Grace cursed under her breath. “Bring him to one of the bedchambers inside. We cannot stand here while we offer ourselves as further target practice for Francis.”
“But why Thomas? He was meant to find a safe place in which to sequester himself!” Maria said through gritted teeth, keeping pressure on her brother’s wound while the men surrounded and carried him inside, up the stairs, and into one of the bedchambers.
“Francis wanted to hurt you,” Jasper replied grimly, his gaze shifting between her and Thomas, who lay bleeding on the bed’s counterpane. Curiosity, guilt, and concern mingled on his features.
Anger, hot and swift, took hold of her. She could not let the bastard win. Could not let him believe that he’d bested her yet again—even though he had.
With a firm set to her lips, she nodded at Heather. “Could you please put pressure on this wound?”
“Of course.” She hurried forward and placed her hands just where Maria’s had been.
Maria considered the water in the washbasin at one side of the small room, wishing that she could clean her hands, but they would require that water for Thomas, and at the moment, he was far more important. Instead, she wiped her blood-covered hands down the front of her coat—the thing was already half-covered in Thomas’ blood anyway—and left the room.
Her objective was clear, and there would not be any dissuading her. She reached the dining room, retrieved the newly loaded pistol, then stormed out the front door.
Several women walking nearby gasped in surprise, and one appeared to faint, but Maria’s attention was set on the shadows surrounding the buildings. There were no hunched or human-like shapes, and nothing moved in any of the places she looked. And there were no shots directed ather.
Blast. He could have ridden his horse far from there by now. And Thomas needed her.
With a curse, she turned, and spotted the old satchel in which she’d placed her maid’s costume the previous night near the door. Thomas must have brought it with him, but dropped it when he’d been shot. She flattened her lips into a grim line, and brought the thing inside and up to the bedchamber where Thomas had been carried.
The room was humming with tense energy while Grace, Heather, and Juliana prepared bandages, cloths, water, and a poultice. Thomas’ torso had been exposed, and Livingston, Jasper, and Baxter worked together to assess the damage done.
“He’s losing a fair amount of blood,” Baxter said. “But it appears to be only a flesh wound alongside his ribs; there is no ball to remove. I will stem the flow and set him to rights swiftly.”
Maria’s stomach clenched as she rounded the bed to sit at Thomas’ side. He was pale, his eyebrows twitching even in his unconscious state.
Livingston accepted the washbasin and cloths from Grace, and he and Jasper began wiping away the crimson streaks from Thomas’ narrow frame.
“You know how to do that?” Heather asked bemusedly, tearing another strip of linen.
“Percy had to take on the role of physician on our ship for nearly two years after ours perished in battle,” Livingston offered as he washed the wound entirely clean. “He is fully capable.”
Thomas moaned, drawing everyone’s attention away from the fascinating history of Livingston’s and Baxter’s previous lives as pirates.
“Thomas?” she whispered. “I’m here, Thomas. You’ve been shot, but the very capable Mr. Baxter is taking care of you.”
Mr. Baxter leaned forward and gently touched Thomas’ shoulder. “My name is Percy Baxter. I need to sew up your wound.”
Thomas groaned, and his eyes fluttered before he returned to unconsciousness, and Mr. Baxter bent to his task. Maria’s stomach knotted with worry. She’d never before seen a man lose so much blood as to be rendered unconscious, and for that man to be her brother… A shiver travelled up her spine and gooseflesh spread over her skin. She hated to think what could happen.
Clutching Thomas’ hand, she waited while Mr. Baxter finished the sutures, then cleaned and bandaged him. As a group, they changed the bloodied counterpane. And then they waited.
A full quarter of an hour passed, and with every second, Maria felt increasingly ill at ease. Her focus was on Thomas, but she could not help the awareness of attention upon her. Jasper’s gaze veritably burned into her back. He was, no doubt, desirous to learn more about the brother to whom he’d not been introduced.
A swell of protectiveness rushed through her, and she tightened her hold on Thomas’ hand.
Then, at last, he stirred.
“Thomas?” she whispered, her voice garnering the attention of the others, who sat at a table across the small bedchamber.
Groaning, he blinked his bleary eyes before focusing his light-brown gaze on her face. “Maria,” he mumbled.
He reached up to palm his forehead, then winced in pain. “Bl-bl-ast!”
“You were shot,” Maria said, sitting closer on the edge of the bed. “Do you recall what happened?”
Thomas nodded, then groaned. “I felt—grunt, grunt—fire lance through my—click—side, then hit my—grunt—head on the s-s-s—click—sodding door.”
