Emerson glanced down at his bared chest, the smeared blood he’d momentarily forgotten. The burning sensation tore through his side, reminding him of the attention he required.
“What happened?” Her squeak hit the plastered ceiling. She swayed, but he didn’t have the energy to catch her with his ownvision blurring. The blood loss—he had to sit. Now. He gripped the back of the chair Ben still resided in.
Amir entered the room, clutching the tin box that housed the needle, the thread, scissors, bandages, and whatnot. “Astaghfirullah, you English are all fools—you must sit before you crumple in a heap and do yourself more damage!” He thrust the box into Rose’s hands and shot to Emerson’s side, taking him by the arm and hauling him to another settee, smaller and less fitting to his form.
“Get Ben out of here before he wakes and passes out again,” Emerson panted out. “Stockton too, for God’s sake. But set a footman at his door. He’s not leaving until I set my terms.”
“If you live that long,” Amir retorted. He turned to Rose. “How are you with a needle and thread, ma’am?”
Emerson groaned.
“Excellent.” Her voice strengthened in her confidence. “But…”
“It’s like embroidering a sampler,” Amir told her.
“You know what a sampler is? Wait—” She looked down at the box then, raising her eyes, first to Amir then Emerson.
“You’ll be fine.” Amir’s dark form was but a shadow as he dashed across the room and threw Ben over his shoulder.
“Hey,” Ben stuttered.
“Keep your eyes shut before you pass out again,” Amir growled.
Emerson nearly smiled at Ben’s indignant huff. They stepped outside the library, and Ben’s voice could likely be heard clear to Hyde Park Corner.
Amir reentered immediately without Ben, and that did draw a grin. But Stockton stirred, erasing his humor.
He shouldn’t have concerned himself, because Amir, despite his wiry appearance, again tossed Stockton over his shoulder as carelessly as a sack of onions.
“You best hope Stockton doesn’t cast up his accounts being thrown about such. I cannot guarantee my own reaction,” Rose said, looking at the box she still held. “What do I do with this?”
Weariness hit him with a punch. “Clean the wound,” Emerson told her, shutting his eyes.
“All right,” she said, sounding as if her confidence were slipping. “I’ll, er, ring for water.”
“Use the whiskey. It’s in the cabinet near the windows.” Even lying down, the lightheadedness seeped over him. “Clean the needle with it as well.” She’d changed, and her skirts hardly sounded as she moved. Glass chinked, then clunked on a wood-top table. The sound of the whiskey being poured in the glass drew another grin. “You think you can disinfect me before I perish?”
The swish of her skirts teased his ears as she moved. “Certainly,” she said pertly, dumping the whiskey on his ribs without warning.
“Jesus,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I require a towel.”
But a second later, he heard the distinct sound of muslin ripping. Pressure against his side had him letting out a low hiss.
“Now what?”
“Clean the needle and thread it.” He attempted to catch his breath. “Then pinch my skin together and stitch away.” He prayed she hadn’t fabricated her embroidery skills.
Silence reigned for an indeterminant number of minutes. Where the devil had Amir disappeared to?
“This is revolting. It keeps bleeding. How am I supposed to hold y-your skin together?” She sounded on the verge of tears.
Gripping every ounce of stamina he possessed nearly did him in. “Are there bandages in the box?”
“Oh, yes. Brilliant idea,” she said, swallowing. There was a gentle dabbing and the sound of her drawing a deep breath.Then cool fingers whispered over his skin, easing the burning sensation, but his gut tightened in grim anticipation as she pinched the wound together then stabbed with the needle.
Emerson managed to stem the string of curses threatening to erupt as she developed a rhythm.
