who stood at attention in the hall. “Or shall we adjourn to your rooms together?”
A myriad of emotions ran through his eyes, the prevalent one being supreme irritation. “I thought you would never ask,” he said through his teeth.
Archer’s room. It was much like the library, paneled in mellow woods, with large, comfortable leather chairs and a long leather couch arranged before the hearth. She kept her eyes firmly away from the massive bed hung with silver velvet draping and followed Archer as he stomped over to a sideboard near the window and helped himself to a tumbler of brandy.
Her eyes went to the wide door connecting her room to his. So close. Every night so close, yet he remained the gentleman and kept his distance. That alone filled her with tender gratitude. The ache in her chest was gratitude, wasn’t it?
He eased off his coat and vest, staying in shirtsleeves and collar, then went to the full-length mirror in the corner. Gently, he pulled apart the torn, blood-soaked linen and inspected his wound.
“Shit.” The crisp expletive snapped through the air.
She came closer and pulled in a breath. The wound was a good six inches long and rather deep. Blue-black blood and meaty pink flesh gaped at her. The floor beneath her feet swayed.
“The muscle looks intact—” Archer’s head jerked up. “Sit down before you faint.”
She backed into a seat and watched as he pulled a stack of white linens from a drawer and pressed one to his side. The cloth bloomed crimson.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, keeping his eyes on the cloth. “This needs attending and I’ve no time to…” He swayed and caught himself with a hand to the sideboard.
She jumped up and pulled him none too gently to the couch by the fire. “Then let us proceed.”
“No!” His ashen mouth pinched.
She nudged his shoulder, and he fell easily back onto the couch.
“You talk of my stubbornness,” she snapped, hauling his heavy legs up so that he lay down. “You’re no better than a belligerent ox.” A lock of hair fell down over her brow, and she swatted it back.
“How,” she asked, glaring at him, “are you to attend a wound that you can’t even view without twisting your side and making it gape?”
He simply glared back, his expressive mouth set and firm.
“Well?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, then winced.
“That is enough.” Her hands went to his shirtfront. “Let us proceed before you bleed to death.”
He caught her wrists in a surprisingly firm grip. “No.”
The childish resolve in him irked her to no end. “Is it worth your life?” she asked, still imprisoned by his hands.
Alarm flashed in his eyes, but it was ruthlessly suppressed by determination. “Yes.”
A shiver of real fear ran along her limbs. “And where does that leave me?” she asked softly.
His grip eased but the war clearly still raged inside him. She took pity and moved away.
“Here.” She took the soft woolen rug from the couch back. “We shall leave the shirt on and cover up your right side.”
He watched as she tucked the throw around him.
“I don’t deserve you, Miranda.”
The softness in his voice made her want to smile but she kept it repressed. “Yes, I know.” She straightened. “No matter, I shall soon have my revenge. Now tell me what to do.”
“Bring the lamp close. And I need more of the linen cloths.”
Miranda did as bidden, and he pressed a large bundle of linen firmly against his side.
“Can you sew?” he asked, looking a bit peaked.
“Yes, but…”
“Good. Go wash your hands. And bring back a bowl of soapy warm water. You’ll find a bowl in the cabinet by the washroom door.”
When she returned, he lay so still upon the couch that she worried he’d fainted, but his eyes found hers as soon as she drew near and set down the bowl of water.
“Go to the wardrobe over there.” He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “There is a black valise on the top shelf. Can you reach it?”
“Just.”
She set the things on the table and added the rolls of clean linen she’d found by the valise.
“Take out that length of black velvet—carefully—and the three larger bottles.” He rested his head upon the pillow. “Good. We’ll tend to the arm first.”
“How is it that you have all this,” she asked as she ripped the gaping hole on his sleeve a bit wider. The wound was superficial, a light slash across the large arc of his biceps. Firmly, she told herself that