He moved inward, jostling raw flesh.
She gasped a breath, cringing. “It stings.”
His hand didn’t stop the dabbing. She looked down at him, watching the intensity with which he stared at her side. Her pain apparently meant nothing to him. If anything, she could swear she saw a slight smirk on his face.
“What? You enjoy hurting me?”
He glanced up at her, his dark eyes searing. “You know the answer to that.”
She exhaled, nodding. Of course he didn’t want to hurt her. She gasped in another breath as he hit a tender spot.
His look dropped to her ribcage, his hand dabbing. “My smile was just because you are so practiced at the other side of tending to wounds that you don’t make the best patient.”
“No—I’m a very good patient.” For all the pain coursing from her side, she couldn’t force herself to look down to the wound. Too much blood—too much of her own blood.
He rinsed out the cloth and continued to dab. “No—you’ve been bossing me about or wincing or sighing or whining since I picked you up in the alley.”
“I have not.”
His gaze lifted to her, his right eyebrow arched.
“Fine. Maybe. Maybe I have been, but this hurts.”
“I imagine it does.”
“And you have no sympathy for it?”
“Did you have sympathy for me in the hospital when I had three bullet holes in my body and I had nearly lost my foot?”
“Sympathy wasn’t going to heal you. There wasn’t time for it.”
“No. And neither is there time for it when you are bleeding.” He unfurled and refolded the cloth to use a clean area. Each swipe he made with the cloth drew a new wince from her lips. “If it helps, I promise to give you heaps of sympathy once we get this dressed.”
He pulled the cloth away from her skin and then pointed with his free hand. “The wound is clear for the second. Do you think this will need stitches?”
She had to force her gaze downward to her side. “It looks…” She lifted her hand, pulling at her flesh around the cut with her fingers. Muscle flashed in the light of the fire. Blast it. Though it may very well heal fine, if a patient came in with this wound, she would insist on sewing it closed.
Her eyes lifted to Hunter. “No, no stitches. I think it will heal without trouble.” She drew a deep breath and had to hide a cringe as her skin stretched over the cut. “Now that the blood is stopped and it is clean it will be fine. I just need to be careful until the scab forms.”
She plastered a smile on her face.
His eyebrow arched again. “You, of all people, aren’t cringing at seeing all the blood, are you?”
“My own blood?” She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
He chuckled, low, under his breath as he dropped the cloth into the water to rinse it. “For all that you have witnessed, Bridget, this is a first. I have never met a more composed woman than you.”
“Well, when my own blood is flowing it is a very different matter.”
“I imagine it is.”
He twisted the cloth, wringing the water and then set long swipes along the wound. “There. Cleaned. Are you sure no stiches? It does look deep.”
“I am positive. If you can just layer strips of the cloth onto the wound and then wrap it around me and tie it in place, that will suffice.”
Hunter’s hands went busy, tearing strips of the linen and setting them into place on the wound. “How did this happen, Bridget? When you disappeared down the stairwell you were not injured.”
“It was my fault. I rammed into the guard on the stairs to keep him from coming up any further. We tumbled down the stairs.”
“So that was the thumping I heard?”
“Yes. And I landed tangled under him, his blade in my side.”
“That was stupid.” Hunter lifted her elbow, then leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her torso as he set three long strips of cloth in place to tie around her ribcage.
Just as she bristled from his assessment of her actions, his breath swept along her neck and his thumb skimmed across the naked skin under her breasts. It was only for only a brief moment, but it made her pause—sending her back in time. Back to when he would set his lips onto the slope of her neck and stir her body into a fire that she could barely control.
For a breath, she forgot—the pain, the offense she was about to take—forgot it all for the memory that seized her.
He was on a mission. And she was lost in the past. A past where he was once the world to her.
Bridget gave herself a slight shake, clearing her throat. “Barreling into him was effective. Stupid, yes, but effective. I just didn’t foresee his blade hanging so precariously. Most of the guards have sheaths around their blades. Not so, Freddie Joe.”
Hunter’s knuckles brushed against her bare skin as he tied off the three strips of linen, securing the bandages to the wound. Just as she remembered them, his knuckles were still rough, and the way they dragged across her skin still sent shivers along her nerves.
The dressing secured in place, Hunter leaned away from her. His heat leaving her, she settled back fully into the cushions and looked down at her chest as her fingers adjusted the edges of the cloth covering her breasts. “I just want to make sure the blood is stopped before I move again. Can I wait here? Do you have somewhere you need to be?”
“No. We can wait all night.”
The sudden hardness in his voice drew her look up to him. His dark eyes were locked onto her, anger simmering—she could see that. He had been holding back his ire as he had tended the wound, but now that it was dressed and out of sight, he was losing control of his fury. Anger at what, though, she wasn’t sure.
Not ready to tackle whatever was brewing in his eyes, her gaze veered from him, moving about the room. Just like the entryway and stairs, the room was plain, void of color and décor. Modest, but the finishes of the trim and fireplace were well above respectable. “Is this your home, Hunter? Why were you at that gaming house—the Revelry’s Tempest?”
“This is my home.” He picked up the bowl of water, now tinged a deep pink, and disappeared into the adjoining room. This time, Bridget craned her neck to watch him. She guessed the shadows past the doorway he disappeared into held a dressing room. He reappeared, moving toward a chest of drawers by the door to the main hallway. Atop sat a decanter and a glass, and he paused with his back to her, slowly pulling the stopper and filling the lone glass with amber liquid—brandy, if what she remembered about his imbibing habits had held true. He took a deep swallow, then refilled the glass before turning back to her.
Logan’s Legends: A Revelry's Tempest Regency Romance Box Set Page 14
