The sensation had him biting down on the bodice, grunting with pain.
“Shhh, I know,” Henrietta said, continuing her ministrations. “All right, I am ready to flush it now.”
He braced himself, biting into the boning of the bodice with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed.
And then he felt the whiskey hit the wound. It felt like he had been shot for a second time. The pain was so intense that he felt his mind shutter and then, nothing, just blankness.
When he awoke, Henrietta was by his side in the bed, and she was smoothing back his hair.
“I rewrapped the wound. But you look ghastly. I’m worried.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” he tried to say, wryly, but felt his ability to concentrate on her face fading. And again the world went black.
Trem started in the bed. He had a vague awareness that a man was in the room.
He groaned, trying to tell the man to leave. In his mind, he looked like the Earl of Hartley, and he imagined that he was here to take Henrietta away.
“It’s the doctor,” he heard Henrietta say, and then she put her hands, cool and so refreshing, on either side of his face.
Then he fell away again—he did not know for how long. When he slept, he did not dream exactly. He imagined that he was still riding down the dark road unsure of whether he would find Henrietta or not.
At various points, he felt a stabbing pain in his arm, as if someone was digging into his wound. He tried to move his arm to stop the pain, but it wouldn’t move—and his eyes felt too heavy to lift.
When he awoke next, bright rays of light greeted his vision. He was alone in the same room at the inn. One look at the window told him it was well into afternoon.
Before he had time to take in any more of his surroundings, the door opened and Henrietta came through it.
“You’re awake!” she exclaimed. “How do you feel?”
She rushed to the side of the bed and, sitting next to him, took his hand.
“The doctor said that we wouldn’t know for a few days whether you’ve averted an infection,” she continued. “But he came this morning and said you were healing nicely. No sign of fever.”
“How long have I been sleeping?”
Henrietta frowned. “Two days.”
Trem was stunned. He thought he had only slept through the night.
“The doctor took the bullet out of your arm yesterday. Luckily it wasn’t wedged in too deeply.”
Trem tried to formulate a thought in response. He felt exceptionally groggy. Instead, all that came to mind was that Henrietta, in the late afternoon light, was beautiful. Even after two days of tending to him, she looked almost criminally fetching.
“How are you?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
“I’m fine,” she said, but the words emerged tight and suggested that she was, in fact, anything but.
“What’s wrong? Is someone here bothering you?” He imagined men in the inn trying to seduce his fiancée and the rage almost had a clarifying effect on his mind. The bloodlust that pounded in his veins made him feel in his body again.
“You mean other than my fiancé almost dying from a gunshot wound?” Henrietta said, her voice near tears. “Other than that little problem, I’m doing really well.”
“Are you?” he said, realizing now that her hand was gripping his with uncommon tightness.
“Yes,” she choked out, leaning into him. “I was so afraid, Trem. I was so afraid you were going to die. I would have never forgiven myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“You would have never been shot if I hadn’t run away like that without telling anyone.”
