“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.
“What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Luke?” the man asked, closing the door behind him. He reminded Catherine of an angel, with a halo of blond curls around his head. His eyes, as blue as the sky, widened. “What have we here?”
“A bit of a mishap,” Claybourne said as he rose from the chair.
The man set his black bag on the table and took the chair Claybourne had vacated.
“Who have we here?”
“You don’t need to know,” Claybourne said.
The man smiled. “I treat far too many to remember all their names. I’m William Graves.”
“You’re a physician?” Catherine asked.
“Quite right.” He placed his hand beneath hers with extreme gentleness, but she didn’t grow warm, her breath didn’t catch, and she didn’t feel in danger of swooning.
“I’m Catherine,” she felt compelled to say.
“Are you one of his rescued lambs?” he asked as he studied her wound.
“No, she is not,” Claybourne snapped. He dragged a chair over and sat beside her.
“You’re not here for gossip. How badly is she hurt?”
“It’s rather nasty, but it could have been worse.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I want to stitch it up. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll heal better, more quickly.”
He seemed to be asking for her permission, so she nodded.
