Annabel narrowed her violet eyes at him. No tepid lass, his brother’s wife. Her temper could flare as brightly as her hair. The Scotsman in him respected a woman who could give as good as she got. Of course, this made him think of Miss Kent.
Did she know that he’d been shot? If she did, would she care?
Only insofar as she’d like to finish the job.
“If you’d hold still instead of thrashing like a lamprey, I’d have an easier time of it,” Annabel said tartly. “Dr. Abernathy said to check the wound at least once a day.”
“He may be Scottish, but he’s still a quack,” Alaric grumbled.
“You keep your tone civil, or I’ll take my leave and my wife with me,” his brother growled from the other side of the bed.
Turning his head on the pillow, Alaric inquired, “Oh, you’re still here?”
“You bloody ingrate—”
“Enough, you dunderheads.” Annabel peeled away his bandage with enough force to make him inhale sharply. Her auburn brows knit together as she peered at his injury. “The wound’s oozing, but it doesn’t look infected. The mold paste appears to be doing its job.”
“The paste was a fine touch, lass,” Will said. “Brains as well as beauty. I’m a lucky fellow.”
Seeing the smug expression on his brother’s face, Alaric thought he might be ill again. For all his brawn, Will was naught but an oversized pup when it came to his wife. What a chump.
Although he had to admit that Annabel had proved rather handy in this instance. The daughter of a country physician, she’d been the one to suggest smearing his wound with the concoction of fermented bread, an infection preventative that her father had used with great success. Dr. Abernathy had been intrigued in her fount of knowledge, and the two had had quite a time of it, debating ways to treat Alaric’s injury. He’d felt like a side of beef with two chefs arguing over which was the best way to serve him up.
“I’m the lucky one.” Adoration shone in Annabel’s eyes as she gazed at her husband.
Devil take it, the two should just find a bedchamber and be done with it.
She set a tray over Alaric’s lap. “As for you, your grace, you’d best eat something if you hope to regain your strength.”
His stomach churned at the sight of the gruel; it brought back memories of the old duke’s punishments. Of the tasteless mush he’d been given to cure him of his “malingering.” He’d sooner starve than eat a spoonful of such shite again.
“I’m not hungry,” he said testily. “I’d like rest and privacy, if you please.”
Fists on her hips, Annabel looked ready to argue, but Will intervened. “Not until we talk.”
“About what?” Alaric said.
“Who’s out to kill you, for starters.”
“That’s none of your affair.” In a moment of weakness—which he chalked up to blood loss—he’d told his brother everything, from the poison in his whiskey to the shooter last night.
Will glowered at him. “We’re kin. Of course it’s my affair.”
Jarvis’ wizened head poked into the room. “Your grace, Mr. Kent has arrived.”
“Send him up,” Will said before Alaric could answer.
Jarvis—or should he sayJudas—shuffled out to do Will’s bidding.
“What the devil is your partner doing here?” Alaric demanded.
“I asked him to come. He’s the best investigator in London.” Will folded his arms over his chest. “And something tells me your particular predicament calls for the best.”
Before Alaric could argue further, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a minute later, Ambrose Kent strode in. He wasn’t alone. Miss Kent followed and mayhap Alaric was hungrier than he realized for she looked luscious in a dress the color of summer peaches. An odd spasm hit his chest when he saw the genuine worry in her eyes.
She was concerned... about him?
“Your grace. I do hope we’re not inconveniencing you.”
