A Season of Seduction (37 page)

“Good,” Becky snapped. “It’ll be easier if he’s unconscious.”

She ran her fingers over the back of his shoulder, finding no wound. The bullet was still lodged in his shoulder somewhere. Laying him back on the floor, she gazed at the oozing wound for a moment. She tore open his coat and shirt, then quickly washed her hands using the hot water Mr. Jennings had brought and pushed a finger inside the hole the bullet had made. Right away, her fingertip skimmed the smooth, round surface of the ball. She ground her teeth when she felt the splinters of bone surrounding it.

“Give me the tweezers, please, Mrs. Jennings,” she ordered when the woman hurried in from the kitchen.

Openmouthed, the woman obeyed. Becky dipped the tweezers in the hot water and carefully dried them, ensuring they were clean of any dirt or lint before she directed them to the place where she’d felt the bullet. Once she had a decent grasp on it, she yanked it out and dropped it on the wood floor with a
thunk
. It rolled for a moment, then came to a stop in the center of a whorl.

Everyone stared at the bloody ball for a long moment, and then Becky sighed and reached for the tweezers again. Inserting them into Jack’s wound, she withdrew the loose splinters of bone she’d felt with her fingertip when she’d searched for the ball. She also found a round scrap of linen and several threads of wool—the pieces of his clothing that had been driven into his body by the force of the bullet.

She’d read the dictionary of surgery Jack had given toher. She’d read memoirs of surgeons during the Peninsular Wars, and she’d read treatises on medicine byrenowned doctors. She knew, in a theoretical sense, what to do with a bullet wound to the shoulder. So she performed the task just as she’d read about it. She went through each step, each motion, as if she’d done it a hundred times before, bemused by her own distance from the event, her own lack of emotion.

There was no swooning or panic at the sight of blood oozing from Jack’s body. She didn’t question herself, her motives, or her intentions. She just did what needed to be done.

She peeled away his layers of clothing and thoroughly cleaned the wound. Then she wrapped it in strips of cloth soaked in cold water. When she finished, she took a deep breath, then rocked back on her heels, biting her lip.

Sheneeded proper medical equipment—no, a proper
doctor
—to finish this. She glanced at Sam.

“Take a horse and go into Camelford. If necessary, go all the way to Launceston. Find a doctor and return with him. Be quick, Sam.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she jerked her gaze away from Sam and turned to Jack. God, what had she done? He lay there, his face blanched, still as death. The thick, copper tang of his blood permeated her senses.

As Sam hurried away, she forced herself to continue with the practicalities. “Mr. Jennings, please remove those dusty bed curtains. Mrs. Jennings, if we possess anything in the way of clean linens, please fetch them, and we’ll use them for the bed.”

The elderly couple hurried to do her bidding, and she was left sitting beside Jack.

She suppressed the urge to take his hand. She stared down at her own hands. They were covered in his blood.

Rubbing a clean part of the back of her hand over her eyes, she fumbled to her feet. She must light a fire—if the fireplace in here was working, that was. It was important to keep him warm. His coat was wet. If she wasn’t careful, he’d catch a chill.

As she passed the window, she glanced outside.

Wind whistled over the barren landscape, flattening the grass, and far in the distance, the sea frothed angrily.

Winter had arrived, tomorrow was her twenty-third birthday, and she’d just shot and possibly murdered the man she’d almost married.

She crossed the room and knelt at the basin to wash the blood off her hands.

Sam returned with the doctor two hours later. By that time, Becky and Mr. and Mrs. Jennings had made the bed, stripped Jack of his wet clothing, brought more clean water, started a warming fire in the blessedly working hearth, and tucked Jack beneath heavy blankets. Mrs. Jennings, though she was exhausted, scrubbed the floor clean of blood, but Becky couldn’t do anything but stare at Jack. She’d pulled the chair close to the bed and watched him. Watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. Watched his pale face, locked in a frown. He’d hardly budged since he’d lost consciousness.

The physician, a mild-mannered young man with thick black eyebrows and a thatch of hair to match, introduced himself as Dr. Bellingham. Becky was grateful that he didn’t ask how Jack had been shot. He simply unwrapped Jack’s bandaged wound, studied it, and used the forceps he’d brought to search for any foreign objects that might have gone into the wound. He found nothing. He closed the wound with sutures, then asked for the largest belt in the house. Becky found one in her grandfather’s cabinet, and the doctor strapped Jack’s arm to his chest, cushioning his elbow with a large piece of quilted fabric. He wrapped the wound in a fresh cold-water application and fashioned a sling to support Jack’s arm and elbow. Jack woke in the midst of his ministrations, and gritting his teeth in pain, he managed to answer the doctor’s questions as the man poked and prodded his injury. Finally, the doctor drew Becky into the corridor.

“Unfortunately, my lady, I was unable to locate the ball.”

“I removed it.”

He frowned. “I… see.”

“Did I do it correctly?” She thought she had, but the frown on his face suggested otherwise.

“You did nothing wrong, if that is what you are asking, my lady. You didn’t damage anything. However, in the future, I would advise you to leave such exertions to someone who is more learned.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Will he recover?”

“There are two injuries to consider—the flesh wound from the bullet and the injured bone. If everything proceeds as expected, the flesh wound will heal in time. But he will likely always possess limited use of the arm.”

“His clavicle is broken, isn’t it?”

The doctor’s bushy brows surged upward. “Why, yes, it is. There appear to be several small fractures in a radius around the location of impact.”

She’d felt the breaks with her fingertips after she’d removed the bullet and bone splinters. “And the humerus and scapula?”

“Both appear intact.”

“I think… the wound seemed far enough from his shoulder joint.”

“Indeed. The joint appears unaffected.”

She sighed in relief. “And the nerves of his arm?”

“He appears to have proper feeling in his fingers, and it is painful for him to move his hand, but he is capable.”

Becky forced herself to nod. She’d once read about a case in which a man had been shot in a place similar to where she’d shot Jack. The shot had separated the nerves in the man’s arm, and the limb had remained paralyzed and devoid of sensation for the remainder of his life.

So overwhelming was the sick feeling in her stomach, she couldn’t muster the voice to thank the doctor. He rattled off instructions on how she should care for him through the night, told her he’d be back in the morning, and then he left the house.

Silence fell, and she returned to Jack’s side to find him dozing. She watched him for a long while, struggling against the nausea churning in her belly. Finally, she dragged her head up to see her three servants watching her.

“You may leave,” she whispered.

They obeyed, their faces grave. Last to go was Mrs. Jennings, who closed the door behind her, leaving a puff of dust in her wake.

Staring down at Jack’s white face, Becky rubbed her arm absently, fingering the lumps of scar tissue and badly healed bone at her elbow.

He’d lied to her. He’d pursued her only to steal her money. He was a villain, just like William.

Then why did she feel that this was terribly wrong?

She’d experienced little remorse when she’d stabbed William, and she’d felt only relief when Garrett had shot him at the end. The guilt and second-guessing had come later.

Now, misery swelled in her chest, so tight and hard she could barely breathe.

With Jack, she’d allowed her hopes to climb even higher than she had with William. Four years ago, she’d traipsed blithely into trust and love. This time, she knew the value of her trust, and she’d vigorously guarded her love. And yet she’d bestowed both of them on this man, only to learn she’d been betrayed yet again.

For the first time since she’d discovered Jack’s treachery, tears stung at her eyes, then crested over her lids and made hot streams down her cheeks.

Why had he come here, when she was so weak and vulnerable? Why couldn’t he have pursued some other heiress or wealthy widow? How could she bear the pain of his betrayal? Or the guilt of what she’d done to him? Even after what he’d done, even after his admitted guilt, the fact that she’d hurt him deepened and sharpened the ache inside her.

She lowered her face into her hands.

“Becky?”

His voice was gruff. Slowly, she raised her head. Tears still streamed from her eyes, but she stared at him through the blur. He was awake, though still very pale. His lips were white and tight with pain.

“Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Shakily, he reached toward her with his good hand. “Don’t cry.”

She flinched backward, ensuring he couldn’t reach her. “Don’t bother to be kind to me,” she whispered. “I know what you are.”

Not to mention the fact that she’d shot him. They were bona fide enemies now.

He winced. “There’s… more to it than whatever you think you know. Believe me.”

“I don’t believe anything you say. I never will believe you again. I won’t make that mistake.”

“Becky…” His eyelids fluttered shut, but he struggled to open them. “You shot me.”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to die?”

“I… don’t think so.”

His brown eyes fixed on her. “Do you hope I will die?”

She was silent. He kept his gaze locked with hers.

She couldn’t admit the truth to him. She wanted him to heal. And then she wanted to go far away, so far she’d never have to experience the slicing pain that seeing him would cause her.

His eyes closed again, and he released a long, shuddering sigh. “I still want you.”

She stiffened. “Well, you can’t have me. Or my money.”

“Don’t… want your money,” he pushed out.

She twisted her hands and pressed her lips together. She wanted to rage at him that he was a liar and ask how he dared lie to her yet again. But she glanced at his shoulder and saw blood seeping through the white bandage, and she restrained herself.

“Go to sleep, Jack.”

He complied almost instantly. The lines of tension around his mouth relaxed, and his breathing deepened.

Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she watched him sleep. She didn’t realize that hours had passed until Mrs. Jennings came to the door with her dinner. Becky looked up to discover that the room was dark and the fire had reduced to embers.

She ate the bread, cheese, and dried venison without tasting it. She drank some of the brandy Mrs. Jennings had brought up.

Jack woke and she fed him sips of broth without speaking to him beyond the necessities. He needed to use the chamber pot, and though she intended to help him, he asked her to leave. She didn’t argue.

It took him a very long time, and finally she heard the creaking of the bed as he sat on its edge. She opened the door.

“Do you need help getting back into bed?”

He shook his head grimly. “No.”

It was obvious he was in a great deal of pain as he adjusted himself onto the mattress. He lay awkwardly, and though he’d said he didn’t need her help, she fluffed the pillow beneath his head and drew the covers over him. He was shaking—from cold or from pain, she couldn’t know. She didn’t ask.