“Smaller stitches, more closely bound together, if you please,” she ground out. “They leave a less hideous scar.”
“This one won’t be seen when you’re properly attired. Even the lowest cut bodices won’t reveal it.”
“My lovers will see it.”
His stomach knotted at the thought of all the men who might have known her in a Biblical sense, and again he was damned grateful his father hadn’t been one of them. “How many have you?”
“Presently, none.”
He didn’t know why the words brought him stark relief. “You have had lovers, though.”
“Yes.”
“But never my father.”
“No, never your father.”
He cleared his throat. “Henevertried to get you into bed, not even with subtle insinuations?”
“No, not that he would have had any success at it. I have no objections to using my womanly wiles and flirtatious skills to get information from a man, but I don’t spread my legs for it.”
He jerked his gaze up to her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever known a woman so blunt.”
“I play enough games in my profession. I don’t do it in my personal life. How many lovers have you?”
Like nearly every word she uttered, her question could be etched in stone. He released a low scoff. “None. Not in a good long while. The son of a traitor hardly has women falling at his feet.”
“You did before Wolfford was deemed a traitor.”
“How would you know that?”
“’Tis my business to know everything. You are quite good at this, and swift. Where did you apply the skill to yourself?”
“Knife wound on my thigh. You?”
“Same. Then a bullet grazed my hip once, took a chunk with it.”
“Bullet tore through my calf. A rather ravenous dog attacked me once. Tore into the back of my shoulder. Couldn’t reach it to properly tend it. It’s an unsightly mess.”
“I haven’t had the privilege of viewing your back yet. I wasn’t looking when you left the room. You’re a finer specimen than your father.”
He didn’t want to be compared to his father in any fashion.
“Ouch!” She glared.
“Apologies.” In his frustration, he’d dug a little deeper than he’d meant to.
“I shouldn’t have brought him up. I don’t want to discuss him any further tonight.”
“Nor do I.” He reached the end of the gash, tied off the catgut, and snipped it free of the needle. If she had made a move to leave, if she’d moved at all, he wouldn’t have done what he did next. But she was as still as a statue—but not like the cold marble ones Griff had referenced—no, he was beginning to think there was very little cold about her. He captured her gaze, where heat flared, before lowering his head and touching his lips just above where the blighter had taken the knife to her. Rage bubbled within him. If he’d known she’d been hurt, he wasn’t certain he’d have let the last two ruffians walk out of that alley. Slowly, slowly, he eased back. “Just to ensure it heals more quickly,” he said quietly.
“Something I’m seldom able to do for myself. Thank you.”
Her hair was a tangled mess. She still clutched his shirt, shielding a portion of herself from his sight. Her face was smudged with dirt and a bruise or two. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen anyone more beautiful. Damn her for becoming more attractive the more he came to know her. “I have a feeling your cook isn’t going to be theleast bit bothered to find her kitchen a mess in the morning.”
That tiny smile. “No. That was merely a lie to get you to go on up without me. But you should retire now. I can bandage myself easily enough.”
Only he didn’t want to retire, didn’t want to leave her, but where was the good in staying? Wrapping linen around her chest would only serve to have his fingers, his knuckles, occasionally glancing over her skin, something he wanted entirely too much, in spite of his shoulder throbbing with discomfort. Her wound was no doubt providing its own agony. “I shall leave you to it then.”
