imagine you always have,” Dorothy said, not unkindly.
The lad came back then and showed them to the barn, which was little more than a shack that Kit thought might at one time have housed a milk cow. Kit could hardly look at the boy for how much he resembled Jenny, for how much he seemed like a ghost of what Hannah might have looked like.
“Sit,” Kit ordered Percy once the boy had left them to go tend to the horse. “And strip. I need to check you for wounds.”
“Are you mad? It’s freezing in here.”
The barn was drafty and smelled of damp old straw, but it wasn’t the worst place Kit had ever spent the night, and once the brazier was lit it would be fine.
Kit unsheathed the dagger at his hip. “Strip or I’m cutting those breeches off you.”
Percy raised his eyebrows. “In another context that would have been a very fun game indeed.”
Kit supposed it was a good sign if Percy was talking like that. It was not a good sign, however, that Percy couldn’t seem to unlace his boots. Kit, ignoring his leg’s screaming protests, managed to kneel on the ground before Percy and get his boots off. He untied the bloody kerchief. “Lift your hips up,” he said, and tugged Percy’s breeches off. Percy gasped when the leather peeled off the wound, but he kept still and didn’t complain.
“Drink,” Kit said, handing Percy the flask of gin. Percy complied, and then before capping it, Kit poured a generous slosh over the wound.
Percy flinched and swore. “You could have warned me.”
The blood cleaned away, Kit could make out the contours of the wound. It was about two inches long on the outside of Percy’s thigh, as if Percy had been trying to step out of the path of the pistol ball and had nearly managed it. Kit let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. From the satchel, he removed a clean kerchief and tied it around the wound.
And then he bent and rested his forehead on Percy’s knee and let the relief and exhaustion wash over him.
“Shh,” Percy said, his fingers tangling in Kit’s hair. “It’s all right.”
Kit opened his mouth to protest that of course it was all right and Percy could just shut up about it, but when he tried, all that came out was a sob, and he realized his cheeks were wet with tears.
So he let Percy pet his head, and it occurred to him that Percy wasn’t as awkward at soothing as Kit might have guessed. He said things like “hush, hush,” and “there, now, I have you,” as if they came naturally to him.
“What have I done to you,” Kit said.
“What have you done to me?” Percy scoffed, his hand stilling in Kit’s hair. “You have it all backward, you great lummox. Now let’s go to sleep before you say anything even stupider.”
And Kit was so relieved to hear that edge of comfortable rudeness in Percy’s voice, more reassured by it than he could have been by any gentle words.
The night was cold, so Kit told himself that it was only practical for them to lie pressed up against one another. Kit fell asleep with his head buried in the fine hair at the base of Percy’s neck, one arm thrown around Percy’s middle. And if he was dimly aware that Percy was still wide-awake, he didn’t let that stop sleep from overtaking him.
Chapter 43
Percy had never slept on the ground in his life. He had also never been shot. Nor had he spent an entire night in another man’s arms. It was an evening of firsts, all of which combined to put him into a state quite unfit for sleep. He shut his eyes and might have managed to doze off once or twice, but he kept being startled by the sounds of owls hooting and leaves rustling, or by the solid presence of Kit behind him.
Or by the throbbing ache in his thigh.
Christ, he knew it was only a graze. He had known as soon as it happened—before it happened, even, because he had thrown himself against the side of the carriage to avoid being hit directly. He knew it was hardly any worse than the gash he got in his arm during the prizefight, but its existence was an unwanted reminder of the predicament he was in.
All their efforts had come to naught, even though Percy now had the book. The central problem remained: a