Page 5

Robyn swiftly folded the linen and pressed it to the oozing wound.

She must stop bleeding.

“I’ll fetch a nightgown.” She dashed out of the chamber before he could respond.

Where was the bloody doctor?

The servants with the bandages and hot water?

Georgine moaned again.

Her pain nearly eviscerated him.

Stupid fool.

He had disregarded his growing feelings toward her for years, firmly believing she wouldn’t be receptive to his fond esteem. That was all he allowed himself to call his affection, for acknowledging the sentiment was something more, made him vulnerable.

Besides, he rather enjoyed their verbal sparring and matching wits with her. She possessed a keen intellect and an uncommon strategic logic. But now that she lay bleeding, possibly fighting for her life, he could only castigate himself for being a coward and an idiot.

Dolt.

Bufflehead.

Lackbrain.

“You cannot die, Georgine. I shan’t let you.”

Bending nearer, Robyn dared to press his lips to her clammy forehead. Not a romantic first kiss, for certain.

His voice, a harsh rasp, he choked, “I cannot imagine a world without you in it.”

Never had truer words been uttered.

A moment later, his sister, carrying a nightgown and chemise, a maid bearing a stack of linens—no doubt to use as bandages, a footman lugging two buckets of hot water, and Doctor Thaddeus Tinsdale clasping his black leather physician’s bag, piled into the bedchamber.

At once, the doctor expertly assessed the situation and took immediate control. Without preamble or an apology, he shoved Robyn aside to examine Georgine’s wound. “Everyone out. Except Miss Fitzlloyd. You can help me undress the patient.”

“Her name is Georgine Thackerly.” Robyn took a few reluctant steps backward.

Never had he felt so utterly helpless or inadequate.

The doctor sent him a hard sideways look. “Make yourself useful. Go to the kitchen and have the cook prepare bone broth and yarrow root tea. And we’ll need more hot water.” He looked beneath the blood-soaked towel. “A lot more.”

Robyn nodded.

“Is she…?” Unable to tear his gaze from Georgine, he cleared his throat. “Is she going to be all right, Doctor?”

Matilda raised her head and, her clear blue eyes narrowed, gave him a speculative glance, as if she had suddenly guessed his secret.

“This is a very grave injury, Mr. Fitzlloyd.” Without looking in Robyn’s direction again, the doctor muttered, “I hope to save her arm, but in truth, only time will tell.”

Robyn scarcely remembered leaving the bedchamber and making his way to the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Fennick and convey the physician’s orders. Afterward, he wandered into his study. He plopped onto a leather wingback chair and stared morosely at the unlit fireplace.

Resting his head against the chair’s back, he peered at the ceiling.

Georgine lay up there, suffering only God knew what.

He firmed his mouth in resolution.