Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe (The Star Elite Series) (6 page)

“If you want me to help you Hugo, then you need to help yourself
- help me get you to the bed. Get up,” Harriett persisted, draping his good arm around her shoulders and tugging him relentlessly upwards.

With a low moan, Hugo
heard her speaking to him through a thick fog that had settled in his head, clouding his thinking. Digging deep into his reserves, he pushed to his feet in answer to her plea but, once there, gasped when the world began to swirl and his knees started to tremble. He hung on to Harriett far more than he should have done, but she was his anchor in a storm-tossed sea and he daren’t let her go. If he did, he would undoubtedly end up flat on his face on the floor, humiliating himself even further.

“God, I’m sorry
, Harriett,” he groaned, eternally grateful that she hadn’t turned him out on his ear or, worse, refused to help him.

“Let’s get you to the bedroom
so you can lie down, then I can take a look at that arm of yours,” Harriett gasped, ignoring him.

She knew he was doing his best to keep the majority of his weight off her, but
he was so heavy. Together they lunged and stumbled through the cottage, bouncing off walls, and careering through the bedroom doorway at the front of the house.

Three large strides took them over to the bed, upon which
immediately Hugo slumped with a low groan. He had no sooner hit the cool, crisp sheets than the realisation that he had finally achieved his goal sank in, and he allowed the world to go black.

Turning her mind to
her various herbs and mixtures, she carefully unwrapping the rough woollen cloth that tightly bound his arm, before removing his sodden shirt and thick leather riding boots.

Scrunching
up her nose, she tentatively removed his wicked-looking gun from the leather holster and placed it carefully under the bed, before removing the holster and placing that under the bed too. It went against all her beliefs to have the wretched thing in the house, but it wasn’t hers to throw out. Hugo had probably used it to protect his own life and, although she may not like it, he would probably feel reassured knowing it was close by. With a shudder, she carefully nudged it further under the bed with her foot, glad to get it out of sight.

She briefly considered removing his breeches, but decided against it. By the steady trickle of blood appearing on the sheet, he
was still losing too much blood and that had to be the first thing she dealt with.

Taking a moment to
collect everything she would need, Harriett quickly tied her hair up and out of the way, and drew the rickety table closer to the bed, along with the chair. Lifting his limp arm, she placed it over her lap as she sat on the side of the bed. Carefully removing the binding, she studied the raw flesh of the open wound and sighed in consternation. She had never treated a gunshot wound before, and had to dig deep into her memory for the one and only time she had seen her mother treat one of her patients who had been shot. Instinctively, she knew she had the right poultice, but that wouldn’t help unless she could get the bullet out - without causing him any further damage.

Awa
re that the patch of blood staining the sheets was getting bigger, and he was growing weaker, she wasted no time in cleaning the worst of the blood from his upper arm with the bowl of water before gently dabbing around the open flesh, studying it carefully for any sign of the shot.

She wondered if
she had the stomach to do what she was about to, but knew she had little choice. Hugo was in no condition to do it himself, and she could hardly call a doctor. None of the villagers would ever go to her again if she called him in for anything; besides which, Hugo had been shot by someone, and that someone could still be out there looking for him. Until he woke up and told her a bit more about who had shot him, and why, she knew she had to keep his presence in her cottage a secret.

Even if she ignored the gossip his presence in her cottage would cause, she couldn’t risk placing either of them in danger.

That left her with the knowledge that, unfortunately, on this occasion, removing the shot, stitching his wound and bandaging him up was clearly down to her. She carefully picked up a small pocket knife she had sterilised and cleaned. Taking a deep breath, she hesitated at the thought of poking the pointed tip into his already bleeding, and undoubtedly sore wound.

“Just do it,” Hugo urged, reading the reluctance on her face sympathetically.

Harriett jumped. She hadn’t been aware that he had woken up and, after a quick look into his clear green eyes, quickly averted her gaze. Her cheeks flushed as her gaze landed on his bare chest, and she tried valiantly to ignore her discomfort at being caught staring at his naked flesh so blatantly. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, eying the raw flesh
of his arm with a shudder. Although she was a witch, she was a healer. She hated having to inflict pain on anyone else, even if it was for their own good. The idea of digging around in his arm to find the shot made her feel sick with dread.

“It can’t stay in there
, and I can’t do it myself,” Hugo reasoned. “It’s all right,” he reassured her gently. In reality he wasn’t relishing her digging around in his upper arm any more than she was looking forward to doing it, but he had to grit his teeth and bear it.

Harriett drew a breath, closed
her eyes, and sent a silent prayer heavenward that she wouldn’t end up in an undignified heap on the rug. She lifted the small, flat-ended knife and was about to start when Hugo’s voice stopped her.

“Have you any alcohol?”
he asked, wincing as Harriett looked askance at him.

“For you
? Or the wound?” Harriett asked waspishly, shaking her head. “Do I look like a drinker?”

Hugo snorted and shook his head.

“I could go down to the tavern and ask for some,” she added, relishing the possibility of getting out of the cottage, and away from him for several moments.

Her w
orld had suddenly changed, and she didn’t like it. She needed a few minutes to gather her resolve, even if it was through a trip down to the tavern.

“Now that would raise problems,” Hugo chided, considering the possibility of someone like Harriett going into the tavern and asking for a bottle of anything. Even if they would sell it to her, which he doubted
they would, her actions would be subjected to scrutiny by every gossip within ten miles. “I’ll do without,” he murmured, not sure if he was glad that he didn’t have the alcohol to cloud his thoughts.

He lay
perfectly still and took the opportunity to study her face while she dabbed at the wound, clearly reluctant. The thick frames of her lashes heightened the sensual draw of her dark green eyes, giving her an exotic look. The rich auburn waves of her hair had been casually tied back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Even confined, he could see the clear red streaks running through the darker strands that made her hair look more red than auburn. It really was an unusual colour, he mused, wondering if she realised just how beautiful she was. Her nose was best described as pert, and covered in a delightful smattering of freckles that emphasised her high cheekbones and lusciously full lips.

“Ouch!”
Hugo winced, caught unaware by the sudden stabbing pain in his arm. He had been so distracted studying her that he had forgotten what she was doing.

“Sorry,” Harriett whispered, wondering if she was going to throw up. She dabbed at the blood congealing in the wound and tried desperately to ignore the sudden churning of her stomach. She flicked a glance at Hugo, w
ho was staring fixedly at the ceiling; the only sign of his distress was the rapid twitching of a muscle in his jaw.

Harriett wondered how he could stand it, and suddenly decided that she owed it to him to get it over and done with as quickly as possible so as not to prolong
his agony. Gritting her teeth, she blotted the blood and began to explore with the knife.

It took far too long before she gently eased the round
shot out of his arm, and patted the sudden flow of blood that emerged from the open wound. She pushed harder, holding the pad against his arm for several moments, and took the opportunity to steady herself while she studied him.

Sweat had popped out on his brow, and
he had gone deathly pale. The rhythmic twitching of his jaw had stopped but his lips were now pinched white with pain. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Harriett would have thought he had died. She knew he had passed out through the pain she had caused, and immediately a wave of guilt swept through her, leaving her wondering if she could have done something differently. Desperately, she racked her brains for anything in her work-room that could help him, but knew that it was useless. Nothing except unconsciousness could ease the pain he had experienced, yet he hadn’t uttered a sound.

Harriett could only admire his inner strength and fortitude. Despite his agony he had made no attempt to ask her to stop, or cursed at her, or
shown any weakness. Spurred into action by the realisation that his unconsciousness would ease his discomfort, Harriett hurriedly began to clean the wound. Once it was stitched, she made sure the poultice was applied properly before binding his arm, carefully keeping one eye on him for any sign of him waking up.

She wasn’t certain what time it was when she finally slumped into the
rickety chair beside the bed and willed her trembling limbs to steady. She had no idea how she had managed to get through the past few hours, but was only glad that the worst seemed to be over. For now, she needed to change the sheets around him and prepare him some broth to drink.

When he awoke, he had a lot of questions to answer, but until then it was down to her to make sure he had
everything he needed to get better. That thought was enough to get her to her feet. Moments later she set a pot of water on the fire to boil, and began to make the broth he would need to help him regain his strength.

She
suddenly wanted – needed – to get him out of her home as quickly as possible. For her own peace of mind, if not to remove the danger his presence in her cottage brought her. Given his orders to lock the door and close the shutters, she had no doubt the danger to him was still very real, but unfortunately that threat of danger now included her. In addition to the physical danger, she knew instinctively that this man would pose a problem to her emotional safety if he remained for too long.

She had already begun
to wonder how she would adjust to living by herself when he had gone.

Immediately her thoughts turned to her arrival home only the night before, and the loneliness that had plagued her. How quickly life can change, she mused, carefully easing the door to the bedroom partially closed behind her before moving to the kitchen to answer the urgent summons of the iron pot above the fireplace.

One moment she was alone, the next her father had visited and brought with him a closeness that unsettled her. Then Hugo had arrived, and was, for the moment at least, incapable of leaving.

She frowned in consternation, unsure what to make of it all. It was
fair to say that Hugo was a devastatingly handsome man, who probably had a horde of females tripping over themselves to vie for his attention, but that didn’t mean she had to be one of them. She was a spinster, who spent her days alone, and was happy that way. Wasn’t she?

“Keep telling yourself that
, and one day you may believe it,” Harriett whispered to herself, scowling as she moved the pot to the table and began to peel and chop vegetables for the broth.

If she was honest, she was far from content with her lot in life. B
ut if she had any sense of self-preservation, she had to keep in mind what had happened to her own mother. It was that thought that gave her the strength to bolster her fortitude, and mentally vow to give Hugo every assistance he needed to get back on his feet, before she shoved him out of the door and out of her life once and for all.

She nudged Harrold out of the way as she moved around the kitchen preparing the meal, ignoring his annoyed hiss. H
e was seemingly unimpressed with their new guest as well, but at least he was being civil for now and hadn’t attacked the poor man.

Harriett stood before the fire for
several moments, absently rubbing her elbow. It was the soft crinkling of the material beneath her fingers that made her gasp with shock. She stared down in horror at her nightgown, flushing with embarrassment as she realised that he had probably seen more of her than her own mother had! She could only hope that delirium had set in and he wouldn’t remember when he woke up. Cheeks flushed, Harriett quickly crept back into her bedroom, gathered up her clothing and left to dress in the safety of the smaller bedroom next to the kitchen.

As she drew her clothes on, she considered the reluctance he had been unable to hide when he had asked her for help. Clearly he had
n’t wanted to ask her for anything, but she had no way of knowing if his discomfort was because she was a witch, or a woman. Somehow, she considered it might just be both. It made her more determined to consider him less a handsome man, and more simply a patient. She tried to mentally distance herself from him, taking a huge step back and considering the mess in her kitchen instead.