Night Storm (3 page)

Carefully, she folded her arms around her waist and locked her knees before she could humiliate herself with senseless emotion. She had decided long ago to waste no more of it on Cameron Adair.

Something like disappointment flared in his icy, blue-chipped eyes. “Yes, with assistance.”

“Where are you hurt?”

“Left leg, right shoulder.”

“Let’s get you inside out of the cold, and I’ll hail a hansom cab to take you to Dr. Hollingsworth.”

He shook his head and mumbled, “I’ve been shot. Lost too much blood.”

“Cameron, I can’t—”

“You must,” he interrupted. “I haven’t the strength to go elsewhere.”

She knew what it had cost him to admit to such weakness. And because she knew this about him, an unrivaled fear forced her to his side.

Positioning herself in a crouch, Charlotte took a steadying breath before sliding her arm across his broad back. Blood, sweat, and a masculine scent uniquely Cameron’s filled her nose. She gritted her teeth against an overwhelming desire to inhale deeply.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded once, his full lips pressed into a thin, determined line. Bending forward, he wrapped an arm across her shoulder to brace himself. The new position put them face-to-face, breath-to-breath.

Charlotte tightened her hold on his middle, and they slowly rose until he stood shakily on his feet. “Prepare yourself for a bit of a walk. The room I use to see patients is in the back of the shop.”

“Lead the way.”

One labored step at a time, Charlotte guided them to a small room she used for customer emergencies and minor injuries, or when she worked late and was too tired to climb the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber. She halted beside the small makeshift bed. Easing her arm from his waist, she paused a moment at his side to ensure he could maintain his balance. Except for the fine sheen of sweat covering his forehead, he appeared in control and unfazed by the short walk.

“Rest a moment. I’ll lock up out front and get a light.” She used the distraction of routine tasks to force her nerves into a manageable jitter. After lighting a candle, she retrieved her medical bag and Mrs. Cates’s laudanum. She carried both into the treatment chamber, then lit the two lamps inside the room.

He shifted on the edge of the high bed and pain streaked across the well-defined planes of his handsome face. Bloody, bruised, and achingly, hauntingly the same, but different somehow. His hair was the same deep rich brown, though he wore it longer now. Long enough for the tips to curl slightly. Long enough to run her fingers through the length.

Gone was the lean young man she’d fallen in love with. Even in his disheveled state, she could see his shoulders were wider, his jaw stronger, his arms and legs thicker. The one thing that hadn’t changed was his eyes. A breathtaking blue flecked with iridescent silver.

“Besides the bruise on your cheekbone, what kind of wound did you sustain to your leg and shoulder?”

“Gunshot to the shoulder. Knife wound to the thigh.”

Despite her best attempt to block all emotion, a twinge of anxiety clenched her heart. “Good God, Cameron, what mess have you involved yourself with?” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s none of my concern.” She moved his black, wide-brimmed hat to a nearby trunk. “With the extent of your injuries, you should be seeing a surgeon, not an apothecary. If you cannot make it to Dr. Hollingsworth, perhaps he will consent to coming here to tend to your wounds.”

Putting her hands on his bare flesh would be a torture she might not recover from. She was hoping he didn’t recall that part of her apprenticeship dealt specifically with wound care.

“Bollocks,” he said. “You’re more accomplished than any physician or surgeon in London.”

“You should find a better source of information. I assure you I have no such credentials.” She measured several drops of laudanum into a glass and filled it with water. “Drink this.”

He took the glass and drank, but never removed his sharp gaze from hers. “I don’t have a source where you’re concerned.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber. Charlotte wondered what he meant by his cryptic remark, then scolded herself for caring. She turned away. “Do you understand that in order for me to care for your wounds you’ll need to remove a good portion of your clothing?”

“I assumed as much.” His voice held neither distaste nor longing. It was a simple matter-of-fact statement.

“I’m going to start with your coat and shirt. I cannot guarantee there won’t be pain, even with the laudanum.”

“Understood.”

She set to unbuttoning his coat, an action she’d performed countless times before in the course of her duties. On most of those occasions, her patients were unconscious or near enough. Only on a few rare instances had she been forced to unclothe a gentleman while he looked on. As before, she found the situation unnerving, but never more so than tonight. Knowing the gaze that followed her every move belonged to Cameron Adair made her work through the process with lightning speed.

Moving behind him, she kneeled on the bed to grab the collar and lapel on his good side and helped him free his arm. She did the same with his injured arm, taking greater care. After placing the coat on a peg, she untied the simple knot on his cravat.

“You look tired,” he said quietly. “Long day?”

Charlotte considered not answering him. The last thing she wanted to do was become friendly with Cameron. She recalled all too acutely what it had felt like when he had walked away, and she was not keen to experience
that
again. She settled for a simple, “Yes.”

“Another patient tonight?”

She slipped the cravat from around his neck, noting the warm damp patches where it had touched his skin. Wadding the limp material, she used it to dab the moisture from his brow, cheeks, and neck. “Another stab wound.”

“Seems you’re having an eventful evening, Charley.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s your name.”

“Not anymore. I’m known as Mrs. Fielding now.”

“Why? You’ve never married.”

“You’re sure of that fact?”

“Yes.”

“I did what I needed to do to keep my father’s business.”

“Ah.” He searched her face, then he focused on the wall behind her. “Did your patient survive?”

Lifting her hands to the two small buttons at the neck of his shirt, she said, “Barely. If you bend forward a little, I’ll help you remove your shirt.”

Angling his body toward her, he stretched his arms out as much as his injury would allow. Charlotte gathered the fine linen near his shoulder blades in her hands and began to inch the garment over his head. Golden, smooth skin appeared, tempting her resistance, mocking her control. Muscle rippled beneath his flesh like a thoroughbred in full gallop. Sleek, powerful, beautiful.

Swallowing back the longing that welled deep in her chest, she finished the task. And immediately wished she had lingered longer over his back, for his torso could easily stand beside any Michelangelo marble in the Royal Museum. Except for the bullet hole spoiling the perfection of his right shoulder.

She watched his chest rise, expanding to an impossible degree. His hand lifted and his body tilted, swayed. “Cameron!” She caught him before he careened forward, and helped him back upright.

He dropped his head in between his hands.

Grasping a nearby newssheet, she unfolded it and placed it on the bed to protect the linens. “Lie down. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Afraid I’ll pass out from the pain?”

“It would be a blessing for us both.”

With exaggerated slowness he followed her directions, revealing the extent of his weakness. She folded his cravat a few times and pressed it against his shoulder wound.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Dammit, Charley. A little warning next time.”

She ignored his grousing and kept the pressure steady for a full minute. “Can you take over? I’ll assess the damage to your shoulder once I have the bleeding on your leg under control.”

Nodding, he allowed her to guide his fingers to where they needed to go.

“Firm pressure. As much as you can handle and then some.” She opened a glass-paned cupboard where she kept several linens rolled into neat stacks. Grabbing several, she placed them within easy reach before turning back to him. “This is going to hurt.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

She hovered over him, undecided. Should she remove his trousers, rip the leg to get at the laceration, or cut off the entire left side?

“Is there a problem?” he asked in a husky voice.

“No.” She gently gripped the ragged edges of his damaged trousers, ripping them until the hole was large for her to see the deep, six-inch laceration. Carefully, she shoved a compress against the wound, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. Charlotte’s attention roamed over Cameron’s hard body and she experienced an overwhelming need to run. Everything about him was…too much. Too much masculinity. Too much perfection. Too much heartache.

Once she had the bleeding under control, she scooped up his discarded shirt and flattened the bloody material over the palm of her hand. Although somewhat jagged, all the fibers were connected.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to determine if the bullet took a piece of your shirt with it inside your shoulder.”

“What have you decided?”

“You are saved from being tortured by my tweezers.”

On a sideboard sat a basin, a pitcher full of water, and the stack of linens she had pulled from the cupboard. She filled the basin with water, placed it on a tray along with the rolled linens, and carried the ensemble to the small, rectangular table sitting near the foot of the bed.

“Let’s see how you did.” She waited for him to remove his hand before lifting the bloodstained cravat from his shoulder. “The bleeding has stopped.” Plunging a soft square of material into the water, she wrung it out only enough to keep from making a mess on the floor. “This will be cold.”

“Brilliant.” He transferred his attention to the ceiling.

The moment she placed the wet cloth against his warm flesh, his body went taut. With efficient strokes, she cleaned the area around the bullet hole and carefully inspected the wound. “I need to see if the bullet exited out your back. Can you roll onto your side?”

Rather than answer, he twisted around to face the far wall. Charlotte spotted the dark hole just above his shoulder blade. She closed her eyes as pure relief poured over her.

“Bad news?” he asked when she remained quiet.

“Not at all.” She reached for another clean cloth and dropped it into the basin of water, repeating the same cleansing ritual around the exit wound. “The bullet made a clean escape. Seems fortune favored you with your brush with death.” She lightly tapped his arm. Muscle rippled beneath her touch, leaving her a little breathless. “Y-you may turn back over.” From a corner cabinet, she pulled down a bottle, scissors, fresh linens, thread, and an assortment of other instruments she might need. Placing her cache on another tray, she carried everything to his bedside.

He nodded at the bottle of whisky. “Is that for me?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think.”

“You’re not considering pouring whisky over my open wound, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. In the medical world, we use the term aqua vitae.”

“Water of life?” Cameron snorted. “Wrap it in whatever pretty package you like, but you’re not setting fire to my raw flesh.”

She paused. “What would you rather endure? A minute of cleansing, or hours of debilitating pain and bone-rattling fever, all of which will lead to an eventually slow death?”

“Do you use your persuasive voice on all your patients, or is this a special one for me?”

“There’s still time to call for Dr. Hollingsworth.”

His eyes narrowed. “Get on with it, Charley.”

She placed a smaller, thicker cloth directly beneath the hole in his shoulder. Next, she uncorked the bottle and retrieved yet another cloth. Wasting no more time, she poured a steady, thin stream of the strong, pungent alcohol over the wound.

Air sliced between his clenched teeth, and his head pressed hard into the pillow.

Charlotte continued to douse the area until she was confident the wound was free of any sort of debris. She set down the bottle and tossed the wet cloths into the basin. Next, she threaded the needle before pausing near his shoulder. “Ready?”

He nodded.

“Roll onto your good side.”

Once he was in position, she set to work on the entrance, then exit wound, taking care to keep her attention focused on closing the ragged edges of his flesh and not on Cameron’s occasional flinch or hiss of pain. Charlotte took four of the clean linen squares and placed them over the sutured entry wound. “Hold this in place, please.”

He did as commanded, giving her a free hand to set another pad of linens over the exit hole. Then she wound a large strip of cloth over his shoulder and around his underarm several times before tying it off. “All done.”

He rolled onto his back, releasing a slow, tension-relieving breath before opening his eyes.

On a nearby chair, Charlotte spotted her mother’s rose and sage throw blanket draped across the back. She retrieved it, experiencing a pang of regret even as she did so. It was bound to be stained once she laid it upon him. Although not impossible, blood tended to be difficult to remove.

She spread the blanket over his torso and repositioned her wooden stool next to his injured thigh. “How did you receive such an injury?”

A long pause followed. “I deflected my assailant’s intended aim.”

Removing the compress, she noted the laceration sat only a few inches from his groin. Schooling her features, she retrieved a large pair of scissors and grasped the edge of the torn material. “An attempt to remove a gentleman’s manhood is a vicious, and rather personal, attack.”

“Aren’t most attacks personal?”

“Not to this degree. You’re fortunate your assailant missed your femoral artery.”

“How do you know he did?”

“Because you would have bled to death within minutes.”

“Comforting.”