They were merely partners. He should have felt a detachment where she was concerned, but what he was beginning to feel toward her was an appreciation. It bothered him that he was coming to care for her, that he thought of her far more than he should.
The footman darted ahead and opened the door that led into the kitchen. Luke shouldered his way through. “Go fetch my physician. Quickly now.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Catherine stiffened in his arms. “No, no, we can’t have anyone else aware that I’m here.”
“It’s all right. He’s very discreet.”
Gingerly he set her in the chair. Reaching out, he turned up the flame in the lamp that Cook left on the table every night. He liked the rooms in his house lit. He’d had too many nights in utter darkness.
Turning from her, he grabbed a knife. Then he pulled out a chair, settled it in front of her, sat down, and placed the knife on the table.
“What are you going to do with that? My hand is already sliced.”
If she weren’t so pale with a fine sheen of sweat across her brow, if she hadn’t been so damned brave, he might have lashed out at her. Instead he just asked quietly, “Do you not trust me at all?”
She nodded, and he wasn’t certain if she was nodding yes, she didn’t trust him or yes, she did. It suddenly occurred to him that it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he trusted her.
Very gently he took her hand. He could feel the small tremors traveling through it. “This is likely to hurt,” he said as he began to remove the handkerchief.
“You say that as though it’s not hurting now.”
“Is it hurting very badly?”
Catherine tried not to look, tried so hard not to look, but there was so much blood, it was as though each drop were a magnet for her eyes. “It hurts like the very devil.”
He chuckled low. “You’re such a brave girl.”
She didn’t know why his words warmed her, why she cared that he had a good opinion of her. “There’s so much blood.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, removing the last of the cloth, revealing the ghastly parted flesh with the river of crimson running through it. She wondered how much worse it might have been if the knife hadn’t had to first slice through her glove.
“Oh, dear God.” She turned her head away as though closing her eyes wasn’t enough.
His hold on her hand tightened. “Don’t swoon on me.”
“I’m not going to swoon.” She didn’t bother to keep the irritation from her voice. “I hate that you think I’m such a ninny.”
“I assure you, Catherine, that particular thought regarding you has never once crossed my mind.”
She heard a scrape of metal over wood and opened her eyes in time to see him lifting the knife. Very gingerly, he used it to slice her glove further, to the end. Then he very carefully parted the cloth and slowly peeled back the material, gently tugging it off each finger. She was suddenly having a very difficult time drawing in a breath, the room had grown incredibly hot, and she feared she might be in danger of swooning—even though she’d assured him she wouldn’t.
She imagined him in a bedroom, removing clothes from a woman—from her—with the same care. Revealing every inch of her flesh for his perusal. He was studying her hand as though he’d never before seen bare fingers. He slowly trailed his finger along the outline of her hand.
“I don’t think it’s too bad,” he said quietly.
Swallowing, she nodded.
“If you ever put yourself in harm’s way like that again, I’ll put you over my knee.”
“And do what?” she asked indignantly.
He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw the worry in his eyes, before he smiled. “Kiss your bare bottom.”
Her face must have shown shock at his words—she could only hope it revealed shock and not desire—because he shook his head. “My apologies. That was entirely inappropriate. I forget who you are.”
“And who is that?”
“Not one of Jack’s doxies.”
She didn’t want to contemplate him kissing a woman’s bare bottom, kissing anything for that matter.
He held her gaze, held her hand. Looking into his eyes was so much more welcoming than looking at her raggedly torn palm. They drew her in, made her forget that he’d almost been killed. She reached up with her unwounded hand and brushed the hair back from his brow. She should ask him to slice off that glove as well so she could feel his skin against her fingertips. His eyes darkened, his gaze became more intense, grew closer as he leaned in—
The door opened and they both jumped.