Revealed (36 page)

Phillippa took a step closer to her archenemy, dropped her voice to a whisper. “Please, Jane.” And then Phillippa said the words she knew she would come to regret, but had to be laid bare. “I’ll be in your debt.”

A sparkle of mischievousness lit Jane’s eyes as she nodded, turned around, and flounced out of the room.

After closing the door behind her, Phillippa skittered back to Marcus’s side, where Byrne was assisting him in removing his fine wool formal evening coat.

Marcus hissed through his teeth as the bloodied sleeve was pulled down, revealing his linen shirt, which was once stark white, the whole arm and back now a violent red, plastered to his body.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Phillippa said gravely.

“He’s going to lose a lot more when we dig the bullet out of his shoulder,” Byrne answered.

“But, you know what you’re doing, right?” she worried.“You’ve done this before?”

“Actually,” Marcus replied, “I’ve done it to him. I suspect he’s looking forward to his payback.”

Byrne snorted a chuckle, then turned serious. “Now tell me who did this,” he said, turning his intense gaze to Phillippa.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Phillippa stuttered a reply. “I’d never met him; I don’t know his name.”

“Describe him.” Byrne ordered, and Phillippa obliged.

“Smaller, thin, maybe ten stone at most. This afternoon he was dressed like a farmer, straw hat, dun-colored trousers—terribly rough twill, I’m certain”—she paused when Byrne cleared his throat impatiently—“but this evening,” she continued, “I . . . I couldn’t see what he was wearing. Dark colors. Maybe evening dress.”

“Maybe?” Byrne questioned harshly.

“Maybe not,” she conceded.

“Byrne, it was him.” Marcus spoke up. “He had the pistols.”

“Good.” Byrne nodded, pacing, as he took this all in. Then, “Do you think there’s a chance he’s still here?”

Marcus remained still for a moment, then nodded his head.

“Where?” Byrne responded, his jaw set.

“He could . . . if he wanted something in the house, he’d be searching right now . . . but I think he went back to blend into the mayhem at the stables. Crawled back into whatever disguise he’d assumed.”

Byrne, stopped pacing and drummed his fingers on the head of his cane. “Time is of the essence,” he said.

“But what about Marcus?” Phillippa cried. “He needs your help.”

A look passed between the two brothers, an unspoken communication.

“It’s your shoulder. Are you sure?” Byrne asked.

“Yes,” Marcus answered seriously. “We’ll be fine.”

Byrne shot a quick glance toward Phillippa, his eyes narrowing in honest appraisal. “I’ll save my payback for another time.”

And then he hobbled out the door, leaving Phillippa alone with Marcus.

“He’s . . . he’s not going to take the bullet out?” she asked dazedly.

“No,” Marcus replied. “You are.”

Shock coursed through her system as Phillippa felt her legs go unsteady for the first time all evening.

“Did you say . . . did you say what I think you said?”

“Yes,” his voice was resolute.

“Let’s get to work.” He sighed, adjusting his seat on the bed. “First things first. I need you to take off my shirt.”

She could do this, Phillippa decided. Doctors do this kind of thing all the time. Midwives birth children, for heaven’s sake. Compared to that, pulling one little bullet out of his shoulder would be akin to removing a splinter. Her experience with blood was limited, but when Alistair lay dying, she had managed to soothe his brow, keep him cool . . .

She could do this. She would not cower in fear. She would simply have to approach it in an efficient, businesslike manner.

With a silent prayer heavenward, Phillippa moved to him and plucked at the knot of his cravat, opening it with relatively steady fingers.

Marcus let out a sigh of relief as she removed the offending article and tossed it on the bed.

“That thing . . . has been choking me all night,” he said, using his good arm to free the small buttons at his collar, breathing deeply.

“Can’t be easy running after a villain in a cravat,” Phillippa conceded, as she concentrated on easing open the long row of tiny buttons down the front of his shirt.

“Among other things,” Marcus countered, his eyebrow shooting up in a decidedly rakish fashion.

As Phillippa freed the last of the buttons, she pushed the cloth off his good shoulder, her hands grazing over his muscled chest and shoulder. So much for the businesslike demeanor, Phillippa thought, as she felt her face going hot.

She could feel his gaze on her face, watching her every action and reaction, so she set her mouth in a thin line and carried on. She freed his good arm from the sleeve, and then, maneuvering around behind him, transferred her attentions to the bloodied shoulder, the sight of which seemed to grow in her vision, everything else receding into nothing.

This would prove more difficult.

She must have been staring at it for some time, because Marcus broke into her thoughts, saying, “Phillippa, listen to me.”

She did, focusing only on his voice. Amazingly, it was steady and calm, even though sweat dripped from his skin as he fought to keep the pain at bay.

“Just be as gentle as you can; it will be fine,” he said soothingly.

Phillippa gulped hard, nodded. “It will be fine,” she repeated under her breath, as she eased the sticky, wet cloth off his skin. “It will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine . . .”

Then, amazingly, she had the sleeve pulled past the wrist, and the thing was done.

He smiled at her, his warm brown gaze fuzzy but comforting. “Good girl.”

She moved back onto the bed, kneeling behind him. Unfortunately, the removal of the shirt only highlighted the size of the hole, and now that the cloth was gone, the oozing blood became more readily apparent. The hole was high in the shoulder, angled upward. She thought his shoulder blade must certainly be fractured at least, but if the gunman had aimed a few inches lower, the ball would be in his lungs. The wound must have hurt dreadfully, for even the smallest twitch of his muscles expelled more fluid.

Her breathing must have become unsteady, because Marcus reached behind him with his free hand, took hold of hers, and pulled her to face him.

“Phillippa—no, no, darling, look at me.
It’s just me.
Now, I’m going to tell you what to do. Can you handle that?”

She focused her attention on his face. His voice was calm, yes, but his eyes, they held the first color of worry behind the rich brown. She had to do this. She had to be strong for him. She would not let him see her fail.

“Handle it?” she repeated in her most imperious, superior tone. “I am Phillippa Benning. I can handle anything.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. It was not the passionate devouring she had known from him. It was proud and soothing. It gave her strength.

Once he released her, she drew back, put her hands on her hips. “Now what do we do first?”

However, that question was not to be answered, as a knock at the door startled them both.

Phillippa moved quickly, went to the door’s keyhole.

“It’s Lady Jane,” Phillippa said, opening the door and admitting said lady, who’s arms overflowed with her findings.

“I found the linen closet and a bottle of brandy,” she said as Phillippa helped her unload the goods from her arms. “And a jug of water. I couldn’t find any ointment because I had no idea what I was looking for, and I couldn’t ask my ladies’ maid, because she’d wonder why I needed it and I had no idea what to tell her.”

“Good Lord, Jane, surely you could have thought of a lie for her.” Phillippa explained as if to a child. “Couldn’t you have just told her you stubbed your foot or some such thing?”

“No, I
surely
could not!” Lady Jane expostulated, putting her nose in the air. “Not everyone lies as easily as you, Phillippa. I am an
honest
individual.”

“Well, I am so sorry to have offended your delicate sensibilities,” Phillippa snipped, “but in all the chasing and running away from a madman, and Marcus—Mr. Worth—getting shot, I sillily relied on your cunning and guile. I do beg your pardon.”

“Well, I shall not beg yours,” Lady Jane sneered back, her eyes beginning to glisten. “You’ve always been like this, thinking everyone and everything can fall into your line—”

“I have not! You’re the one who—”

“Ladies,” Marcus said from his position on the bed. “Could we continue this later?”

Phillippa felt her face go hot as she took a step back from Jane. It was unfortunate that they simply could not stop arguing, but for her part, Phillippa decided to blame the stressful circumstances.

She took hold of the water jug and the linens, brought them to the small table beside the bed. Jane grabbed the flask of brandy, following.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked, as she handed the flask to him.

“He . . . he went to get something.” Phillippa covered, meeting Marcus’s eye.

The room went still for a moment, as if everyone was uncertain of what to do. Then Jane, who seemed to have been remarkably mesmerized by the sight of Marcus’s unclothed chest, shifted her gaze to Phillippa and gave her a frank appraisal.

“You need a new dress,” she stated.

Phillippa looked down at her once-lovely cream and silver Madame Le Trois, the hem now dirty, the satin crushed, and blood smeared on her sleeve and skirts from having supported Marcus up the stairs.

“Yes, thank you, I’m aware.” Phillippa said coolly. “Luckily, I’m a favorite of Madame Le Trois.”

“No,” Jane snitted back, “I mean, if you ever want to leave this room without causing a riot, you’ll need a new dress.”

“Oh.” Jane was right, of course. Her appearance must be shocking, to say the least. But as worried as she had been about Marcus’s circumstances, she had not thought about her own.

“I’ll go get you one,” Jane broke into her thoughts and moved to the door.

“Wait,” Phillippa said, as Jane’s hand was on the latch, “one of your dresses?”

“Never fear,” she smiled, “it’ll be one I haven’t worn—this weekend.”

And she disappeared back into the hall.

“Well,” Marcus said, his voice breaking the silence, “shall we continue?”

“We . . . we
truly
aren’t going to wait for your brother to return?” Phillippa asked hesitantly.

Marcus shook his head. “He might not be back until daybreak. We have the supplies. I’ll talk you through it.”

Linens were torn into strips. Fresh water was poured out into a bowl. Scissors from Totty’s kit were laid out on the bedside table. A pair of pincers were obtained from Marcus’s supplies. Brandy. All placed precisely for Phillippa’s ease of use.

First, she cleaned the area around the wound, flushed it with water, dried it with a piece of linen. Then at his command, she fetched over a candle to light her work.

“Hold it up to the wound,” he said, “can you see anything?”

She peered inside the hole, inside him, making out little beyond the punctured flesh. Then, “I see—I see a bit of metal,” she said, spying the small gray shine of reflected light from deep within.

“That’s good,” he said. “Can you reach it?”

“Reach it?” she repeated. “You want me to try to . . . to touch it?”

“With the pincers, Phillippa,” he smiled, his voice only slightly strained.

“Right,” she replied, rolling her eyes at her own foolishness and, placing the candle down, she fetched the long, thin metal tongs from the table.

Now all she had to do was stick the pincers into his shoulder and draw out the bullet. The only problem being how badly her hands were shaking.

She tried a deep, calming breath. She tried a swig of brandy, as did Marcus. It helped a little, enough so Phillippa repositioned herself at his shoulder and steadied herself.

However, the upward angle of the wound made access less than simple.

“I think this might be easier if you were to lie down.”

He nodded limply. Slowly, gently, Phillippa helped ease him onto the bed, onto his stomach.

She shifted him as well as she could to facilitate his comfort. And in doing so, she noticed the jagged scar in his side. Her finger traced it gently, reverently.

Marcus turned his head to the side. “Stabbed. Long time ago.”

She nodded, lifted her hand.

“It’s time to do this,” he said. She brought the candle as close as possible, crouched on the bed beside him, and resolutely inserted the pincers.

She moved slowly, not wanting to cause any unnecessary pain, but unfortunately, the brandy and breathing had not been enough to hold her hand completely still.

“Can you do me a favor?” Marcus asked through his teeth. “Can you prattle on about something?”

“Certainly,” Phillippa replied, her voice unnaturally high. “What would you like me to prattle about?”

“You could,” he paused to take a few breaths, “tell me why you and Lady Jane don’t get on.”

She felt the pincers hit the solid surface of the bullet.

“That’s not easy to explain,” Phillippa replied, trying like the devil to not push against the bullet, causing it to go deeper.

“That, or you could tell me about your marriage,” Marcus challenged. At her lack of a reply, he continued, “You’re fishing around my shoulder for a chunk of metal. Lady Jane or Alistair Benning. Your choice.”

Phillippa sighed, exasperated. “I’d rather discuss most anything else. I’d discuss Broughton if you’d asked.”

Marcus chuckled weakly at that. “Did you know that if you married him, you’d be Phillip and Phillippa?”

She smiled ruefully. “The thought had crossed my mind,” she admitted.

“You know you’re too good for him, don’t you?”