Page 50 of Secrets of the Heart

Rachel said nothing, merely raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. His fair skin colored a little, and he stepped back, turning away from her to the door. “I am going to get us a cab while she does that.”

He stepped out and started down the three steps leading to the street. Rachel walked over to the door to look out after him. Just as he reached the street, there was a sharp crack, something hit the stone steps in front of Rachel, sending up a spurt of stone dust, and James spun half around and fell.

13

Rachel let out a shriek and ran toward him.

“No! Go back!” Hobson stumbled to his feet, clutching his arm, and started up the steps.

Rachel ignored his words and met him, grabbing his unhurt arm with both hands, and pulled him with her back up the stairs and into the house. Slamming the door with her foot, she helped him over to the stairs, where he sank down onto the bottom riser. He was still clutching his arm with his other hand, and he looked down at it now. Red was seeping through the sleeve of his jacket.

Rachel’s eyes followed his, and she swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy. “Oh. Oh, my.”

She sat down quickly on the step beside him and rested her head on her hands, elbows propped on her knees. “You have been shot, haven’t you?” she managed to say.

“It appears so.”

“Why? Who?”

“I have no idea. Here, help me out of my jacket.”

“But—”

“Rachel—”

“All right. You’re right. That’s not important right now.” She took a deep breath, then gingerly took hold of the lapels of his jacket. She eased the coat back off his shoulders, but her care did not keep him from sucking in his breath sharply and later emitting a soft groan. Finally she got the jacket off his good shoulder and managed to gently tug the other sleeve slowly down from his wounded arm. The shirt underneath looked even worse, much of the arm soaked red with blood, and with a dark hole in it where the ball had gone in.

“Let’s cut off that sleeve,” Rachel suggested quickly. “Come on. Where is the study?”

He nodded toward the rear of the house, and she took his good arm and helped him to his feet. They made their way down the center hall to a room on the left, a small study.

“There’s liquor in that cabinet,” Hobson said, nodding toward a chest-high mahogany cabinet.

Rachel hurried over to it and pulled out a decanter of brown liquid and a glass, and brought them back to the desk, where Hobson sat on the edge, legs braced against the floor. She poured a half glass of whiskey, her hands trembling so that crystal clanked against crystal. She handed the drink to Hobson, who took a large swallow.

“Scissors,” he said, pointing to the top desk drawer.

Rachel opened the drawer and pulled out the scissors, then turned back and began to carefully cut away the sleeve at the shoulder. She peeled the sleeve downward, having to tug a little where it was stuck to the wound. Hobson winced but said nothing, and she pulled it the rest of the way off, exposing the raw, bloody wound.

She reached over and took the glass from his hand, downing a quick gulp. Rachel let out a gasp as the fiery liquid tore down her throat and crashed in her stomach, making her eyes water. Hobson let out a soft laugh at her expression and took back the glass.

“Can you see the back of my arm?” he asked. “Did it go all the way through?”

Carefully Rachel craned her head around to look at the opposite side of his arm, where there was, indeed, another hole in his flesh. “Yes. It looks like it went through. I’ll send one of the servants for a doctor.”

“No. Never mind that. I don’t need one if the ball is gone. We’ll just clean the wound.”

Rachel suppressed a small moan at that thought. “I really don’t think—”

She straightened, squaring her shoulders. She was not going to give way to useless ladylike vapors now. “All right.”

He finished off the glass, and she poured him another long drink of whiskey, then rang for the maid and requested water and rags. Hobson continued to drink as she got together her supplies, then began to carefully dab at the wound with a wet cloth.

He drew in his breath in a hiss, and Rachel stopped, looking at him uncertainly. “Shall I stop?”

He shook his head. “No. Go on. Just ignore me and get it done.” He swallowed another stiff gulp of whiskey.

Rachel did her best to follow his advice and ignore him as she gently washed away the blood from the wound. But it was difficult to do when she was standing so close to him. It was very unusual for her to be this close to a man, even her own husband; she could smell the whiskey on his breath and feel the warmth of his body. When he turned his head and looked straight into her eyes, she was suddenly breathless.