by Lisa Kleypas
Sophia was grateful for the appearance of Eliza, who came bearing a ewer of hot water and a pile of clean, folded cloths. Sir Ross grumbled but did not move as the two women washed the bloodstains from his chest and throat.
“It appears the bullet is still in his shoulder,” Eliza said pragmatically, easing away the wadded-up pad and replacing it with a fresh one. “A pity, as Dr. Linley will have to remove it. But the wound is not close to the heart.”
Sophia leaned over Sir Ross and adjusted the pillow behind his head. The bullet could easily have pierced his heart, had the suspect’s aim been any better. She was amazed by her reaction to the thought, the mixture of fear and anguish that engulfed her.
“I am fine,” Sir Ross said gruffly, somehow reading her unspoken thoughts. “I will be up and about in a day or two.”
“Oh, no, you will not,” she replied. “You will stay in this bed until you are completely well again—no matter what I must do to keep you here.”
Sophia was not aware that any sexual connotation could be attached to her promise until she saw the sudden glint of mockery in Sir Ross’s eyes. She glared at him in silent warning, and he kept obligingly quiet, though his lips twitched in amusement. Nearby, Eliza developed a sudden interest in folding all the clean rags and cloths into tidy squares.
The tension in the room was broken by the welcome appearance of the doctor, Jacob Linley. He was lean and handsome, with gleaming blond hair and a ready smile. Sophia had heard of him before, since he was often summoned to Bow Street when medical attentions or opinions were required. However, this was the first time she had actually seen Dr. Linley.
“Cannon,” he said easily, hefting a weighty brown leather bag and setting it on the bedside chair. “It seems that you had a bit of an adventure this evening.” He went immediately to Sir Ross, his attention focused on the wound. “Hmm. A percussion cap shot at fairly close range, judging from the peppering around the wound. How did it happen?”
Sir Ross frowned slightly. “I joined in the pursuit of a murder suspect.”
“He chased him across a rooftop,” Sophia added, unable to hold her silence.
The doctor turned toward her. His hazel eyes contained a friendly twinkle. “A rooftop, you say? Well, I think that Sir Ross had better stay on the ground from now on, don’t you?”
Sophia responded with a vigorous nod.
Still smiling, Dr. Linley made a brief but elegant bow. “I presume you are Miss Sydney, the assistant I have heard so much of? I admit that I thought the runners’ rapturous descriptions of you were exaggerated. Now I see that they were in fact understating the case.”
Before Sophia could reply, Sir Ross’s sour voice came from the bed. “Are you going to prattle all evening, Linley, or are you going to remove this bullet?”
The doctor winked at Sophia and then turned businesslike. “I’ll need a large ewer of scalding-hot water, some good, strong soap, a pot of honey, and a glass of brandy. And I will require more light in here.”
Sophia hurried to fetch the required articles, and Eliza brought lanterns and candles.
By the time Sophia had returned from the kitchen, the room was ablaze as if it were midday. She arranged the ewer, soap, honey, and brandy neatly on the washstand. Going to the bedside, she saw the doctor carefully wiping a few silver instruments with a felt cloth.
Linley smiled at her obvious interest. “A wound is not as likely to turn putrid and malodorous if it is kept clean, although no one can explain why this is so. Therefore I keep my instruments and my hands as immaculate as possible.”
“What is the honey for?”
“It makes an excellent wound dressing and seems to promote healing. It also keeps the tissue from sticking to the cloth when the dressing is changed.”
“And the brandy?”
“I asked for that because I’m thirsty,” Linley replied cheerfully, and took an appreciative swallow of the vintage. “Now, Miss Sydney, after I wash my hands, I am going to probe for the bullet—an unpleasant procedure which will make Sir Ross swear like a sailor. I advise that you wait in another room if you possess a weak stomach.”
“I do not,” Sophia said at once. “I wish to stay.”
“Very well.” Linley picked up a long, slender probe and sat at the bedside. “Try to hold still,” he warned Sir Ross quietly. “If it becomes too uncomfortable, I can send for Sir Grant to help hold you down—”
“I won’t move,” Ross assured him testily.
At the doctor’s bidding, Sophia held a lamp over his shoulder. She kept her gaze on Sir Ross’s taut face rather than on Dr. Linley’s diligent handiwork. The only sign of the pain he must have felt was an occasional twitch of a muscle in his cheek, or a slight catch of his breath as the probe dug deeper. Finally the implement clicked against the bullet, which had lodged against a bone.
“There it is,” Linley said calmly, a mist of perspiration causing his face to gleam. “It’s a pity you have such a strong constitution, Cannon. You’d have done better to faint before I extract this thing.”
“I never faint,” Ross muttered. His gaze hunted for Sophia’s face, and she smiled reassuringly into his pain-darkened eyes.
“Miss Sydney,” Linley murmured, “hold this probe exactly as it is positioned, and do not alter the angle.”
“Yes, sir.” She complied instantly, and he reached for a delicate two-pronged instrument that looked like a pair of pincers.
“Steady hands,” he remarked admiringly, resuming possession of the probe. Deftly he began to extract the bullet. “And a pretty countenance to boot. If you ever tire of working at Bow Street, Miss Sydney, I am going to hire you as my assistant.”
Before Sophia could reply, Sir Ross interceded. “No,” he growled. “She’s mine.” And with that he promptly fainted, the inky sweep of his lashes fanning his pale cheeks.
With the removal of the lead slug from Sir Ross’s shoulder, an alarming gush of bright red blood came forth. Sophia bit her lip as she watched Dr. Linley press a clean pad to the wound. The low growl of Sir Ross’s words She’s mine seemed to hang in the air. Lamely Sophia sought to explain away the phrase. “H-how kind of Sir Ross to express his appreciation of my work.”
“That was not what he meant, Miss Sydney,” Dr. Linley replied dryly, still focusing on his work. “Believe me, I understood quite well what he was expressing.”
When the doctor finished applying a dressing to Sir Ross’s shoulder, he glanced first at Sophia, then at Eliza, who was gathering a pile of soiled rags to be washed. “Who will be looking after Sir Ross?”
Chapter 6
The question was greeted with silence as the two women glanced at each other. Sophia bit her lip, desperately wanting to take care of him. At the same time, she was alarmed by the awful tenderness that welled inside her. The revulsion she had once felt toward Sir Ross was crumbling steadily. It seemed impossible to fortify her hatred, and that realization filled her with despair. I’m sorry, John, she thought bleakly. I am failing you. You deserve better than this. But for now, she was going to set aside her plans for vengeance. She had no choice. Later she would think about it all, and decide what to do.
“I will look after him,” Sophia said. “Give me your instructions, Dr. Linley.”
He answered readily. “The dressing must be changed twice a day. Apply it to the wound bed just as you saw me do tonight. If you notice a purulent drainage or foul odor, or if the shoulder turns red and swollen, send for me. Also, if the area right around the wound becomes hot to the touch compared to the surrounding skin, I will wish to know immediately.” He paused to smile at Sir Ross, who was beginning to stir and blink. “Serve him the usual sickroom pap—beef tea, milk toast, mulled eggs—and for God’s sake, limit his coffee so that he will rest.” Still smiling, Linley bent to place a hand on Sir Ross’s good shoulder. “I’m done with you tonight, my friend, though I will return in a day or two to torment you further. Now I will go tell Sir Grant that he is allowed to see you. I s
uspect he is waiting most impatiently downstairs.”
The doctor left the room, his footsteps quiet for such a tall man. “What a pleasant gentleman,” Sophia remarked.
“Yes,” Eliza agreed with a chuckle, “and Dr. Linley is unmarried as well. Many fine ladies in London want his services, both professional and personal. Whoever brings him to scratch will be a lucky woman.”
“What do you mean by personal services?” Sophia asked, perplexed. “Surely you are not referring to—”
“Oh, yes,” the cook-maid said slyly. “They say Dr. Linley is skilled in the bedroom arts as well as—”
“Eliza,” Sir Ross interrupted grumpily, “if you must engage in prurient gossip, please do it in a room where I am not forced to listen.” He scowled at both women, his gaze settling on Sophia. “Surely there is something better for the two of you to discuss than ‘bedroom arts.’ ”
Sophia’s laughing gaze met Eliza’s. “He is quite right,” she said. “We should not lower ourselves to gossip in front of Sir Ross.” She paused before adding mischievously, “You can tell me the rest about Dr. Linley when we’re in the kitchen.”
As the ache in his shoulder subsided to a continuous pain, Ross accepted Sophia’s help in undressing. He did as much as possible by himself, but the effort soon exhausted him. By the time she had settled a white linen nightshirt over his head and helped to guide his injured arm through the sleeve, he was sore and depleted. “Thank you,” he muttered, settling back against the pillows with a grunt of pain.
Sophia straightened the covers and brought them to his midriff. Her gaze searched his, her eyes dark with concern and some other, unfathomable emotion. “Sir Grant is waiting just outside the door. Will you see him now, or shall I tell him to return later?”
“I’ll see him.” A sigh escaped Ross. He did not want to talk with Morgan or anyone else. He wanted silence, peace, and Sophia’s gentle presence beside him.
Instinctively she began to reach for him, then hesitated. Not for the first time, Ross sensed her inner struggle, a conflict between intimacy and repulsion, as if she were determined to deny herself something she wanted badly. She extended her hand to stroke his forehead and smooth back his hair with cool fingertips. “Don’t talk with him for long,” she murmured. “You need to rest. I will return soon with a supper tray.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She ignored his words as she left, and Ross grinned ruefully at the sure knowledge that she was not going to desist until he ate something.
Sir Grant Morgan entered the bedroom, ducking his head beneath the doorframe. His gaze flickered over Ross, lingering at the bulky shape of the wound dressing at his shoulder. “How are you?” he asked quietly, lowering himself to the bedside chair.
“Never better,” Ross said. “The injury is trifling. I’ll be back at work by tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”
For some reason Morgan laughed gruffly. “Damn you, Cannon. I’d like to know what you would say to me, had I taken the foolish risk that you did this evening.”
“If I hadn’t joined in the pursuit, Butler would have gotten away.”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan said sardonically. “Sayer said you were a hell of an impressive sight. According to him, you climbed up to the roof like a damned cat and followed Butler right over to the next building. A five-foot jump between parapets, with certain death awaiting if you lost your footing. And after Butler fired, no one knew you’d been hit, because you kept going until you caught him. Sayer claims you’re a bloody hero.” Morgan’s tone made it clear that he did not agree with the assessment.
“I did not fall,” Ross pointed out, “and all has ended well. Let it rest at that.”
“Let it rest?” Although Morgan was still controlling his temper fairly well, his face was covered with a betraying flush. “What right have you to risk your life in such a manner? Do you know what would become of Bow Street if you had died tonight? I need not remind you of all the people who would be only too happy to use your demise as an excuse to dismantle the runners and turn the whole of London over to private thief-takers and crime lords such as Nick Gentry.”
“You wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I couldn’t stop it,” Morgan countered. “I haven’t your skills, your knowledge, or your political influence—not yet, at any rate. Your death would jeopardize everything we’ve worked for—and that you should risk so much because of a woman, for God’s sake—”
“What did you say?” Ross demanded. “You think I went on that rooftop because of a woman?”
“Because of Miss Sydney.” Morgan’s unwavering green eyes focused on him. “You’ve changed since she’s come here, and tonight is a prime example of that. Although I won’t pretend to understand what you’re thinking—”
“Thank you,” Ross muttered darkly.
“—it is clear that you are struggling with some problem. My guess is that it stems from your interest in Miss Sydney.” The hard planes of Morgan’s face relaxed as he viewed Ross with a perceptive gaze. “If you want her, take her,” he said quietly. “God knows she would have you. That fact is obvious to everyone.”
Ross brooded and made no reply. He was not the most self-aware of men, preferring to examine other people’s motives and emotions in lieu of his own. To his uncomfortable surprise, Ross realized that Morgan was correct. He had indeed acted recklessly, out of frustration and yearning and perhaps even a strain of guilt. It seemed so long ago that his wife had died, and the pain he had carried for five years had faded. Lately there had been days at a time when he didn’t even think about her, yet he had sincerely loved Eleanor. However, the memories had become distant and pale ever since Sophia had entered his life. Ross could not remember if he had felt this passionately about his wife. Surely it was indecent to compare them, but he couldn’t help it. Eleanor, so willowy, pale, fragile… and Sophia, with her golden beauty and feminine vitality.
He turned an expressionless face to Grant Morgan. “My interest in Miss Sydney is my own concern,” he said flatly. “And as for my somewhat precipitous actions this evening, from now on I will try to limit my activities to those of a more cerebral nature.”
“And leave the thief-taking to the runners—as I have learned to do,” Morgan said sternly.
“Yes. However, I wish to correct you on one point—I am not irreplaceable. The time is not long in coming when you will easily be able to fill my shoes.”
Morgan grinned suddenly, glancing down at his own gigantic feet. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s the fellow who has to fill my shoes who will have the most difficulty.”
A light tap came at the door, and Sophia entered cautiously. She looked tousled and tempting, her hair coming loose from its pins. She carried a small tray with a covered dish, and a glass of what appeared to be barley water. Despite Ross’s weariness, he felt his spirits surge in her presence.
Sophia smiled pleasantly at Morgan. “Good evening, Sir Grant. If you would like some supper, it would be no trouble to bring up another tray.”
“No, thank you,” Morgan replied pleasantly. “I will return home to my wife, as she is expecting me.” Bidding them both good-bye, Morgan made to depart. He paused at the door, his gaze meeting Ross’s over Sophia’s head. “Consider what I said,” he remarked meaningfully.
The pain in Ross’s shoulder made rest difficult. He woke frequently and considered taking a spoonful of the opiate syrup that had been left on his night table.
But he rejected the idea, for he disliked being muddle-headed. He thought of Sophia sleeping a few rooms away, then conjured up a number of excuses he might use to summon her to his bedside. He was bored and uncomfortable, and he wanted her. The only thing that kept him from calling for her was his understanding that she needed to rest.
When dawn crept timidly over the city and sent its weak gray light through the half-open curtains, Ross was relieved to hear sounds of people stirring in the house. Sophia’s light tread as she went to Ernest’s tiny att
ic room to awaken him… the housemaids carrying coal pails and lighting the grates… Eliza’s broken footsteps as she headed toward the kitchen.
Finally Sophia entered the bedroom, her face scrubbed and glowing, her hair pulled back in a thick plait that had been coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck. She carried a tray of supplies, set them on the night table, and came to the bedside.
“Good morning.” Gently she laid her hand on his forehead, then pressed it against the beard-roughened space beneath his jawbone. “You’re a bit feverish,” she observed. “I will change the wound dressing, then have the maids fill a tepid bath. Dr. Linley said that a bath was acceptable as long as you don’t get the bandages wet.”
“Are you going to help me bathe?” Ross asked, enjoying the sudden tide of color that washed over her face.
“My nursing duties do not extend that far,” Sophia replied primly, although amusement tugged at the corners of her lips. “If you require assistance with your bath, Ernest will provide it.” She stared at him closely, apparently fascinated by the sight of his dark-stubbled face. “I’ve never seen you unshaven before.”
Ross rubbed a hand over his scratchy jaw. “In the mornings I’m as prickly as a hedgehog.”
She considered him appraisingly. “You look rather dashing, actually. Like a pirate.”
He watched as Sophia busied herself, drawing the curtains aside to admit fresh daylight, pouring hot water into a washbasin, and carefully washing her hands. Although she tried to appear matter-of-fact about the situation, it was evident that she was not accustomed to being alone with a man in his bedroom. She did not quite meet his eyes when she returned to the bedside and laid out the materials for the new dressing.
“Sophia,” he murmured, “if you are uncomfortable…”
“No,” she said earnestly, her gaze flying to his. “I want to help you.”
Ross could not suppress a mocking smile. “Your face is red.”
The blush remained, but a dimple appeared in her cheek while she uncovered the pot of honey and drizzled the amber liquid onto a square of felt. “If I were you, Sir Ross, I would not tease someone who is about to doctor you.”
