Page 35 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 12

Oliver groaned. Why even wear a disguise if every blasted person he came across recognized him? Frustrated and racked with pain, he tore off the mask and hair scarf and tossed them aside. “What gave me away?”

“The mole above your upper lip. You disguised your voice well. I would never have guessed it was you.” Claudia frowned. “Wait, that was you in that alley. When I—”

“We can discuss it later,” he murmured. “Help me get this coat off. And the rest. I am not feeling well at all.” Claudia assisted him in stripping away the layers until his torso was bare. With a grunt of discomfort, Oliver turned on his side. “How bad is it?”

Claudia pushed the lamp closer. Her fingers trailed along the slice in his skin. “It is not deep. But it is a long laceration, six inches or more. It’s why it bled so profusely. It will take a while to stitch this closed.”

“Then you had best get to it,” he barked.

Claudia raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Steady on, my lord.”

“Sorry. I am in considerable pain.”

“Understandable. However, we should keep pressure on the wound until the bleeding subsides. At least, that is what I have heard is the proper response.” Claudia refolded the shawl, tucking the blood-soaked portion of the garment at the bottom. She pressed it on his side, causing him to hiss through clenched teeth. “Let’s give it about ten minutes.”

“How did Danaher know your name?” he asked, watching her intently.

“He was involved with my mother years ago. It is a long, wretched story,” she replied.

“We have plenty of time.”

“How did you know Danaher’s name?”

“The detective I mentioned. Simpson told me. That is why I wanted the surveillance to continue. I wanted to confirm Bryan did not cross paths with Jedidiah Danaher.”

Claudia sighed. “It appears we have much to discuss. First, we have to tend to your wound.” She pulled the shawl away and inspected it. “The blood flow is lessening. Good.”

“Were you going to kill Danaher?” Oliver asked, his voice a husky whisper.

“If needs must. We were fighting for our lives. You should have let me finish Danaher before knocking him unconscious. He is a treacherous foe. Where is your dagger, by the way?”

“I did not bring it tonight; more’s the pity. Have you killed before?”

“I have used my knife in self-defense situations. Did anyone I cut—bleed out? I never stuck around to find out.”

Oliver gazed at her. She was a fighter and the most fascinating woman he had ever met.

“Have you killed anyone in your vigilante doings?” Claudia asked, meeting his concentrated regard.

“I haven’t been doing it for that long. So, no. But who knows what circumstance may arise? Am I capable? I believe anyone is. But my first instinct is to avoid it at all costs. It would only anger and stir up the criminal element. And the police.”

“You have a point. I can begin the stitching now. Please lower your leather trousers partway to give me ample space to work.” Leaning close to the light, she efficiently threaded the needle and tied a knot at the end. “We are not working under the best conditions here. Infection may set in. Is there any alcohol I can use to sterilize the needle?”

He should have thought of that. But Oliver had not counted on hiding down here any length of time, let alone requiring no more than a stitch or two along with a plaster and gauze. But this? He could feel the cool, damp air against the open wound. This was more serious than he had planned for. “No. None.” He unbuttoned his trousers with quaking hands and pulled them down far enough over his hip for her to work.

Claudia tore away a piece of her frayed skirt, soaked the material with water from the jar, then cleaned the wound. Then she pinched the injury closed between two fingers. “I know this is inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you are well put together, Tensbridge. Such muscular perfection.” The needle slipped through his skin. “There, did the compliment lessen the impact?”

“Is that the only reason you gave it?” he rumbled.

“No. That is not the only reason. Who knew such potent masculinity resided under your stuffy wool suits?”

Oliver chuckled, then groaned. “Do not make me laugh. I work at it—staying in shape. One has to be able to fight, leap across roofs, and the like.”

“You sat there in your study during our meetings, acting every inch the aloof aristocrat when you knew what we shared. The closeness, the touching—and rubbing against you.”

He was growing aroused—in his condition, no less. “If you only knew how I wanted to vault across my desk, hold you in my arms, and kiss you senseless. Back you up against the wall, trail my hand under your skirt, and find the wetness therein.”