Regency Proposal. Ann Lethbridge

Ian,’ she whispered, ‘you need a doctor.’

      ‘It is not as bad as it looks,’ he said through gritted teeth as he pulled the fabric away from the wound. He cursed softly.

      Throat dry, she swallowed. ‘We should clean it.’

      Looking up, he raised a brow. His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘We?’

      She took a deep steadying breath. ‘Me, then. Look, it is bleeding again. Take off your shirt.’

      Now he really looked surprised. ‘All right.’ He fumbled at his collar with his good hand.

      She brushed his hand away. ‘Let me.’ Standing this close to him, with the light coming down from above making every sinew and bone as sharp and clear as a portrait as each breath expanded and contracted his chest, she could feel his warmth against her skin. Unnerved, she felt her hands tremble. Indeed, her very bones shook with a force she couldn’t quite grasp. When she breathed in to steady herself, it was like breathing in his air, his essence.

      A shock jolted through her. How could that be?

      It couldn’t. She was being stupid, just as she had been as a girl. In real life, they stood on the opposite sides of a line drawn on a map.

      She forced the inappropriate sensations aside. The man was hurt and patiently waiting without complaint with his chin raised for her to undo the darned knot.

      It came free and she cast the cloth aside and went to work on the buttons. Undressing a man—never in her life had she done anything so daring.

      The collar fell open with each button she freed from its mooring, slowly revealing the hollow of his strong throat, his collar bones, a wedge of chest lightly furred with dark crisp curls that brushed against her knuckles as she released the final fastening, enticing to her fingertips and her gaze.

      Such feelings led in only one direction. Down a path that would do her no good.

      She let her hands fall to her side and stepped back. She glanced up to find his gaze fixed on her face. Intense. Heated. He was breathing faster than before.

      He also felt desire.

      It hung between them, hot and heavy. Terrifying. With effort she made a small gesture with her hand. ‘You should be able to take your shirt off now.’

      The fire deep in the blue of his eyes flared, then died.

      ‘Aye. I can do that.’ He pulled the shirttails free and with his good arm pulled the shirt off over his head, unveiling the body of a Norse god she’d only dared to peek at in the sea cave.

      The muscles of his arms were carved and hard, his chest vast and sculpted beneath its smattering of hair. In the face of such magnificence, breathing was nearly out of the question.

      But breathe she must. ‘Hold out your arm.’

      She knelt close to his knee. He held his arm steady with his other hand, bending his head to look at the wound.

      Their foreheads collided.

      A nervous giggle escaped her lips. Heat fired her face. The schoolgirl was back. She felt giddy, and not from the sight of his blood.

      He grunted. ‘It doesn’t look too bad.’

      ‘I can’t see.’

      He leaned sideways.

      A nasty gash scored his arm. Bile rose in her throat.

      She swallowed it down. ‘You are right, it seems to be nothing more than a flesh wound.’ She controlled a shudder. ‘I will clean it and bind it.’

      Blood from where he’d pulled the shirt free of his skin trickled down to his elbow. She grabbed up the flask. ‘If I recall correctly, this is better than water for a wound.’

      ‘A terrible waste, lass.’

      ‘I’ll save you a drop. Give me your knife.’

      He eyed her aslant. ‘Why?’

      ‘Unless you have a nice clean handkerchief, I need some cloth to pad the wound. We will use your stock to hold it in place.’ She looked at his shirt. He’d need to put that on again, bloody sleeve or no. She lifted up her skirt and looked at the hem of her petticoats. The lace of the top one was in tatters after being soaked in seawater, straddling a horse and dragging through heather. Now it would serve to staunch the blood.

      He pulled his dirk from his sock and handed it to her, hilt first.

      She shook her head. ‘I’ll hold the fabric taut while you cut. I am sure you will do a better job than I.’

      An eyebrow shot up and he looked at her rather oddly, but he bent to the task. It felt a little strange with his face so close to her legs, even though he must be able to see little more than her shoes, since there were two more layers of cloth beneath the first petticoat. Portuguese women adored petticoats.

      He soon had a long strip cut from around the bottom.

      ‘Cut it in two,’ she said, ‘and I’ll use one piece as a rag for washing.’

      A frown creased his forehead. ‘Where did you learn such skill?’

      ‘I wouldn’t call it skill. I hate the sight of blood. But my friend, Lady Hawkhurst, convinced me to volunteer at the hospital she funds for injured seamen. I read to them and roll bandages.’ She soaked one of the rags with whisky.

      ‘So you have no experience in binding wounds and such like?’

      ‘None at all,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I have seen it done.’ No point in telling him she’d thrown up in the nearest chamberpot when she’d looked at the wrong moment. Instead, she gritted her teeth and dabbed the cloth at the ragged cut.

      He hissed in a breath and she waited for a spewing of swear words.

      He remained utterly silent.

      Impressed, she continued dabbing. If he could put up with the pain, she could put up with the sight. Although if anything the dizziness of earlier was growing worse. She continued dabbing and wiping until all the dried blood was gone.

      The wound looked nasty—ragged edges and fresh welling blood.

      Black edged her vision. She felt herself sway. She squeezed her eyes shut, regaining her balance and fighting the sickness.

      This wound was nowhere near as bad as the one to her own leg. One brief glimpse of that and she had passed out cold.

      Jaw clenched, she tried to remember what Alice had said about the symptoms of spreading infection. Redness? Yellow pus? No sign of anything like that. Yet.

      She looked away and drew a deep breath in through her nose. ‘There is not much more I can do, except bind it.’

      ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said wryly.

      Her gaze flew to his face. His mouth was set in lines of pain. She’d been so busy trying not to pass out that she hadn’t thought about how much she must be hurting him, because he hadn’t made a sound.

      Because he was strong and she was weak.

      ‘Hold still,’ she said gruffly. She placed the pad over the wound, then wrapped his neckcloth around it, tying it off with a knot.

      He flexed his hand and she watched, fascinated by the way the muscle in his upper arm bulged against the bandage. He did it again. This time something happened to his chest; it seemed to grow firmer and develop more definition. It almost made her forget just how ill she felt, until her gaze fell on his torn and bloody shirt.

      The room wavered in and out of focus. Her knees buckled and the shadows leaped out from the corners to take over the room. And she was falling.

      ‘Selina?’ he asked as though from a great way off.

      A strong arm banded around her waist. It pulled her against something warm and hard. She collapsed against