by Aston, Alexa
So, he was a soldier. Or former soldier. Phoebe wondered why he’d left the army. Probably because of the miserable pay and rotten food. Smuggling would be much more profitable and wouldn’t involve near the killing that war did.
“You’ll need a few basins of water and clean cloths. Something made of cotton or linen to bind the wound.”
Immediately, she began gathering the supplies. Fortunately, she still had some fresh water on hand and poured it into three separate bowls. She placed them and clean cloths on the table and then excused herself to go into her bedchamber, the only other room in the cottage. Taking one of her linen chemises, she brought it back and began tearing it into strips.
“I suppose I’ll need to buy you another one.” A roguish grin graced his face.
Her cheeks flooded with warmth. Embarrassment filled her at the thought of this man purchasing such an intimate item for her. She kept her eyes on the chemise and finished her task, placing the strips on the table as Caesar watched with interest.
He shuddered and she glanced down, taking in not the wound but the bare chest before her. Dear heaven, he was beautiful. As if sculpted from warmed marble. He was lean yet muscled in both his arms and chest. A dark matting of hair covered it, tapering down and disappearing beneath his snug breeches. An awareness rippled through her, a new and unfamiliar feeling. She shoved it aside and her eyes flicked to his wound, which rested just below his shoulder.
By now, he was looking down, prodding it with his fingers, gasping in pain.
“Stop that,” she said, though she wished he could be the one to find the lead shot instead of her.
“The ball is still inside me. Thank God it didn’t hit and shatter bone. I’m not at an angle to reach it, though. You’ll have to remove it.”
“Me?” she squeaked. “How?”
He gazed up at her, his eyes turning glassy. She noticed his breath had become rapid and shallow. Phoebe reached and touched his throat. His pulse was also rapid, his skin cool and clammy.
“You are going into shock,” she said, drawing from a well of strength she wasn’t sure she possessed. “Tell me quickly what to do.”
He grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a long pull, his throat muscles working as he swallowed. He drank another sip and put it down.
“Wash the wound with water and then brandy. Dip your fingers into the brandy, too, to cleanse them.” He grimaced. “You’ll need to reach in the hole and feel around for the shot. Pull it out and any cloth with it. It’s a death sentence to leave the cloth behind.”
He paused. “Pour more brandy into the wound and then stitch the hole closed. Bind the wound with several layers of linen. Make sure it’s tightly wound around my torso and shoulder. Pressure is good.”
The man took another sip of the brandy. Phoebe hoped he would leave enough for her to accomplish her tasks.
“I’ll fetch needle and thread,” she said and returned to her bedchamber, claiming her sewing basket and coming back to the stranger.
He sat with his eyes tightly shut, a scowl on his face.
Touching his good shoulder, she said softly, “I am here.”
He raised his eyes and met hers. Instinctively, wanting to comfort him, she smoothed his hair.
“Close your eyes,” she ordered, not wanting him to see the look on her face. She was already squeamish, thinking about what she had to do and didn’t want to frighten him.
With a bravery she didn’t know she possessed, Phoebe began cleaning his wound as he’d instructed and coating her fingers in brandy. She pushed one into the gaping hole and he sucked in a quick breath.
“Keep on,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes remaining closed.
It took two fingers to locate the bullet. The stranger stiffened beneath her as she held his shoulder steady with one hand and hunted with her fingers with the other. Locating the ball, she captured it between them, praying she could hold on to it at she pulled it from him. He groaned low as it came out and opened his eyes wide. He caught her wrist and held it as he removed the ball from her fingers and studied it. Phoebe held her breath as he did, aware of his burning fingers wrapped around her bare flesh.
He released her and said, “Go back in. It looks intact but a sliver may have broken off. Feel also for any cloth from my shirt. It must be removed. For some reason, leaving it inside will kill a man as much as the bullet would.”
She bit her lip and pushed a finger back into the hole. He sucked in a quick breath and held it.
“I don’t feel anything sharp but I do think I’ve found a bit of your shirt.”
“Remove it.”
The cloth proved harder to grasp and she had to drag it to the hole. His face scrunched in agony, a low moan coming from him as she brought the cloth out. He exhaled the breath. She was so close, she saw the sheen of sweat that had broken out along his brow and dipped a cloth into the water, smoothing it across his face to soothe him.
He leaned against the chair back and sighed. “Thank you. I know that was difficult.”
“Almost as much as cleaning a boy’s skinned knee,” she murmured, thinking how Nathan thought the world would come to an end every time she had to do so.
“Exactly.” He grinned but his eyes glazed again.
Phoebe knew she must act quickly, else he pass out and fall to the floor. She soaked a piece of cloth in water and rubbed it over the wound, then ran it lower to wipe up the blood. She tried to push all thought of how intimate her actions seemed and focused on cleaning him. Taking the bottle of brandy, she poured some over the gaping hole. He sucked in another quick breath and howled. Taking the bottle from her, he took a long swig from it before returning it to her. She placed it on the table.
“I’ll need to sew the wound now.”
“Dip the needle in the brandy,” he suggested, his words slurring slightly.
She touched the back of his forehead with her hand. His skin was still cold and clammy but his eyes were now growing bright. Fever would soon strike.
He turned his head away as she bent to sew the hole closed after cleaning the needle with the spirit. It was awkward bending over and she blew out a breath of frustration.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked up at her, the flecks of amber in his eyes more prominent than before.
“Standing is not the best angle for this work,” she admitted. “And if I sit in a chair, I’m too low to see what I’m doing.”
Without asking, his hands captured her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Her eyes widened.
“Sit here. I promise to be still. It should be the right height.”
It was—but being so close to him made her nervous. Still, the more quickly she worked, the sooner she could stand.
Unless she didn’t want to.
This was insane. A man whose name she hadn’t even learned was causing her heart to race and a giddiness to rush through her. He was a criminal. For goodness’ sake, someone had shot him. People didn’t just go around shooting others for entertainment. Someone had meant to kill this man, wounding him and then most likely shoving him off a ship for good measure. It wasn’t the done thing to be attracted to a criminal.
Even if he was the most sinfully handsome man she’d ever laid eyes upon.
Phoebe calmed herself and concentrated on the task at hand. He only flinched when the needle entered the first time. She grew queasy performing her task, having never sewed flesh in her life. Hoping she’d never have to do so again.
She finished and tied off the thread. Setting the needle aside, she stood. Now, she was between his muscular thighs, almost imprisoned, but this was the best place to be to accomplish the rest of her task. She leaned and picked up several strips, draping them over her shoulder. Taking a few of the handkerchiefs she’d brought along with the chemise, Phoebe placed them gently against the wound before removing a linen strip. She wrapped it tightly over and around the bandage as he’d suggested, adding more strips to fasten the bandage in place.
/> Finally, she used the last strip, securing it to the top of his shoulder by tying a bow. She retreated from between his legs, all too aware of his masculinity.
“You need to lie down. You’re already flushed.” She gently touched his brow again and felt the heat. “The fever will strike soon. I only hope that we’ve prevented infection from setting in.”
“I should go,” he murmured. “I’ve troubled you enough.”
She chuckled. “You aren’t going anywhere except into the other room so you may lie on the bed. I’ll be right back. Don’t fall over while I am gone,” she teased.
She hurried to the bed and yanked the bedclothes back and then returned to him. Grasping his elbow, she helped him rise from the chair. Knowing they were leaving, Caesar stood and jumped from the table, making his way into her bedchamber. Phoebe knew when they got there, the cat would be lying on the bed. He slept with her every night. She supposed Caesar thought his job was to be company for whomever rested in the bed.
Slowly, they made their way into the other room. They reached the bed and she wanted to lower him, but he stopped her.
“My breeches are wet. I can’t lie in them.”
“You want them off?”
Having never seen a bare-chested man had been adventurous enough. But for him to remove his breeches? Impossible. She didn’t care how much like Adonis he looked. She’d lived twenty-six years without seeing a man totally naked and expected she’d go to her grave in that same state.
“I’ll ruin the bedclothes.”
“I don’t care.”
She gazed up at him and saw a smile playing about his sensual lips. The bloody sod was enjoying this!
“Lying in wet clothes could make me more ill, Madam,” he said. “Surely, you want me gone from under your roof as soon as possible.”
He had a point. Phoebe supposed if she closed her eyes, she might be able to get the pants off and him into bed without seeing anything.
“Remove my boots first,” he told her.
She bent and he braced his hands on her shoulders to steady himself as she worked the boots off and placed them aside. Gathering her resolve, she worked on loosening his breeches. She closed her eyes and dragged them down his long legs. Oh, why did he have to be so tall?
Reaching his ankles, she gruffly said, “Sit.”
He shuffled back and his legs brushed the bed. He sat. She kept looking at the garment bunched around his ankles. Then she worked the material until one leg was free and then the other. She nudged the breeches aside and, eyes still closed, stood.
“Lie down,” she ordered.
She waited a moment and assumed he’d done as asked from the squeak the bed made.
“Pull your legs onto the bed and cover yourself.”
She listened and didn’t hear anything. She should hear something. Frowning, she opened one eye and gasped.
He’d fallen back against the mattress, his legs still dangling off the bed. And he was naked. Gloriously, embarrassingly bare.
Phoebe leaned down and shook him before she realized he’d passed out.
“Blast!” she cursed.
She had to touch him. She couldn’t leave him as he was. Gritting her teeth, she worked for several minutes, pushing and pulling and maneuvering him until he lay prone on the bed. She mopped her damp brow with her forearm, the exertion tiring her.
And then feasted her eyes upon him.
He was long and lean but muscular in his upper arms, chest, and in his thighs. His calves were so beautifully shaped that she almost wept. Her eyes roamed over him, taking in every detail. The scar along his ribs. Another along his right forearm. And his manhood, nestled in hair. She’d never seen anything like it. He was made so differently from her.
Her body heated as she studied him. Embarrassment flooded her. He might be a criminal and a stranger but she hadn’t the right to take advantage of him as she had. Phoebe tucked his feet under the bedclothes and raised them to his waist. She didn’t want them up to his neck because she didn’t want him tangled in them and agitating his wound. At least that’s what she told herself as she continued to admire the bare expanse of his chest.
She touched his forehead again and felt the heat beneath her fingers. It worried her how quickly the fever had set in. She didn’t know how long the bullet had been inside him. Did it leak some kind of poison into him? Had that spread infection throughout his body? What if he died? How was she to explain harboring a naked, dead smuggler in her bed?
“Worry about that later, Phoebe,” she told herself as Caesar jumped onto the bed and curled up at the man’s side. “You’ve got a patient to nurse.”
Chapter Six
Andrew felt himself deep in darkness, as if he were buried underground. He struggled to push through and finally did, forcing his eyes open. The room was small and mostly dark, a single candle flickering somewhere nearby. He thought to turn his head but it felt so heavy. He left it resting against a pillow.
The first thing that hit him was the pain. He reached to touch his shoulder. It was wrapped in a swath of linen. Something vague tugged at his memory, hovering about the edge of his mind. He sensed himself falling and his heart quickened, racing until he thought it might explode within his chest.
It isn’t real, he told himself, bearing down against the rising hysteria. He deliberately took long, even breaths, as deep as he could despite the throbbing ache in his shoulder.
A flash startled him, the memory of a gun being fired. This was no pistol on the battlefield, though.
It had been fired by his half-brother. At him.
Rage boiled through Andrew as the shadowy memory took shape. He remembered Francis confronting him. Shooting him after they’d argued. His pulse pounded as hard as his shoulder now at he recalled everything with clarity. The pain. Francis kicking him. Sailing through the air. Crashing into the water.
Then everything was a blank.
Or was it?
Andrew tried calming breaths again, something else niggling in the back of his mind. It was the same as having something on the tip of his tongue, something he wanted to recall but it was just out of his reach.
A sigh sounded. He stilled. His eyes darted about the small bedchamber. He still didn’t know where he was.
He needed to find out.
Though a blinding headache made him want to keep his head still, Andrew turned to his left. Nothing to see but a wall and window. The window was open and a slight breeze caused the curtains to flutter. No light penetrated the room so he knew it was night. Gritting his teeth, he swiveled his head slowly to his right.
Ah, this was interesting. A woman sat in the chair beside him. The candle was on this side of the bed so he could see her somewhat. A wave of memories flooded him. Her arm about him as he leaned against her. The struggle to walk. Sitting as she ministered to him. The ambivalence on her face changing to determination as she tended his wound. Andrew didn’t know many men who could have dug the lead shot from his shoulder, much less sewed his wound closed. She was as brave as she was beautiful.
He remembered shivering from the fever. The dreadful cold that had settled into his pores. Waking once to the scent and feel of warm woman next to him. She must have climbed into bed with him and used her own body heat to quell his tremors because he could still smell a whiff of lavender wafting up from the pillowcase.
He studied the sleeping angel. Candlelight was always flattering to women but this female would be beautiful in light or dark. She was fair and had hair like he’d never seen before, shades of brown swirled with golden highlights. It reminded him of caramel. He recalled looking up at her on the beach. Her eyes had been azure, the blue of a summer sky, clear and deep and caring. She wore a simple gown of some dark color that he couldn’t distinguish in this light. Small, perfectly round, high breasts. A tiny waist.
She sighed again, which had drawn his attention in the first place. She must have been dreaming. He wondered what of. Her lips twitched and he focused on
them, suddenly wanted to kiss them. They were pink and luscious and calling out to him.
Tired, Andrew fought the heaviness of his eyelids. He wanted to keep looking at his angel but weariness blanketed him. He closed his eyes and could still smell lavender. Smiling, he let the dark curtain descend once again, knowing he was safe because she watched over him.
*
Phoebe awoke, thanks to Caesar rubbing against her legs. She reached down and lifted the tabby into her lap. He curled up as she stroked his silky fur.
“You haven’t gotten much attention lately, have you, my boy?”
The cat purred loudly. She kissed his forehead and then lowered him to the ground, her thoughts now on her patient. She glanced at him. He was still asleep. Rising, she leaned over and placed her palm against his brow. Finally, it was cool. It had taken three days but his fever had broken.
Suddenly, fingers tightened about her wrist. Panic seized her. She was staring into those eyes of melted chocolate, the flecks of amber swirling about the edges. Nervously, she licked her lips as she gathered her thoughts. This man was weak. He couldn’t hurt her. At least she told herself that. His grasp on her certainly seemed strong, though.
“Might you release me?” she asked quietly.
His eyes flicked over her. She bit her lower lip, worried that he wouldn’t.
He let go, though. Phoebe sank into her chair.
“I don’t know how much you remember,” she began, “but you’ve been shot. Somewhere at sea. I found you three days ago. No, four now. You’d washed up on shore.”
The stranger nodded slowly. “I think I remember that.”
“What? Getting shot? Almost drowning? Or me finding you?”
He gazed at her, a crease forming along his brow as he thought.
“I recall you finding me,” he said. “You somehow got me to my feet. We came here, wherever that is.”
So, he didn’t remember being shot. She pushed that thought aside for now, tamping now her anxiety at having a smuggler in her bed.
“Yes, I brought you to Falmouth Cottage and have been nursing you ever since. You had quite a fever. You were delirious for a time.”
