“I will go back upstairs after I check your injury.” With a commanding wave of her hand, she instructed, “Remove your coat.”
Twelve
Emma was a little surprised when he threw her a long-suffering look, telling her just what he thought of her bossiness, but did what she said anyway.
When she first heard the gunshot echo through the building, she didn’t realize what the sound was. Once she did, a jolt of fear seized her and her only thought had been to get downstairs to assure herself Roderick was unharmed. Her relief at finding him arguing with Bishop while a young man sat sobbing on the floor had been immense.
Now she stood waiting patiently for Roderick to remove his coat. Seeing the amount of blood spreading through the white linen of his shirt, Emma tensed. The injury might be worse than she first suspected.
“The waistcoat as well,” she ordered. “We will need to pull the shirt away.”
He shrugged free of the waistcoat then loosened his cravat.
Emma refused to look at his face as he undressed. Though she tried to keep her focus directed on assessing the injury, she was distressingly aware of everything else. She wanted to ignore the heightening of her senses that occurred when she was near him, but the details of his person intruded forcefully on her senses, despite her best efforts.
As he tried to peel the fine fabric of his shirt away from his shoulder, he winced.
Emma stepped forward and lifted her hands to assist. Gently grasping the edge of the shirt, she carefully lifted it from his skin and drew it down his upper arm. The bullet had grazed him just below the bulge of muscle that ran up to his shoulder. At first glance the wound was gruesome.
“You are surprisingly calm for having just been shot,” she observed. “Do you often entertain drunk young men waving pistols?”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Not if I can avoid it.”
“He must have been very upset.”
“He was.”
Bentley would have been well within his rights to be angry with the young gentleman, yet there was compassion in his tone. He stood quiet and still as Emma bent her head and prodded around the edges of the injury with her thumb. Fortunately, the bleeding had eased to a subtle oozing. But there was too much red about to see the full extent of the damage.
Emma sighed as she stepped back again and started for the door. “Sit down. The wound will need to be cleaned and bandaged. I will fetch what is needed.”
“I am fine—” he started to protest, but Emma cut him off sternly.
“I will be right back.”
It took a few minutes to find a maid to assist in gathering the linens and a bowl of water. By the time she got back to the drawing room, Bentley was standing by a liquor service, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
Catching her gaze, he gave a winsome grin. “It is starting to throb a bit. Thought this might help.”
“Fine,” Emma said as she strode forward. “Come take a seat, please.”
He did as she asked, lowering himself beside her on a narrow settee. He removed his shirt, lifting it up over his head, as she arranged the bowl of water and bandages on the table beside her.
After she wet one of the bandages, she turned to face him and her knee bumped against his. He was bare now from the waist up, and the alluring image of a hard chest, taut abdomen, and arms defined with lean muscles diverted her attention for a moment before she regained proper focus.
She could manage this.
She directed her gaze back to the injury.
The bleeding had stopped completely now, and she set about the task of wiping away the drying blood.
He was an easy patient, sitting still and uncomplaining as she worked. She had the wound almost clean when he finally broke the silence.
“You have done this sort of thing before? Played the part of nursemaid?”
Emma thought of the many long hours she had sat at her mother’s bedside.
“In a way,” she said quietly as she set the wet and bloodied cloth in the bowl and leaned in to examine more closely the edges of the wound.
“Who did you care for to develop such commanding efficiency?”
Emma considered evading his question, but didn’t see much point. “My mother. She was very sick before she died. And very stubborn.”
Though just a shallow graze, the path of the bullet had left an angry trench through his skin. The edges would not meet, but at least the wound did not go deep.
“I do not think you will need stitches. As long as it is kept free of infection, it should heal well, though there will likely be a scar.”
“I am sorry,” he replied.
Emma looked up at him curiously. His head was turned toward her and his chin was lowered, bringing his face within a disturbingly intimate distance.