Home > Winter's Woman(4)

Winter's Woman(4)
Author: Scarlett Scott

She was in his arms again, unceremoniously hauled sideways, the world upended. He carried her with ease, ignoring her protests as he placed her back on the bed, moving slowly to avoid jostling her wounded arm.

The care he showed her seemed quite at odds with the gruffness of his nature. So, too, the angry growl. Mayhap it was the dizziness still assailing her, or the loss of blood. But she found herself studying him. He was more handsome at this proximity than she had supposed. The concentration on his countenance heightened the sharp prominence of his cheekbones and jaw. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he took her wrist in a tender grasp and removed her hand from the wound.

“You are not a doctor,” she told him. “I will wait for the family physician to examine me.”

In typical Devil Winter fashion, he ignored her. Using a cloth, he dabbed gently at her wound, mopping up the blood. Her breath caught at the pain his small action sent roiling through her.

“That hurt!” she accused, though in truth she knew he was doing his utmost to avoid causing her further discomfort.

He reached for a bottle of spirits he must have fetched during his brief disappearance. Slowly, he slid an arm behind her back, helping her to lift her head from the pillow. Then, he held the bottle to her lips.

“Drink.”

She hadn’t time to protest, and anything she may have said was drowned beneath a tide of burning liquid as he tipped the bottle and poured some of its contents into her mouth. Whatever it was, it tasted wretched. The urge to spit it everywhere rose, along with a gag. As if sensing her reaction, he pinched her nose. The action had her swallowing instinctively so she could inhale through her burning lips and tongue. Her eyes watered.

“What are you doing?” With her good arm, she attempted to push him away from her.

But the effort was no use. It was akin to an ant attempting to shift a boulder. Devil Winter was not going anywhere.

Instead of answering her, he put the bottle to her mouth once more. “Drink again.”

“No.” Even as she spoke the word, he slid the bottle between her lips and tilted it.

Another rush of burning, terribly dry liquid hit her tongue. This time, she swallowed it down without his prompting, for what choice had she? An oaken flavor remained, bitter. But a strange warmth blossomed within Evie. Some of the panic bristling inside her faded.

He allowed her to swallow before tipping the bottle. More went down her throat. A drop of it slipped from the corner of her lips and slid down her face. He caught it with his thumb before she could react, the rough graze of the callused pad on her skin strangely intimate.

Their gazes met and held. Such brilliant, beautiful blue. His lashes were long and thick, she noted. The architecture of his face was a strange blend of wildness and perfection, of sinner and savior. The pain in her arm reminded her what had happened, where she was, and with whom.

She blinked. “I do not want any more of that poison.”

“Not poison.” He held it to her mouth once more. “Whisky. Drink, Lady Evangeline. It will ease the stinging.”

She took another drag of the spirits as he requested. This would have her bosky in no time.

Evangeline eyed him, the patience in his countenance, the impassiveness of his expression. “Have you ever been shot, sir?”

“Thrice.” The bottle was back at her lips.

Was it her imagination, or had his hand crept to her nape? Were those his fingers massaging her neck, easing the stiffness from her muscles? Surely she was delusional.

Belatedly, it occurred to her he had admitted to having been shot.

On no less than three occasions.

She ought not to be surprised, and yet the knowledge he had been in a similar position in his past startled her. “Who shot you?”

“My enemies. One more sip, milady.”

She obliged, because his whisky was doing things to her. Softening her. Warming her. Blurring her pain, making it smooth around the edges. Not so hard and furious. He was helping her. Something in his fierce demeanor had shifted.

Or mayhap something inside her had.

Blood loss, she thought for the second time.

Perhaps she was on her deathbed, for there was no other reason to be entertaining the utterly outlandish thought that Mr. Devil Winter was not every bit as barbaric, vulgar, and horrible as she had initially supposed him to be.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

As if a torpor had settled over her.

“Better,” she allowed.

“Good.” He tipped the bottle, splashing enough of it on a fresh cloth to dampen it, and then he pressed that cloth to her wound.

The pain was almost unbearable. Every speck of goodwill toward him instilled by the whisky died a swift death. She screamed and attempted to swat him away with her good hand. But her actions were as futile as before. Devil Winter was a strong, massive man. Immovable.

His face was a study in determination as he went about his task, dashing more whisky on the bloodied cloth before using it to wipe her wound once more. She tried to box his ear but he caught her wrist and held her still as he finished cleaning her bloodied arm.

“You are hurting me,” she gritted through her clenched jaws and a haze of tears.

“I am helping you.”

It hardly seemed so from her perspective.

“You are punishing me,” she countered. “You do not like me. Your disdain for me was evident yesterday.”

His full lips quirked, but he did not remove his gaze from her wounded arm. “Disdain. Fancy word for a fancy duke’s daughter. Not so fancy when you’re shot, are you?”

“Not so excellent a guard when the woman you are tasked with protecting is wounded, are you?” The bitter accusation left her before she could think better of it.

He did not say a word, and if her taunt had upset him, there was no sign of it. Not a hesitation or a tightening of his lips. Why was she staring at his mouth? She had never in her life consumed whisky until this evening. Being soused and shot, after having suffered a loss of blood, was having an ill effect upon her mind.

Instead, he worked in silence, finishing cleaning her wound before taking up a small pot and unscrewing the lid.

“What is that?” she demanded.

“Horse piss.”

She blinked at him. Surely she had misheard?

“Rat shit,” he said, and then stabbed two of his cloth-covered fingers into the jar, pulling up a generous glob of thick, amber-colored syrup.

He was not serious, was he? He was saying something horrible, was he not? The delusions were settling in now, surely. She felt faint.

He slathered the solution on her wound with slow, gentle motions. “May not need to be stitched up after all.”

The burning pain eased. In its place, coolness and a strange sense of numbness settled in. She watched him as he worked, his expression intense. The pain seemed to ease with each brush of the thick ointment. The scent of it filled the air between them. Sweet and herbal.

“Honey?” she asked.

“Amongst other herbs.” He finished his work and began winding a length of clean cloth around her arm in a loose grasp. “You may call for your physician as you like, my lady, but I do not think you will need any stitches on this wound. If you are fortunate, it will not fester.”

Everything inside her felt brittle and bright. His face was too handsome. His fingers scraping over her tender flesh as he bound her wound too intimate, too warm.

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