Page 99 of The Duchess Curse

The blood had already started to slow by the time they were done. But… Had he lost too much?

Her hands trembled on the worktable. She shook them out. No time to give in to panic. “Take him upstairs, please. Be gentle.”

Ned and Bentley carried him together, and she followed behind.

“Send for the doctor,” she said once they’d placed Bran on the bed. A fire was roaring in the grate, ready for its master to retire for the evening.

Oh, the duke had retired, all right. He was so still.

She went to the bathing chamber and turned the water on, using her heat to warm the copper tub. She filled a washbasin with warm water and took it and a pile of linen towels to Bran’s bedside.

His chest was red, blood already dried and flaking. One swipe of the water against his chest brought it back to sticky life, coating the linen. Soon she had to refresh the water, and in the gentle orb light of the bathing chamber, she noticed her hands.

Stained red.

She collapsed against the tub, nothing more than a sobbing, fragile body, her stomach heaving for the space of ten wailing seconds. At most.

She picked herself back up and brought fresh water to her husband, wet a clean cloth, and continued to clean him.

“Ned,” she called, her voice low and raspy. She cleared her throat to try again, but there he was, striding through the doorway.

“Whaddya need, Lady G?” he asked.

“Turn him on his side, please.”

He did as she refreshed her water and cleaned him, and by the time the blood was mostly gone from his body, it was time to check his bandages. Something could have come loose as they’d jostled him.

But the bleeding seemed to have slowed, stopped, even, and the linens did not need to be changed.

A rush of footsteps up the stairs then down the corridor. Bentley appeared in the doorway, another man with gray hair, holding a leather bag behind him.

“Dr. Mink, Your Grace,” Bentley said.

Dr. Mink stepped into the room, setting his bag on the bed and pulling several fairy orbs from it. He set them floating above Bran’s body. “What happened?”

“A gunshot wound,” Guin answered. “I suspect the bullet was coated with a potion to keep the blood from coagulating.”

“Hmmm.” Dr. Mink took a device—short, tubular, and metal—from his bag, set one end to his ear and the other to Bran’s chest. “Heartbeat is sluggish.”

“He… he lost a lot of blood.” What an inane thing to say. She pushed a hand through her hair. “I stopped the bleeding with the antidote and pressed lemon peels against the wound.”

The doctor sat upright, replacing his tube in his bag. He gathered and extinguished his orbs, putting them away too. “Witchery.” The word as much of a snap as the sound of his bag closing. “But sometimes witchery works.” He made for the door.

“Is there something we should do?” Guin asked, taking three rushing steps toward him.

“You’ve already done it. Watch for infection and fever. I’ll return tomorrow.”

“Will he… Will he…” Die?

“Live? Perhaps. Perhaps not. You’ll know better tomorrow.”

She listened to the doctor’s footsteps disappear down the stairs before she picked up a book from the bedside table and threw it out the door with a scream.

Bentley calmly picked up the book and returned it to her. In the firelight, she saw the title on the spine, embossed in gold: Curses of Southern England and How to Break Them.

She laughed, holding her belly and doubling over.

“Should we call the doc back?” Ned asked. “For the duchess?”