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He stood and held out the bottle of brandy to her. “I need you to drink this.”
“Drink that? All of it? What is it?”
“No, not all of it. But a few healthy swallows, and then some more. It’s brandy.”
“Why?”
“Great Zeus, must you question everything I utter?”
“When you don’t give me reasons, yes.”
He drew in a long breath, expelling it in an exaggerated sigh. “You’re going to want the numbness of it for what I have to do to your arm.”
“What do you think to do to my arm?”
“I think to sew the cut closed so it doesn’t become infected and kill you. I think to keep you alive, Torrie.”
Her look flitted about the room. “You? You think to sew it? Isn’t there a doctor on board?”
“You’re looking at the closest thing to one.”
“No.” Her green eyes went wide. “But—truly—you think to sew my skin? My skin closed?”
“Yes.” He nudged the bottle into her hand. “Now drink.”
Her face had gone slightly pale, but she didn’t continue the argument. Instead, she lifted the lip of the bottle to her lips. One swallow. Two.
She dropped the bottle to her lap, but then quickly lifted it for one more healthy drink. Her face scrunched as the fire of it slid down her throat.
Roe stepped to the desk, took off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair, then rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. He unfurled a strip of linen, then refolded it, meticulously creasing the lines again and again as he stalled, waiting for the brandy in her belly to move to her head.
Interesting that her speech changed the more she was aggravated—her Scottish lilt surfacing every time her ire was raised. Living in London must have washed most of Scotland out of her blood.
She cleared her throat. “You said injuries had to happen—I hope no one was hurt?”
He looked to her. “You were hurt. That was more than enough.”
She shrugged, her left fingers tightening about the neck of the bottle. “Aside from me.”
“Just those ruffians attacking you. And then the ones that thought to stop our escape.” He flicked his thumb upward to himself. “I took a blade to my shoulder and that’s what must have sliced you as well—it had to have nicked off of me and across your arm.”
She looked down at the cut on her upper arm just above her elbow, using her pinky to pull at the skin about the wound. “Was yours deep as well?”
“Enough.”
She pointed to his shoulder. “Yet you didn’t have it sewn.”
“I did.” He knew she wouldn’t believe him, so he pulled wide the gape of the white linen shirt he’d changed into, letting her see the ragged tear that cut in from the outer edge of his shoulder. Ten cross stitches of black thread tugged the skin closed.
“Oh.” A deep-set frown pulled her face downward. “I do apologize for that.”
“It is not a bother.”
“Wait.” She moved to the edge of the bed, her bare feet dropping to touch the floorboards. “Who sewed you? That person can sew my wound as well. Your stitches look even enough.”
“I did my own.”
“You sewed up your own skin?”
