Page 14 of Cold November Rake

"Edward!" Temperance gasped, all her earlier emotions evaporating into instant horror.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he grunted.

His eyes were dark with pain, his face pale in the candlelight.

"What am I doing?" She crossed the room in swift, decisive strides, dropping to her knees in front of him and snatching the needle and silk from his trembling fingers. "What happened?"

Her eyes strained to see the wound properly, and once she did, she wished she hadn't.

It was a gaping, bloody slice of nearly three inches.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat, but Temperance swallowed it down.

"Have you even cleaned it properly?" she admonished.

Sutton waved toward a bloodied bottle of brandy by his side. "I poured a few drops of that, if that's what you mean," he said, slurring. Temperance could not tell whether it was the brandy or the blood loss.

"No, that is not what I mean." Temperance shot to her feet and ran into her dressing chamber. She collected a shallow dish, filled it with warm water from the pitcher by her hearth, gathered a few strips of clean linen, a cake of soap, and a pair of scissors, then ran back into the room.

She lit two more candles, moved them closer to the bed, and dropped to her knees before him once more.

"Why did you not send for someone? Mr. Ganderson, a footman, your valet?"

"Ganderson is so old he would do more harm than good with his shaking hands and his failing eyesight. And the rest of the household is asleep. I was not about to drag my valet out of bed to do what I am perfectly capable of doing myself."

"You do not seem capable at all," she murmured under her breath, then pushed his hands away. "Remove your hands."

"You have a most commanding manner," he said, but obeyed, bracing his bloody hands on the coverlet.

She wiped the wound clean, ignoring his hisses. She needed to do this without softness. The quicker she cleaned and stitched him up, the less pain he would endure.

Yet she could not help flinching at his discomfort.

"Don't look so horrified. It is merely a scratch," he murmured close to her ear.

Temperance had to concede it was not deep. She could see that now. Still...

"It is a three-inch gash. That is hardly a scratch," she muttered.

She picked up the needle and, pinching his skin together, quickly drew the thread through.

Sutton let out a thin, high-pitched whimper.

Ah, so that was what she had heard—not another woman's noises in the throes of passion. Just her husband straining not to cry out.

"What happened to you?" she asked, mostly to keep him distracted from the pain, and partly to keep herself from laughing at her own absurdity.

Sutton winced, letting out a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. "I was attacked in an alleyway near St. James's." He leaned his head back against the carved bedpost, closing his eyes. "It seems my luck has soured these last two days."

Temperance caught the subtle insult thrown her way, the implication that his streak of misfortune had begun with her return to his life.

She deliberately sidestepped the jab.

"Hold still," she commanded softly, flattening her hand against his abdomen.

Her hand on his warm skin sent flutters low in her belly. She felt guilty for such feelings while he was in pain, but she could not help it.

She hadn't touched a man—hell, anyone—this intimately, skin to skin, in years. It felt nice.