Behind the Courtesan - By Bronwyn Stuart Page 0,24

the horse’s neck. Monster renewed his struggle to stand as Blake’s weight bore down. Placing the muzzle against Monster’s head, Blake closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Seven

When Sophia saw Blake fall on his back, relief that he was alive warred with the panic that she didn’t know what was happening. As she neared, one of the big horses ran off down the road sending divots of rock and mud flying in its wake. Before she could reach Blake’s side, he was on his feet, resigned determination in the grim set of his lips.

Now one horse was dead, killed by Blake and his pistol, the other gone, terrified and panicked enough to never come back. Sophia felt...numb.

Should she mourn the dead animal? Thank God she was alive? Alone on the road, night encroaching, the scent of blood thick enough to attract nocturnal scavengers—should she worry?

And then Blake was at her back, his warmth a welcome reprieve to the cold nothingness descending. Strong arms encircled her, hugged her, held her. The reassuring weight of Blake’s chin resting on her shoulder made her forget she didn’t like to be touched. A childhood of memories stirred, lifted, swirled around in her mind until she turned in the shelter of his strength and cried against his chest.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, holding her tight.

His warm lips brushed against her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, first one and then the other, but it felt wrong. It had to be her decision, her instigating the contact, her in control. Sophia pushed against his chest, backed up until they no longer touched, but then gasped when she saw the amount of blood on his ripped clothes.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He shrugged, a not-quite-contained hiss of pain giving his lie away.

Sophia arched a brow but didn’t dignify his words with more. She stomped back to the carriage to see what they had in the way of bandages. There must be something she could use to clean the blood and dirt and then bind his wounds. Anything to take her mind off his kisses and the heat infusing her cheeks.

There was nothing suitable at all, only filthy old blankets to cushion supplies. Pretty soon, the top skirt of her ensemble—the one she hadn’t wanted to sacrifice in the name of stubborn stupidity—was hiked up and out of the way as she ripped at petticoats until she had a handful of adequate strips to first clean and then bind.

“I’m all right, really, Sophie, don’t fuss.”

“Sit down,” she demanded. For once he did as she asked and sat before he was pushed. The damage was extensive, but didn’t seem life threatening. Down his left arm, an angry red graze already purpled as blood pooled beneath the skin. More blood trickled down his forearm to drip from his elbow. She started there, but was soon hampered by the torn linen of his shirt.

“Take your shirt off.” She kneeled next to him in the dirt, waited for him to comply.

Blake shook his head and attempted to stand. Sophia wouldn’t have it. Under the ferocity of her glare, hands on her hips, fire in her eyes, he finally pulled the shirt over his head and twisted his hands around it, dropping the bundle into his lap.

Her gaze followed the movement as she desperately endeavored to ignore rippling muscle now only covered by a sprinkling of dark hair. Her childhood friend had more muscle than all of the men at a London ball combined. Never had she seen such finely sculpted, individually corded, sinewy tone on another human being. On animals, yes. Men, no.

The thought of the dead horse, his screams permanently silenced, brought her back to the task at hand. When she looked up to gauge Blake’s level of awareness, wondering if the shock had set in, he wore a smug grin of triumph.

“I was merely looking for more wounds,” she squeaked, before any query was even voiced. It made her guilt all the more evident.

“You missed the one here,” he said with a chuckle, pointing to his side where yet more blood dripped.

“You are in a bad way,” she told him. She couldn’t clean the wounds without water and binding open lacerations could invite infection, especially since her petticoats were hardly sanitary.

She wound a makeshift bandage around his shoulder and upper arm to the elbow and prayed for a miracle, that the flow of blood had largely removed any debris that may have lodged inside. Sophia placed the back