Page 90 of The Best Marquess

A new face appeared above him, a stranger’s face, weathered and tanned and grave as he efficiently unpacked a large black leather satchel. A physician.

“What are you going to do?” Finn asked curiously. How odd that his foggy head had cleared, but his shoulder was worsening. “Sew up my cut? I think I landed on a chisel.”

The physician’s expression eased. “No sir. I am going to examine your shoulder and see if I must remove a bullet or merely stitch up where a bullet grazed. It will help if you take a few swigs of this brandy.”

A bullet?

He’d been shot?

Furious, Finn turned his head and glared at that sack of shit, Lord Campbell. The baron now sported a swollen-shut eye thanks to Nicholas and had been gagged with a cravat and tied to a chair with what looked like Bliss soft weave bondage rope. On another day he would have admired the fighter’s efforts, but getting shot goddamned fucking hurt. Instead, he gratefully accepted the fiery brandy glow as he took several swallows from the bottle Pippa held to his mouth. Next, the physician cut away his jacket and linen shirt, and he shivered as the cooler air hit his overheated skin.

“Beg pardon, sir, but this is going to hurt. A lot.”

Finn swore as the physician poured two fingers of brandy on the open wound to clean it. In novels, heroes who were shot acted as though it was a mild inconvenience much like the removal of a splinter, while their one true love cooed beside them. In reality, even after the brandy to dull his senses, it was still taking every ounce of his will not to yowl like a cat with a trapped tail. And Pippa kept frowning at him, as though charging at an angry baron with a pistol had been an exceedingly foolish thing to do rather than dashing and brave.

On the other hand…she loved him. Had said she loved him in front of witnesses, something that for him put every declaration ever said in a romance novel to shame.

“I am your sunshine and your grand passion,” he mumbled through gritted teeth while his shoulder burned in another wash of brandy hellfire.

“You are a twit,” said his wife irritably as she smoothed his hair, yet she also observed the physician like a hawk, as though she wanted to shove the older man out of the way and do the task herself.

Finn took another swig of brandy, spluttering a little as the liquid hit the back of his throat. “And by twit you mean I am your hero, now and forever after. You said it and cannot take it back, for Gordon and even that numbskull Campbell heard you.”

“It was very nice,” said Nicholas, from where he stood guarding the groggy pair of Lord Campbell and Sir Edwin. “Reminds me of when Octavia first said I love you. Well, a bit, anyway. I believe her exact words were, I love you, you damned fool, but if you ever again risk life and limb to climb a tree and play the flute outside my window, I will pelt you with rotten fruit. Apparently, we don’t have to risk death or injury to win a heart, my lord.”

Finn almost smiled.

But where was the excitement in that?

“There is no bullet or bullet fragment inside your husband’s shoulder, ma’am. He was very fortunate; it has gouged a nasty path across his upper arm which will require stitches, but no damage to limb, bone or sinew.”

At the calm, matter of fact words, Pippa closed her eyes briefly and took deep breaths. It might take a while to rid herself of the cold, numbing fright that had taken hold of her entire body when she’d thought Finn, her husband, her best friend, her lover, the man who had been at her side for sixteen precious years, might be lost forever.

Because a world without him was entirely too bleak and dark to even contemplate.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to.

“I’m much obliged for your care,” she murmured to the physician, surprised her lips were still able to form words. “Do you see a lot of wounds like this?”

The man nodded as he bathed a needle in some brandy, patted it dry, then began threading it with reassuring expertise. “I was an army surgeon for twenty years, retired after Waterloo, so have tended more bullet wounds than you’ve had hot suppers. Now I enjoy painting, like many others who live in Golden Square. Good people. Friendly. Well, except the visitors with pistols,” he finished pointedly, staring with acute dislike at the baron.

“A painter? How lovely. My husband sketches.”

“Oh?” said the physician, brightening. “What do you sketch, sir? Portraits? Landscapes?”

“Pleasure toy designs, mostly,” said Finn unsteadily. “Also, portraits of my wife in her spectacles. I love her spectacles. They make me har—”

“Happy,” said Pippa, sealing her hand over his mouth so brandy and being shot didn’t loosen his tongue further.

“How interesting,” said the physician, but his lips twitched. “I would ask, ma’am, that you keep your hand right there and perhaps restrain his uninjured shoulder. Stitching is unpleasant but necessary to prevent infection. After that I will douse the wound again, then bind it up with the bandages Mrs. Overton provided.”

She nodded, grateful beyond measure for the older man’s soothing manner. No doubt he’d seen the worst sights imaginable and probably thought he’d finally be free from such situations, as a painter with the other creative people in the square. But for this service, and Mr. Gordon’s, it was hard to imagine how to repay such a favor. Unless they liked pleasure toys and romance novels, for there was an abundance of those in this townhouse.

It was impossible not to wince when the physician began to stitch the jagged gash marring Finn’s upper arm; especially when her husband banged his shoe heel on the floor and gripped her hand in a manner similar to Lilian in labor. Gah. He looked so pale, and now he was actually sweating; it glistened on his temples.

“Nearly done,” she whispered, stroking his hair some more.

“Constable’s here,” announced Xavier, as he strode back into the parlor. “Taking statements from witnesses. He’s speaking to Mrs. Overton first, then Lady Campbell.”