Assuming a confident air, she strode toward the bed and set her medical case on the table. Her patient lay on his back, his hand pressed against his side. His gaze tracked her movements with a determination she couldn’t help but admire. Most men would have lost consciousness long ago.
The gunman stood near the head of the bed, watchful and alert. His pistol had disappeared, but she knew he held it close.
She opened the cabinet in the corner of the room and removed a spoon and a small brown bottle. “I’m going to give you laudanum. It will allow me to tend you without causing you pain.”
Lazarus held up his hand in an effort to ward her off. “No.”
“I don’t want to cause you unnecessary distress while I’m tending to your wound.”
“No laudanum. I need my wits about me.”
“But—”
“Do as he says,” the gunman ordered.
Olivia set the bottle and spoon on the table with more force than necessary. Both men seemed determined to make the already difficult task ahead of her even more so. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, needing a moment to calm her nerves and steady her hands.
“What are ye doin’?”
She opened her eyes. “Praying,” she answered, though if it was for the man lying before her or herself, she wasn’t certain.
Without another word, she unfastened his shirt and pulled it away from the wound. Her attention was drawn to the small hole at his side, a few inches below his ribs. It wasn’t large, no bigger than the circumference of her finger. She picked up one of the bandages Bridget had left and pressed it against his side in an effort to staunch the flow of blood.
White lines of pain bracketed his mouth, but he didn’t utter a sound. Olivia felt the unexplainable urge to brush the ink-black hair from his forehead, to tell him it would be all right. Realizing he watched her the way a cat stalks a mouse, she gave him a weak smile, hoping he hadn’t been able to discern her thoughts, and looked down at her hands.
She lifted the wad of cloth, relieved to see the bleeding had slowed. Dropping it into the pail by the bed, she leaned forward to better examine the wound.
Tiny fibers sat at the edge of the circular hole. They would have to be removed first. She couldn’t take the chance of one of them causing an infection. Picking up a clean pad, she swallowed, hating the thought of the pain she would cause when she extracted the bullet. Olivia took a pair of forceps from the medical kit.
One by one she removed the tiny pieces of linen. Wiping away the welling of blood, she probed the bullet hole to see if the lead ball sat close to the surface. Lazarus flinched, his breath hissing through his teeth.
“Would you help me move him onto his side?” She glanced up at his protector.
The gunman moved to the side of the bed and helped her roll the patient over.
The back of his shirt was blood soaked. Pulling the material upward, she found what she was looking for. A similar wound, though larger in size.
“The ball passed through his body.” She looked over her shoulder at the gunman. “I don’t think there is any internal damage.”
He nodded.
Olivia thought she saw a hint of relief in his eyes before his expression became unreadable once more. She picked up her scissors and cut off Lazarus’ shirt.
Using hot water the maid had left earlier, she washed away the blood, taking care to clean both wounds without causing him undue pain. She set the basin aside, then reached for her medical case.
Withdrawing the necessary items for stitching the wound, she threaded the needle and set to work. A short time later, she tied the last stitch and snipped the needle free. She picked up a clean linen square, set it against the wound, and bandaged his side.
Rising, she touched a hand to her back where the muscles protested the bent position she’d held so long. She allowed herself to look at Lazarus’ face for the first time since she began pulling the stitches through his skin. His eyes were closed, and his breathing less labored.
She released a pent-up breath and turned away. The warmth of his hand grazing her own drew her attention.
He slid his fingers over the back of her hand. “You did well.”
The unintentional caress burned her skin like a brand. She stepped back from his touch and nodded. Turning away, she brought her hand to her chest. She rubbed at the burning sensation, uncertain if she was trying to preserve the feeling or wipe it away.
Olivia cleared her throat in an effort to regain her equilibrium and addressed the gunman. “You will need to watch for signs of infection. If he feels hot to the touch, develops a fever, or if either of his wounds become red or inflamed or starts to ooze, you must get him to a doctor immediately.” She listed the symptoms of infection by rote.
She picked up a pile of cloth squares and moved to the basin on the credenza. “You should try to keep him abed for the next few days. He lost quite a bit of blood, and his body will need time to recover.”
“We’ll be stayin’ the night here,” the gunman said.
Olivia turned around.
“We need a place—”
“That is unknown to your enemies,” she finished.
“You’ll be well paid for yer silence.”
“I don’t want your money. I want only your word that you will not harm me or my servants.”
“I have nae reason to harm anyone if you do as I say. I sought out yer brother because of his medical skills. ’Tis well known he will help anyone who can pay, and without stickin’ his nose in.”
She frowned. What was he implying? Phillip was a respected member of society. Surely, this man was mistaken. Olivia didn’t question him further. She was too tired, too overwhelmed by the night’s events.
Turning back to the washbasin, she looked down at the dried blood crusted around her nails. Smothering a cry, she thrust her hands into the water. The clear liquid turned a cloudy red. She began to tremble, her breath coming faster as she scrubbed at her skin. The cries of dying soldiers echoed in her ears.
The sight of a cloth thrust in front of her brought her back to the present. She took the towel with shaking fingers.
Fighting for control, she inhaled through her nose and held her breath for a few seconds, then released it slowly. She had been horrified by the aftermath of a fierce battle and its casualties when Phillip had first suggested she try the breathing technique. Certain it wouldn’t help, she had done it only to please him at first. Now she practiced it whenever she felt overwhelmed.
“Are ye feelin’ a wee bit like Lady Macbeth?”
Olivia paused in drying her hands and met the gunman’s brown gaze. Was that a flicker of compassion in his eyes? “Pardon me?”
He gestured to the basin of bloody water. “The way you were washin’ yer hands. Practically rubbin’ the skin off when they was already clean.”
She looked down at her fingers. No sign of the crimson stains that had covered them before remained. Perhaps she and Lady Macbeth had a great deal in common. Both of them slowly going mad with guilt. Folding the cotton towel in half, she set it next to the basin. “I find cleanliness to be the best way to fight infection.”
The gunman nodded, but she had the feeling he didn’t believe her.
Lazarus gave a low groan, and she hurried to the bed, thankful for the first time in her life for the sound of a man in pain.
He tried to push up on his elbow.
She set a gentle hand on his arm. “You must lie still.”
“Fingers,” he whispered.
“Fingers? You were shot in the side.” She examined first one hand then the other. Callused with a few scars scattered across the backs and knuckles, they were strong, hard-working hands, not the soft, almost feminine hands of the gentlemen of the aristocracy. There was no sign of injury. Olivia frowned. Was he delirious with fever already? She touched his forehead, relieved to find it cool.
“Fingers,” Lazarus said again, his voice insistent.
The gunman moved into his view. “I’m here.”
“Your name is Fingers?” Olivia asked.
“Aye.”
“His name is not important.” Lazarus pushed himself into a sitting position. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his face pale and drawn. “We need to leave. It’s not safe here.”
Fingers pointed at the window. “’Tis safer here than out there.”
Gathering the instruments she’d used, Olivia crossed the room to the door, hoping the two men were distracted enough for her to escape.
Fingers seized her arm and pulled her away from the door. “You canna leave this room.”
“Why not?” She pulled free. “I tended your friend as you demanded.”
“Because you are St. Germaine’s sister.” Lazarus stood. His lips were compressed into a thin line of pain.
Olivia frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“St. Germaine will do anything for a few coins. How do we know you are not like him?”
Why did they continue to refer to Phillip in such unflattering terms? Was it possible they were confusing him with another? “My brother is a good and honest man who cares for nothing but to help others.”
“While he helps himself to their purses,” Fingers muttered.
“I will not let you malign his character in such a way,” she snapped, her temper getting the best of her. “There have been many times my brother aided others without any sort of compensation. If he cared only for money, why did he spend so many years on the battlefield trying to save those who were injured? If he was interested in becoming wealthy, he would have spent those years catering to the members of the
Ton
who indulge in the excesses of food and drink, then insist on the attentions of a physician.”
Lazarus watched her for a moment, his dark gaze unsettling. “Such naiveté is unusual in one your age.”
Olivia inhaled sharply, stung by his comment. At four and twenty, she knew she was firmly on the shelf, but she was hardly in her dotage. “I am far from naïve. I learned the harsh realities of life at the age of sixteen.”
“How do we know you willna send for the Watch the moment you leave this room?” Fingers asked.
“I didn’t do it before when I went to fetch my case so why would I do something so stupid now? You have a pistol. You’ve threatened me and my staff. Do you think I would risk my life or Bridget’s or Jennings’s?” She bit off the rest of her sentence. She didn’t want to push him into using the gun he carried. A man who handled a pistol as he did used it often. And without remorse.
“You are rather forthright, aren’t you,” Lazarus said. It was a statement, not a question. “Sit down,” he ordered.
She didn’t move. She should do as he said, but some willful part of her, the part that hated losing control, refused to let them see how unnerved she was.
Fingers pulled the gun from his coat pocket and pointed at her. “Sit. Down.”
Olivia sat.
While the two men conferred in quiet tones she couldn’t quite hear, Fingers’ gaze never left her. She searched for the compassion she thought she saw earlier. It was nowhere to be found. The brown color of his eyes had seemed warm then, now they reminded her of hard polished stones. She shivered and looked away.
Her gaze landed on the clock at the far end of the credenza. She watched the hands move slowly forward. It seemed to say, “Get help. Get help. Get help,” with each second it ticked off.
A small opening in the curtains at the window drew her attention. She could see a glimpse of the night sky. It was dark and cloudy, with no moon in sight. She hoped she would live to see the morning.
The men came to an agreement of some sort. Lazarus turned toward her while Fingers walked to the door. She glanced between the two, her nerves jumping the way a stone skips over water.
“Thank you for tending my injury.” Lazarus pulled his bloody coat on with slow, careful movements, fastened it closed over his bare chest, then gathered up the remnants of his shirt.
“You’re welcome,” Olivia said, once again feeling the strange sense of magnetism between them. It reminded her of the tension one felt just before the first shot of an ensuing battle.
Sensing a presence, she turned to find Fingers standing behind her just to the right of the chair. Something wasn’t right. She started to rise.
“Sit a moment longer.” Lazarus crossed to stand in front of her. “I have one more thing to say, and then we will take our leave.”
Glancing over her shoulder at the other man, she sank back onto the cushioned seat.
“I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies,” Lazarus said, drawing her attention.
“For forcing me to help you or for speaking ill of my brother?”
“Both.” His eyes held a touch of remorse before his gaze flicked away then back. “And for this.”
Olivia felt the blow to the back of her head, felt herself falling forward, hands catching her, then nothing as a black void rushed upward to claim her.
Chapter Two
“Are you certain you feel up to this excursion?”
Olivia stopped rubbing her temple and forced a smile. “Of course.” She shifted her straw chip bonnet a few inches. “I was just adjusting my hat.”
Lady Amanda Riverton, one of the
Ton’s
premier hostesses, raised her eyebrows, her disbelief clearly evident. “We are supposed to be shopping, yet you have purchased nothing.”
Shrugging, Olivia tried to think of an excuse to cover her preoccupation. “I...I haven’t seen anything I liked.”
Amanda’s brow hiked even higher. “You have found nothing you’ve liked? We’ve visited four of the best modistes on Bond Street. Lord Riverton will have apoplexy when he receives the bills for my purchases today.” The younger woman eyed her with suspicion. “Now, tell me the true reason you are pretending to enjoy this outing.”
Olivia glanced away. Was she so transparent? “I have a bit of a headache.” It was one the reasons for her inattention, given the lump she carried on the back of her head, but not the main reason.
“Hmm.” Amanda halted in the middle of the crowded thoroughfare. “And what else is giving you the megrims?”
Olivia sighed, knowing her friend wouldn’t give up until she knew everything. “I’m worried about a man.”