Page 51 of How to Best a Marquess

“Do not flatter yourself. I need to see the wound so I can treat it.”

Without further argument, he pulled the shirt over his head. Thankfully, he was right. The bullet had only grazed his flesh, and the wound wasn’t deep. Nonetheless, it needed treatment and a salve. She leaned forward, and tendrils of red hair that had escaped from the knot at her nape brushed his arm. Need unfurled inside him—his whole being filled with a fiery longing.

“Those men could have killed you,” he said, his voice hoarse.

His fear for her resurfaced with a vengeance. If things had turned out differently beneath the bridge, if the blackguard had harmed one hair on her head, he would never have forgiven himself. Never would have survived the torment of the outcome.

He’d told her to run. As an officer, he was accustomed to having his orders followed, only she hadn’t listened, instead stubbornly remaining to help him fight.

“Ellie, will you ever do as you’re told?”

She raised her gaze from his shoulder to look at him, her eyes sparking with challenge. “I suppose it depends on who’s issuing the orders and whether I agree with them or not.”

It was an outrageous statement. He chuckled, but a painful pull of his shoulder cut his laugh short.

Her brow creased. “As far as I can tell, you were the unfortunate one in the incident.”

He nodded once, his thoughts returning to their embrace beneath the bridge before the criminals had ruined everything. He wondered what it would take to get her into his arms once again. “Then I leave myself to your care.”

…

Ellie tried not to think what could have happened if the bullet had struck inches to the right and had torn into his neck or chest. It could have been much, much worse. He could have died in her arms beneath the bridge. She thanked God for his life.

Ellie bit her lip as her gaze roamed over him. She’d seen him shirtless before, yet her eyes feasted on his flesh. On every hard angle and chiseled muscle. He appeared carved of marble. Her face must be flaming red. She tried to throttle the dizzying current through her and failed miserably. Her knees felt weak, and her pulse pounded an erratic rhythm. She wanted to be crushed against his chest. Wanted to feel more of what she’d felt beneath the bridge before they’d been accosted.

Hugh looked at her as if he had no idea of her illicit thoughts.

“See?” he said. “It is not so bad. A bandage and all will be well.”

All was well with him. Her own state was a different matter.

A slight knock on the door sounded, and Alice arrived with her supplies.

“I brought everything you’ve asked for, my lady,” Alice said. If she was surprised to find the Marquess of Deveril sitting shirtless on the bed and bleeding, she did not show it.

Ellie cleared her throat. “Thank you, Alice.” She returned her attention to Hugh. “We must first clean the wound.”

“What about your hands?” he asked.

“You first, then I’ll worry about a few scrapes.”

She dipped a cloth into the hot water and began cleaning the wound. Her emotions were a whirlwind. She’d disliked him for five long years, had thought nothing but the worst of him, then he’d returned into her life with the force of a summer storm.

He threatened all that she held dear. The Raven Club. Her work with the battered women.

But he’d helped her, too. He’d appeared just when she’d needed him to toss Baron Willoughby out the door on his arse. He’d fought off two vicious footpads, one armed, and had been shot himself rather than let anything untoward happen to her.

He’d protected her.

Twice.

She finished cleaning the wound. Alice handed her clean strips of cloth and the salve, and Ellie proceeded to apply the salve and wrap his shoulder.

“That will be all, Alice.”

Alice nodded, then took the bloody rags and left the room.

“You should lie down until we know it has stopped bleeding.”