Ned removed his neck cloth and dabbed one corner of it on the wound before holding the candle up to see better. The cut was not as deep as he feared. The skin was broken and she’d have a good bruise. To his relief, her eyes were clear. Her confused reaction had more to do with shock than anything else.
“I need you to stay sitting up, Gemma.”
She nodded and leaned a supporting arm on the table.
He backed away to be certain she wouldn’t fall. She gave him a wan smile. “I’m all right.” Her speech was gaining strength and she made eye contact.
Ned went over to the fire. There was water in the kettle. Taking a bowl from the cupboard, he poured water into it, dipped his neck cloth, wrung it out, and started to clean her wound. His voice gentle, he warned, “This may hurt—”
She flinched.
“Still, it must be done. You know that.”
She nodded. A tear ran down her cheek. She’d been given quite a fright.
And it made him furious at Fitz. And whomever else was behind him.
She lifted her head, turning it for him to have better access to the light.
“The cut is right on the temple,” he explained. Her brows came together. She reached up and took his neck cloth from him, pushing it against her wound herself.
He threw the water he had used out the back door and poured more. It was his habit to tell his patients what he planned. He found it reassured them. “I will make certain the wound is clean. Considering that you were hit with a log, I don’t want splinters or dirt. That could lead to infection.”
She nodded.
He took a flask out of his bag and unscrewed it. “Here, sip this.”
“What is it?”
“The best medicine in the world. A good brandy—”
The sound of bootsteps scuffling on the taproom floor interrupted him. Ned looked to the doorway, braced for anything.
Jonathon Fitzsimmons stepped out of the darkness. He held the hood in one hand at his side. His manner was that of a chastened ten-year-old. “Is she all right?”
“No thanks to you. What was this about?”
Instead of answering Ned, Jonathon entered the kitchen and fell to one knee on the brick floor beside Gemma. She recoiled while Ned put a protective arm out to block the man from touching her. “Fitz—”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Fitz’s tone was stark, repentant.
She didn’t answer him.
His face crumpled. “Please. I didn’t mean it.”
“What were you doing here?” Ned asked.
Fitz acted relieved to take his attention away from Gemma’s pale face. “I thought I would find the will that gave The Garland to her. I—”
His voice broke off, and then he finished, “It was an idiot’s idea. I just thought it would be a way to do something for the lads.” Again, his gaze sought Ned’s for understanding and then dropped to the floor. “To fit in.”
And Ned remembered the conversation in the stables where he had said clearly not to attempt a stunt like taking her proof from her. “Did the others egg you on?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“Did Winderton promote this idea?”
“He did not tell me to do it.”
