Page 7 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“Come.” He picked up the candle, then—to her astonishment—threaded the fingers of his free hand with hers. “Let’s get your tools.”

She wanted to agree. There was an injured man below, work to be done. But she couldn’t think past the feel of his palm pressed to hers. Tending to the house on her own had taken a toll on the ladylike softness of her hands, but even so, his were far rougher than hers, calloused, large, and hot as a brazier.

A fine tremor worked its way through where their hands touched. Their gazes met and held.

“We…” She cleared her throat. “We need to see to your friend.”

He frowned, then gave his head a small shake. “We do.”

She wanted to curl her shoulders in, tuck her chin to her chest. Instead, shoulders back, chin up, she led him along the corridor outside the attic, then down into the house.

3

The medical tools were stored in the study downstairs. As they walked through the house to retrieve them, Desmond’s gaze kept flicking to the rosewood display cabinets lining the hallways. His attention lingered on silver boxes, gilt candlesticks, and ormolu clocks. All of which would likely retrieve a goodly amount from a London fence.

She pressed her lips together but said nothing.

In the kitchen, they collected soap and water before continuing onward to the study. There, she went to the cabinet where the tools were kept. Setting the bag on the desk, she took out the equipment piece by piece. Once they were laid out, she cleaned them thoroughly with soap and water, just as Father had taught her to do.

“Everything’s in good condition,” Desmond noted, as she gave a second rinse to the knives and needles and tweezers.

“From time to time, villagers come to me for some doctoring. There’s a physician in the village, but…” She cleared her throat. “They’ve said I possess a better bedside manner.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She looked at him as he stood on the other side of the desk, his gaze focused on her cleaning the tools.

“Your hands,” he murmured. “They’re very…skilled.”

Her brows lifted in surprise.

“I’m certain you’re a first-rate physician,” he continued.

“Hold your judgment until after I tend to your friend.” She collected the tools and grabbed the satchel. “We need to go to him. Now.”

They went up the stairs together, turning down the hallway until they reached the open door at the end. Men’s voices rumbled out of the room, including Cyrus’s hard tones. Her steps faltered.

Desmond pressed his hand on her back, and even through the fabric of his coat, her nightrail, and nightgown, the heat of him soaked into her body.

“He won’t hurt you,” Desmond said lowly. “That much, I promise.”

Tipping up her chin, she walked on, until she stood in the doorway of the Blue Bedroom. Cyrus was positioned at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, while on each side stood the other two highwaymen. The injured man lay atop the coverlet, his teeth bared in a grimace.

“She—” Cyrus began.

“Isn’t going to be harmed,” Desmond finished, his voice firm. “In any way.”

“What the hell is that?” Cyrus demanded, eyeing the leather satchel in Clara’s hand. His pale cheeks flushed red.

“A physician’s bag, by the looks of it,” said the man with rich brown skin. His ink-dark gaze held some kindness. “It appears that Hugh’s to have some medical attention, after all.”

“Her?” Cyrus snorted. “Like hell. He’s got to survive until tomorrow night, and I’ve no faith in this mewling little scrap to get him through the next four and twenty hours.”

“Let the lady work, Cy.” This came from the man on the bed—Hugh—as he cracked open his eyes. The rs of his speech rolled with the sounds of Scotland.

“She could kill you,” Cyrus snapped. “One less of us to worry about.”

“I would never deliberately hurt a patient,” Clara said, outraged.