The toes on her left foot were swollen to twice their normal size, and the white skin on the top of that foot was covered with ugly red heel marks. The room began to spin as she stared down at it. Dark spots appeared in front of her eyes, then faded to black as her vision began to tunnel.
But she didn’t swoon. She might have done, but Lachlan’s whisper stopped her.
“No, damn it.No.” He was still staring at her feet.
The anguish in his voice dragged her back from the edge of unconsciousness, and she fought and clawed the rest of the way to the surface. She’d done this—she’d chosen to continue with the dance. She didn’t regret it, but this was the consequence of that choice, and she wouldn’t escape it with a swoon.
After several deep, slow breaths she felt steady again. “Let’s see the rest of it, then. Take off my other stocking, Lachlan.”
He looked as if he wanted to argue, but he must have seen there was no point, because he worked her other foot free of its stocking. They both stared at it for a moment without speaking, then Hyacinth let out a little sigh of relief. “This one’s not as bad.”
In truth her right foot was such a mess it was impossible to assess its condition, but at least she recognized it as her own foot. Surely that was a good sign?
Lachlan grunted. “Bad enough.”
“But not as much swelling.” She turned her ankle slightly to test it. The pain she felt was confined to her poor abused toes, which were scraped and bleeding. “I think I could walk on it.”
“The devil you will,” he rasped, turning on her with another scowl, this one so deep and black it put every other scowl to shame. “I’ll wrap it, then carry you to the carriage.”
Carry her? That would set even more tongues wagging, but at this point Hyacinth was happy enough to let them wag. They would anyway, regardless of what she did, so what did it matter?
The thought was oddly freeing.
“Don’t move. I’ll be back in a moment.” Lachlan raised her feet off his lap, rose, then placed them carefully back down on the sofa.
“What?” Hyacinth turned her face up to his, suddenly anxious. “You’re leaving me here? Where are you going?”
“Just down the hall to the study for two glasses of Lord Hayhurst’s whiskey. I’ll come right back.”
“I don’t like whiskey.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “I do. And you’ll like it well enough when I’m wrapping your feet. It’s going to hurt like the devil.”
She frowned up at him. She’d fought off one swoon already, and she didn’t intend to succumb to another. “Do you suppose I’ll swoon without the whiskey? I’m not as feeble as all that, Lachlan.” She sounded like a fretful child, but dash it, she’d made it this far, hadn’t she? What good was prolonged consciousness if one never got any credit for it?
He paused for a moment to gaze down at her, and then, as if he couldn’t quite resist, he stroked the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “I know you’re not,aingeal.” A smile twitched at his lips. “I’m not worried about you. It’s me. I won’t be much good to you if I swoon.”
Hyacinth snorted at that, but she let him go without further argument and, true to his word, he was back within minutes. He handed her a glass with a generous pour of some amber-colored spirit, darker than sherry, and with a lovely scent of peat and oak.
He tossed back the contents of his own glass in one swallow, then watched as she took a tiny, experimental sip of hers. It was surprisingly pleasant—smooth, but with a bit of a bite. It wasn’t sweet, but there was a hint of some flavor in it that reminded her, strangely enough, of treacle. “Mmmm.”
She took another, deeper sip, and Lachlan gave her one of his rare grins. “Drink your whiskey. That’s a good lass.” He removed his coat, tucked it around her, and then unwound his cravat.
“Why are you removing your clothing?” My, this whiskey was nice, and if it made him wish to undress, well, that was nice, too.
“Just my coat and cravat. I’ll keep the rest on.”
Well, that was rather a pity. Hyacinth took another deep swallow of her drink.
“I’ll wrap your feet with this.” He ripped a hole into his cravat with his teeth, then tore the long length of white linen straight down the middle.
“Oh, dear. What a waste of a perfectly good cravat.”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much luck with cravats. Somehow they always end up stained with blood. Usually Ciaran’s.”
“Or yours, I imagine.” Hyacinth burrowed into his coat, which was so large she could go swimming inside it, and followed him with sleepy eyes as he returned to his seat at the end of the sofa and gathered her feet into his lap again.
She winced a little when he touched her, but the worst of the throbbing pain had ebbed, and she was able to watch with steady nerves as he wrapped her foot in his cravat.
