If You Dare(46)
He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Olivia, I was married.”
“I know your story.”
“Do you know I vowed never to marry again?”
She dropped her pistol in her skirt pocket. “No, your sister neglected to mention that. But is your vow not to wed greater than your fear for her in the hands of a gang of Highlanders?” No need for Llorente to know quite yet that those men wouldn’t hurt her.
“Of course not. What will you have me do?”
“Give me your word while you look me in the eyes.”
He took her elbow and said, “I feel I have to remind you that Pascal will send the Rechazados after you. You are risking your life.”
Of course he felt that way. Everything above board. Hell, Llorente needed her just to make sure other vultures didn’t get hold of him first. “Then you’d better make the risk worth it.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Because Pascal had taught her cruelty and malice, never knowing she would turn those very traits back on him. And freeing Llorente was just the beginning. “I have my motives. Besides, you need me as much as I can use you.”
He scowled at that, then caught her gaze. “If you free me, I will wed you.”
She stared long after. She’d known he would agree, had planned for it, and yet she still felt relief. “Then let’s not waste another minute.” She turned for the door. “I have two horses outside—one I have hereby appropriated from your sister.” She pointed at him over her shoulder. “Make a note of that.”
“Do you know where they’ve taken Annalía?”
“The last Rechazados’ report said they were riding north into France.”
As they started up the stairs, he said, “And the guards?”
“Have been taken care of.”
He caught up with her and grabbed her hand to stop her. “Did you kill them?”
With her other hand, she patted his face. “No, I’m wearing my new riding habit and I’m ever the messy killer.” She exhaled. “I drugged them. Listen to me, Llorente, I promise from now on I’ll never kill or maim anyone.” She jerked free of him and walked on, but turned back to eye him. “Unless they have it coming.”
Four o’clock in the morning and the doctor that they’d roused from bed didn’t even have a shadow beard. Perhaps Court was just an ignorant Scot, but he preferred two things in his surgeons: that they be sober, and that they have lived long enough to have practiced on others before getting to him.
Court had ridden straight down the base of the Pyrenees into France with Anna in his arms—a crazed trip he had little memory of—and stopped at an ancient spa town. He had the vague notion that there’d be more physicians centered around medicinal waters than in any mountain foot village. He’d been right.
There were many doctors, who unfortunately catered to rich, bored ladies with imagined maladies. Annalía had a gunshot wound—a tisane of chamomile wasn’t going to do the trick here.
He’d stopped at the first boardinghouse he found, but balked when he’d seen the boy the people in the house recommended. Yet Dr. Molyneux, for all his youth, had been thorough in his examination.
Court looked down at her arm. The bullet had passed over the side and had burned the wound’s edges, but the bone was untouched. Lass was lucky that plug hadn’t shattered it. A hair closer and Court still would’ve been arguing with the doctor, but not over something so minor as how to clean the wound.
While Molyneux directed the boardinghouse matron for clean linen to be cut into bandages, Court brushed her hair behind her ear and watched her eyes move behind her lids. He’d ridden as far as he’d dared, and only hoped his men could prevent the Rechazados from getting through that pass. Regardless, they needed to get on the road as soon as possible. “When will she regain consciousness?”
“Right now she’s just sleeping.”
He gave Molyneux an irritated look.
“I could wake her right now if I wanted to. But I don’t want to.”
Court’s brows drew together when Molyneux put some tincture on her arm and began to roll the bandage around. “Do you no’ need to suture it?”
“No, it looked deeper than it actually is because of all the blood.”
“You need to suture it. You should always sew these things.”
“Mr. MacCarrick, the wound simply wasn’t that grievous. It bled profusely, and I’m sure it gave you quite a scare, but the actual damage to the skin wasn’t enough to warrant stitches. I understand that you are worried about your…your Mrs. MacCarrick, but this is the best course.”