Page 68 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“Not stabbed. Just cut.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right then.” She shook her head and went off, muttering, to pick up the box she had been wielding.

“I would never have guessed that your father’s boxes would come in so handy,” Sloane said, retrieving the other boxes from the hack.

Inside the house, Sloane said, “I think a bit of whiskey would be in order. Would you like something?”

“A little sherry might be nice.”

As he poured their drinks in the study, Sloane grumbled, “Why didn’t you run when I told you to?”

“Did you really think I would run away and let you fight off two men?” Annabeth took the glass of sherry he handed her. “Do you not remember that time with the bees?”

“The bees?” Sloane stared, then began to laugh. “You came in swinging that shawl of yours all around like a madwoman.” He sighed and took a drink. “No. I suppose I expected you to do exactly what you did. But, if you will remember, you ended up with almost as many stings as I. And this is more serious than bees. Those men want to harm you.”

“I’m not sure they were after me. It was you they attacked.”

“They were trying to get me out of the way so they could get to you.”

“If that were true, why didn’t that second man grab me while you were occupied with the first attacker? Instead, he went to help his colleague.”

“Then they were hoping to remove me from the situation permanently, but again, it was in order to get to you.”

“Perhaps.” Annabeth frowned down at her glass. “But if your fellow Asquith is correct and this has something to do with that traitor, then I would think you are far more dangerous to them than I. After all, you know something about that time and those people. You are far more likely to figure everything out, even without Papa’s letter. And you’re more likely to track down the man who killed my father.”

“Well, hopefully I can keep us both safe,” Sloane replied lightly, and shrugged, wincing a little at the movement.

“It’s clear you’re hurt.” Annabeth set down her glass of sherry. “Since you’re too stubborn to see a doctor, I hope you will at least let me patch up your little ‘cuts.’”

“You needn’t. I can manage, I’m sure.” Just the thought of her touching his skin nearly took his breath away.

Annabeth planted her fists on her hips, her eyes narrowed. “Do you really think I’m that useless? That I could not clean a wound? Or is it that you think I’m so delicate I’ll faint?”

“No. Neither. I don’t think you’re useless at all. But it’s just, well...you know...”

She stared at him. “No, I don’t know. What are—oh! You don’t want to take your shirt off in front of me?”

Sloane felt a faint flush rise in his cheeks. God help him, now he was blushing like a shy virgin. “No. I mean, well, yes, but it’s not—” He broke off with a glare. “Oh, bloody hell, come along then.”

Sloane strode out of the room. Annabeth followed him as he went up the stairs to his bedroom. “There are bandages in there.” He pointed to a small cabinet. “Rags are over there by the shaving stand.”

He started to pull off his jacket, but Annabeth moved quickly to slide the coat down his injured arm and off. His gut tightened. “You needn’t.”

“Oh, stop being stoic. Your arm hurts. I saw you wince.” She stepped back, examining the ripped sleeve, then folded and put it on the chair.

“It was just that the dried blood on the jacket pulled a bit at the wound.” Sloane began on the buttons of his waistcoat. Annabeth was watching him, and Sloane found it damnably disturbing to undress in front of her. It was even more disturbing when she moved closer and slid the waistcoat from him as she had the jacket. And he had thought the jacket was difficult. This was closer, more intimate, her fingers sliding down his arm, with only his shirt between his skin and hers.

He fumbled at his neckcloth, his fingers clumsy. He could only hope she wouldn’t look down and see the reaction of his body. He turned away as he untangled the long narrow cloth, pretending that he did so in order to toss the neckcloth on the chair with the other things. Sloane remained with his back turned as he untucked his shirt. The shirt was long enough it covered the telltale bulge in his breeches.

The unfortunate thing was, it also covered his wounds. Sloane tugged open the ties at the top of his shirt, which opened only halfway down, then reached for its hem and began to pull it up over his head, hesitating at the twinge of pain in his arm.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sloane. Let me help you,” Annabeth said impatiently. “You are the most contrary man alive. Just stop. Let me dampen that cloth so it doesn’t pull.” She went to the washstand and returned with a wet rag that she laid over the wound on his arm, holding it there.

She was so close, he could smell the faint scent of her perfume, could feel the warmth of her body. Her hair was tousled, and he ached to smooth the wayward strands back across her head.

Annabeth gently lifted the now-softened material off his arm, then did the same task on the cut across his stomach. Putting the damp cloth aside, she took hold of the hem of his shirt and pushed it up. “Bend over, or I can’t pull it off you.”

He didn’t want her to. And he wanted it more than anything. He bent as she requested, and she slid the shirt from his arms, then tossed it aside.