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“What had the bloody bastards done to ye this time?” Jemma cried, rushing to the other side of the bed to better see her cousin.

Paris grabbed Jemma’s arm and pulled her away from the bed. When she opened her mouth to scream at him, he clamped his hand over it. The look in his eyes frightened her.

“Be still, Jemma,” he growled. “If you want to stay in this room then you must be still and quiet and do as I say. Otherwise, I will physically remove you. I will not have you upsetting Jordan. Do you understand?”

Something in his tone told her that he would stand for absolutely nothing but blind obedience. She nodded once and he removed his hand. Calmly, they both returned to the bed.

Jordan was wide awake, her right hand touching the shaft that protruded from the top of her left shoulder.

“An arrow?” she gasped as she met Paris’ gaze.

“Aye,” he took her hand away from it. “I must remove it. Lady Jemma, will you find me all of the clean linen you can get your lovely hands on, please?”

Jemma, her eyes wide with fright, obeyed without a word. Paris took his dagger and tore away the material from around the wound, baring her entire left shoulder, arm, and the top of her breast. His expert fingers gently felt over it, his touch as soft as a baby’s but Jordan whimpered anyway, frightened, as she closed her eyes and turned away.

A lone tear trickled down her temple. She was sickened by the arrow in her shoulder, crying from the shock of it more than the pain.

Sympathy clutched at Paris’ heart. It was a good thing William wasn’t in here, making his job more difficult than it already was. He wondered angrily what in the hell was keeping Byron.

“Did you enjoy your walk this morn?” he asked pleasantly, trying to get her mind off the object in her shoulder. “I saw that you obtained some new material.”

Her eyes opened. She looked so pale and fragile and lovely lying on the pillow. Tempting, too, but he chased that thought away as quickly as it came.

“Aye,” her voice was shaking. “I was going to have some new dresses made.”

Jemma dashed back into the room, dumping a load of linen on the bottom of the bed. Paris glanced at it.

“Good,” he said to her calmly and patiently. “Now go into the hall and see if you can see Byron coming.”

He did not want her in the room when he removed the arrow. Jemma nodded nervously and fled. As soon as she was gone, he slammed the door behind her and went back to Jordan. Smiling down at her, he braced one leg on the bed and firmly grasped the shaft of the arrow.

She paled when she realized what was coming. She nodded as if giving him silent approval to continue, unconsciously putting her right hand on his, fluttering delicately against him. It could have been a most erotic action, under different circumstances.

“Swiftly, Sir Paris,” she whispered and turned her head away. “I shall be grateful.”

He gave her no time to prepare, no time to wonder when the stab of pain was coming as he gripped the shaft and yanked it straight up, straight out.

Her scream cut him to the bone. She began to cry loudly as he slapped the linen over the coursing blood, pressing hard and trying to hold her still with his other hand. She gripped his arm, her nails biting into him in her anguish.

“It is all over, sweetheart,” he whispered, listening to her sobs. “It is all over now.”

She continued to cry and his heart was breaking for her. Leaning down, he touched his forehead to hers in a silent gesture of comfort. He had to do what had been done and his only regret was that it had caused her so much pain. He knew exactly how she felt.

Jemma burst into the room, shrieking when she saw the bloodied arrow on the coverlet. Paris was practically lying on top of Jordan, trying to comfort her and staunch the flow of blood and keep her still at the same time. She shrieked again and ran to the other side of the bed.

“What can I do?” she demanded wildly. “What help do ye need?”

“Where is Byron?” Paris’ head came up to look at her and Jemma swore she saw tears in his eyes.

“I saw him coming up the stairs,” she stammered.

“Then there is nothing you can do right now,” he told her, looking back down at Jordan. She was quieting. “Your job will come after he has tended your cousin.”

Shaken, Jemma backed away and collapsed in the nearest chair. Watching Paris tend her cousin as gently as a mother tends a baby reformed many of her negative views toward him. Mayhap he wasn’t so bad, after all.

Byron, tiny and bald in flowing black robes, descended into the room and spoke a few short words to Paris, who reluctantly pushed himself off Jordan to allow the little man better access. He began to dab this and wipe that, digging into his bag and bringing out strange vials. Jemma watched curiously as he and Paris conversed over the wound, the severity, and Jordan’s health.

It began to occur to Jemma that mayhap all English weren’t as bad as she had always been led to believe. Certainly, Kieran wasn’t bad. And William was more than kind to his cousin. And now, Paris and Byron were working over Jordan as if she were a blood relative. Mayhap all English were not that bad. It was strange to think that when all she had ever done was associate the English with pain and hatred.