Page 8 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

Cyrus took a step toward her, but then, suddenly, Desmond moved between them, shielding her. “I trust Mrs. Ballantine.”

“On the basis of what?” Cyrus sneered. “A fine pair of tits?”

Even though Desmond’s coat covered her, Clara felt stripped just the same.

“Shut the fuck up, Cy,” Desmond said levelly. “Either help her or get out. Gideon and I can handle things from here.”

“And me?” asked the bald man.

“We’ll find the cellars, Liam,” Cyrus said, with a rather unpleasant smile. He stalked from the bedroom, with the bald man quick on his heels.

Clara glanced at Desmond, and then the man with the midnight eyes.

“Your name, sir?” she asked him.

“Gideon,” he said. “Gideon Beaufills.”

“I’ll want a basin of boiled water, Mr. Beaufills.”

“No need for formality,” he answered. “Just Gideon will do.” He gave her a reassuring smile, flashing against the rich brown of his skin.

Something warm opened in her chest at that smile.

“Very well, Gideon. There are clean cloths in the press next to the kitchen. And bring me a bottle of spirits—any kind—from the aforementioned cellars, and a cup.”

“Done.” Gideon strode from the chamber.

Moving to stand beside the bed, Clara smiled at the man lying there. He had close-cropped black hair, threaded with silver. Pain glazed his hazel eyes, but when he looked at her, the lines fanning at the corners seemed to come from humor, not hurt.

“Hello, Hugh,” Clara said to him in her most calm voice. “I’m Mrs. Ballantine. I will tend to your wound. You don’t object to a woman treating you, do you?”

“No objections to a lass tending my wounds,” Hugh said with a tight, strained smile. His rolling Scottish burr was pleasant and warm. “Never trusted male sawbones, anyway. They’re too busy measuring the length of their lancets.”

Despite the situation, a little laugh escaped her. “I’m going to look at your injury. But first, I’ll need to remove these.” She tapped her fingers on his breeches.

“Mrs. Ballantine,” Hugh answered with mock-indignation, “if you wanted me bare arsed, you need not resort to such tactics as having me shot.”

“I’m less concerned with your arse than I am with making sure that the bullet isn’t still lodged in your thigh. Cutting away the portion of the breeches covering the wound might be faster, but I don’t want any potentially dirty cloth to get close to the injury. What?”

She frowned as Hugh looked at her with that same slightly bewildered look that Desmond had worn when they’d gazed at each other outside the attic.

“It’s only…” Hugh tilted his head to one side. “There’s something about you…”

Puzzled, she glanced at Desmond, watching attentively from the other side of the bed. “Help me?”

He gave a nod, and they set about stripping the boots and breeches from the injured man. Hugh groaned and swore as they worked, but followed each curse with an apology for his language in front of a lady.

“I’ve heard worse.” She folded the discarded breeches, though they were torn and bloodstained. Unlikely that they would be salvageable. “I had several male cousins.”

“No brothers?” Desmond asked, as Clara set out a clean cloth beside Hugh.

“Alas,” she said, neatly laying out her tools, “my parents had but one child, and she had the ill manners to be born female.”

“The audacity of her.” Hugh grunted.

Another small laugh burst from Clara. “No one in my acquaintance has ever called me audacious.”

“Facing off against five highwaymen seems awful audacious to me, Mrs. Ballantine,” Desmond said.