Faceless, nameless servants. Where had they all come from?
Had the delicious Miss Brett shot him?
He didn’t think she possessed the capability, let alone a requisite firearm.
“I think I’d like a glass of shiskwy, Bruno,” Nando added. No, that didn’t sound right.
“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” Bruno said, guiding him to the front door of the town house he’d so recently vacated.
“Whisky,” he tried again, pleased that his muddled brain had been able to elucidate.
“You’ll be needing more than whisky,” Bruno grumbled.
Nando was helped into the town house, where the butler greeted him with appalled alarm. More shouts ensued, and Nando dripped his life source all over the marble entryway.
Suddenly, Miss Brett was there. She looked like an angel with the sunlight catching in her ethereally gold locks. She fluttered toward him, a worried butterfly.
“Your Royal Highness, you’ve been wounded,” she exclaimed.
“It’s a mere scratch,” he reassured her gallantly and then listed to the right like a ship about to go down at sea.
“Send for Dr. Crisfield at once,” Miss Brett demanded sternly before taking Nando’s uninjured arm and cleaving to his side as if it were where she belonged.
Ah, bliss. She was warm and soft and she smelled like a blooming flower garden in summer, and he wanted her to wrap him in her arms and never let him go. He’d happily get shot every day if it meant this sort of reception from her.
“Can you manage to take the stairs, Your Royal Highness?” she asked fretfully.
“If I say no, will you offer to carry me?” he asked, stumbling into her.
This damned loss of blood was causing him to feel faint. But he also thought he might be in love with the woman.
“Get me a cloth to press to his wound,” Miss Brett ordered, taking command in a way not even Bruno could. “He’s losing too much blood.”
Domestics scattered to do her bidding. Nando swayed again, and Bruno wrapped a burly arm around him, keeping him from falling to his face. A cloth was presented, and Miss Brett pressed it to his wound.
Pain lanced him as he hissed in a breath. “Ye gods, that hurts.”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t afford to keep bleeding this way,” she said.
Bruno muttered something about saints in their native language. Nando didn’t quite catch it all. But he was moving with the help of Miss Brett and his guard, floating toward the staircase and then taking the steps in halting progression. Bleeding on his host’s carpets. It couldn’t be helped. He’d happily pay the princess and her husband, the wealthy commoner Archer Tierney, to have them replaced.
If he didn’t die, that was.
He didn’t think he was going to die.
At least, he hoped he wouldn’t. He wanted to feel Miss Brett’s lips beneath his at least once before he met his demise.
“I’m afraid there’s no chance of that,” Miss Brett told him frostily.
Well, hell. Had he voiced his desire to kiss her aloud? It must be all the cotton filling his head. And the pain from his wounded arm. And that damned blood that continued to flow. More now, soaking the cloth she pressed to his wound. Coloring her dainty, pale fingers. He looked at it and felt dizzied.
“Your Royal Highness, keep moving,” she commanded him sternly. Then, in a softer tone he couldn’t resist, added, “Please.”
He’d do anything she asked of him. That was his stupefied thought as he stumbled his way up the stairs, bleeding everywhere and leaning on Miss Brett and Bruno for aid. Everything unfolded in a flurry as they reached the top of the stairs. A strapping footman appeared, replacing Miss Brett, and Nando was hauled into a bedchamber.
“Miss Brett,” he called, needing her.
Her presence calmed him. He had to have her at his side. To the devil with this footman. He struggled with the lad, extricating his arm, roaring with exasperation and pain.
