“Stay back,” he barked, his voice sharp with command. “A mirror broke. The shards are scattered. You’ll cut yourself.”
“You are hurt,” she returned, alarmed, her voice softer but no less insistent. “I cannot leave you like this.”
“I will live,” he said dryly, though the tautness in his jaw and the faint tremor in his hand betrayed him.
“I have no doubt you will,” she said tartly, gathering her skirts and stepping with care toward him, “but if you bleed to death out of sheer stubbornness, it shan’t be for lack of warning.”
He huffed what might have been a laugh or a grunt of pain.
“Come downstairs with me,” she said firmly. “To the library. I can tend the wound there.”
His gaze clashed with hers—dark, unreadable, laced with something she could not name. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he planted his palms against the dusty floor and pushed to his feet with the grace of a man used to commanding his limbs even when pain hindered him.
“Very well,” he said dryly. “But I must warn you, Miss Winton, this is hardly the most dignified moment of my life. Do not be alarmed if I weep upon your shoulder from the agony.”
“Since you are in such a jesting mood, my lord, I daresay your pain is not as dire as you claim, and you shall not suffer unduly from my ministrations.”
His low chuckle followed, rich and unguarded, and it rippled down her spine like a physical caress. Maryann turned, leading him carefully down the stairs, one hand braced lightly on the rail, her mind whirring with concern and an entirely unwelcome awareness of him. She moved swiftly, the hem of her robe brushing the stairs as she descended. In the library, she set about gathering what she needed—her small satchel that contained odds and ends she never traveled without, a basin from the kitchen, and a jug of warm water from the hearth in the kitchen.
She added several clean strips of linen she’d set aside earlier for mending, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached for the half-full decanter of brandy resting on the sideboard. Her heartbeat a frantic rhythm as she returned. It was silly, but Maryann felt this seemed intimate. And dangerous.
Lord Ranford was seated on the chaise by the hearth, his head tipped toward the ceiling.
“You’ll need to remove your shirt,” she said gently, setting her supplies on a small table nearby.
His brows lifted faintly, but he said nothing. With slow, practiced movements, he tugged at the buttons, removed the shirt, and set it aside. Maryann’s breath caught. She had not meant to stare, but his body, bronzed by sun and marked by lean strength drew her eyes. Corded muscle shifted beneath his skin, and scars, some faint and old, some recent, lined his back. She quickly looked away, focusing instead on the injury. And then her stomach lurched.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Three thick shards of glass protruded at different angles from his back—one just below his shoulder blade, another near his rib, and a third embedded shallowly at his lower back. Blood welled faintly at each site, trailing down in sluggish rivulets.
“There are three pieces,” she said, her voice tight. “Two are deeply embedded. One is… not so bad.”
He grunted in response. “I thought as much when I landed on the damn thing.”
“What happened?”
“I was trying to shift one of the cabinets. Didn’t realize a cracked cheval mirror had been tucked behind it.”
Maryann lit several more candles and brought them close, setting them around the chaise until the library was bathed in a golden glow. The flames danced along the spines of books, casting flickering shadows, but her focus remained entirely on him.
“This will hurt,” she warned softly.
“I’ve endured worse,” he replied, his voice a low rumble, though his fingers tightened on the edge of the chaise.
With deliberate care, she took a pair of tweezers from her satchel and leaned close. She used a small magnifying lens to inspect each wound. Her hands trembled, but she steeled herself. One by one, she removed the shards. The first came free with little resistance, though he hissed through his teeth. The second was more stubborn, and she had to steady his shoulder as she worked. The third made him swear softly under his breath, and her breath quickened as she eased it from his flesh. Blood welled anew.
“I think that’s all of them,” she said, bending closer with the lens. “Nothing remains… but I shall clean the wounds thoroughly.”
She poured brandy into a bowl, soaked a strip of linen, and wrung it gently. “This may sting.”
“I’m prepared.”
The moment the cloth touched his back, he flinched, and she winced for him. Gently, she dabbed at each cut, wiping away blood and grit, then folded another linen and pressed it over the deepest wound to staunch the bleeding. He remained silent, only the occasional shift of his shoulders betraying his discomfort. Maryann felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest. When the last of the brandy-soaked cloths had been used, she began to bind the wounds with clean linen strips. Then, as she straightened and moved to return the basin to the side table, something caught her eye. She halted, her breath catching.
“Goodness,” she whispered, stepping closer. “There is one here too.”
Sebastian followed her gaze. “Yes.”
