Her throat tightened.
“And you want them to stop,” she continued. “Even when you know they’re doing what they believe is right.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“You want to protect them.”
“Yes.”
A hard little ache rose in her throat.
“Perhaps.” Gideon spoke softly as she drew the cloth gently around the edge of the wound. “Perhaps protection doesn’t have to mean restriction.”
Her breath hitched.
“Perhaps,” he said. “It can mean standing near enough to help, and far enough away to allow your person to live the life they choose.”
Her fingers paused against his skin.
For a moment, the room felt very still.
Then, of course, someone knocked.
Beatrice startled, though Gideon did not. He merely looked at the door with a faint expression of regret, as though the interruption had been both expected and unwelcome.
The same maid from earlier entered with a tray. “Clean linens, my lady. Bandages. Mrs. Crabshaw’s salve. Vinegar, and some spirits as well.” Her gaze flicked once to Gideon’s bare chest before snapping dutifully back to the tray. “For his lordship’s pain.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said. “That will do very well.”
She did not mention that Gideon wouldn’t be drinking those spirits.
Besides, she might need a dram or two herself.
The maid set the tray on the washstand, then hesitated only long enough to determine that she was interrupting something considerably more delicate than the tending of a bullet wound.
“I’ll be just outside if you need anything else, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
The door closed again.
Beatrice looked at the spirits. A decanter of brandy, no doubt taken from Dash’s study.
She paused. “Are you certain you don’t want a little? To remove the sting?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Beatrice glanced up.
His gaze was fixed on the amber liquid as though it were poison.
“No,” he said again, quieter this time. “Thank you.”
She set it aside. “Very well.”
For a moment, she thought that would be the end of it.
