Page 9 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“If by facing off, you mean running like a hare, then I suppose I am audacious,” she said wryly, taking the candle from where Desmond had set it. She held the light up and peered diligently at the injury marring Hugh’s bared thigh.

The wounded man fitfully tugged down on the hem of his shirt, covering his groin, but she waved off this gesture.

“Modesty is unnecessary, sir,” she murmured. “When you become my patient, all notions of decorum are declared null and void.”

“All very well for you to say, madam.” Hugh continued to hold the tail of his shirt so that his crotch was obscured. “You aren’t the one with your tackle hanging out.”

“I promise not to harass your tackle.” From the leather satchel, she pulled out a loupe and fitted it into her eye, then bent closer to examine the wound. “Do I have your permission to touch you, sir?”

“If you’re going to fondle my thighs,” he answered, “you’re at liberty to call me Hugh.”

“And you may call me Clara,” she answered.

“Clara,” Desmond and Hugh said at the same time.

A shiver traveled the length of her body.

“A pretty name,” Desmond said.

“A family name,” she replied, “and a commonplace one, at that.” She paid little mind to the taut, hair-dusted muscles of Hugh’s brawny thigh, focusing her attention on the wound. Her hands were light on his skin, but, all the same, her patient hissed in pain.

“Your name sounds like a flower,” Desmond noted. “A shy flower alone in the forest.”

Clara cast him a sardonic look. “Are highwaymen known for their poetic flights of fancy? Or is this simply another tactic to keep me tractable while you invade my house?”

“A little of both.” A sly smile flirted at the corner of Desmond’s mouth.

She quickly returned her concentration to Hugh’s injury. At that moment, Gideon returned to the bedchamber, his arms laden with many things.

“I hope I have all you requested.” Gideon set the ewer, cloths, bottle of spirits, and cup on a nearby table.

Clara examined the array of objects. “This is excellent. Thank you, Gideon.”

A blush stained his cheeks, and it was truly astonishing how these men acted less like dangerous thieves, and more like men who needed something light and gentle in their perilous lives.

He looked at her a moment too long, and a pleat appeared between his brows. Gideon glanced between her and Hugh and Desmond.

“Aye,” Hugh said, “you’re not wrong.”

She’d no idea what any of them were talking about. It had something to do with her, but what, she couldn’t say.

Hugh gave a small groan.

She poured water from the ewer into a basin, then wetted one of the cloths. Returning to the bed, she said, “I need to clean the wound, and then I’ll have a better sense as to what must be done. Alright?”

“You’re very careful,” Desmond said, “for someone who sometimes doctors villagers.”

“All patients deserve meticulous, thorough care. We don’t want the wound going putrid.” She waited for Hugh’s nod before gently but scrupulously cleaning the injury.

Hugh bared his teeth and grunted a little, but he bore her ministrations with stoicism.

“Well?” Desmond asked, once the cloth in Clara’s hand was stained red.

“Will he live?” Gideon pressed.

“They’ll consider it bad news if I am to live,” Hugh said.

“Then,” she announced, stepping back, “I have very bad news.”