“Go watch the children,” Rhys ordered, sending Nicoll from the hut. He then uncorked the bottle and took a drink.
“I thought that was for my hand.”
“It is…or will be.”
“I will not have you tending my palm if you are drinking.”
“Miss Driscoll do be quiet.” He then grabbed a cup and poured rum into it and held it out. “Drink. You will need it.”
Thirteen
While the cut was not very long, the gash was deep, and there was a thorn imbedded within that must be removed before he could do anything else. Rhys also knew that Tempest would suffer more pain before he was done.
“I am afraid that the next few moments are going to be unpleasant.”
He first picked up the bottle and splashed a little rum into the gash to which she hissed and tried to pull back her hand but Rhys held tight. He then took the tweezers and tried and failed a few times before he finally grasped the thorn and pulled it free, which increased the blood flow.
He set it aside and then pushed a towel against her palm before he looked up.
“You are not done yet, are you?” Her voice shook with fear.
“I am not.”
At his response, she picked up the cup and took a drink of the rum.
While he should not encourage her to get drunk, having her passed out would be less painful for Tempest.
When the blood flow slowed, he took the previously boiled water and washed anything from her gash that did not belong. Each time he did so, Tempest took a drink and he considered warning her to be careful. She was a miss—a diplomat’s daughter and likely never had anything stronger than a glass of wine at supper.
He then splashed rum into the gash again, threaded the needle, then soaked that in rum as well. Rhys did not know if there was any benefit to doing so, but it also would not hurt her.
“This is probably going to hurt.” He hoped she heard the apology in his voice. He hated what he was about to do. He had stitched fellow colleagues before and even removed a few bullets, but he had never had to stitch the hand of woman who was not used to injuries or being attacked. This was different.
Rhys reached over and picked up the bottle of rum and took a drink.
“Now is not the time to drink. Not while you are going to be pricking my skin with a needle.”
“It will steady my hand,” he lied. “One drink will have no effect on me.”
“It is your second,” she reminded him.
“That one either,” he argued.
“Is this really necessary?”
Did Tempest just whine?
“Unfortunately,” Rhys answered just as he pinched the wound closed and pricked the skin with the needle. Tempest sucked in a breath then took a drink.
Nothing else was said between them and he stitched her hand as quickly as possible, trying not to cause any more pain than necessary. It only took four stitches, but she drank with each one and the one time he did look up at her face, a tear had rolled down her cheek, but she did not once cry out.
“I am very sorry,” he said after he had secured the end of the thread so that it did not come out.
“You did not hurt me intentionally…though you did…except it was not to be mean.”
“No. It was not to be mean.”
He reached for the rum, but Tempest grabbed the bottle first then poured some into her cup.
