The Scot. Lyn Stone

her hands and shrugged.

      “Stuff and nonsense, Suz. You’re a grown woman and married now, not some miss-ish little do-nothing. Besides,you preach strength and independence for women, so get yourself over here and help me get his clothes off.”

      He shouted over his shoulder to the gawking maid. “You, girl! Bring me that ewer of water and the towel, then go wait by the door to show the doctor in when he comes!”

      Susanna stood wringing her hands, uncertain what to do.

      “Here, Suz,” her father ordered, “you get his shirt off. I’ll take care of the trousers.”

      A bit relieved she’d been offered the upper half instead of the lower, Susanna began with trembling fingers to unbutton the wrinkled linen shirt as far as she could. There was no way to remove it other than over his head. Once committed to the task, she had to figure a way. With all the strength she could muster, she grasped the sides of the open placket and ripped the garment straight down the front.

      When she parted it to pull it off his arms, she saw that he wore no under vest. Her father wore those. She remembered hemming them for him when she was learning to sew. Perhaps Scots did not fancy them, or else this man could not afford to have them made or buy one.

      She tried not to notice the wide expanse of his bare chest, the mat of dark-brown hair that curled between his…well, whatever the male equivalent of those things were called. She had never before seen a man without a shirt.

      Exasperated with herself, Susanna scoffed at her misplaced fascination. Gamely, she tugged the sleeves off his massive arms, trying not to dwell on the power that lay within those muscles. There. She had done it.

      Gingerly, she reached out to touch him in the place where his heart must be.

      Her father issued a sound of dismay and without thinking, Susanna swiveled to see what he’d found.

      “Good heavens!” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

      “Yes, it’s worse than I feared.”

      “Worse?” Susanna croaked, wide-eyed.

      “The bullet’s still in there.”

      “Oh. The wound.” She shook her head to clear it of the shocking sight that had captured her attention. Blinking several times, she trained her gaze on the ragged red bullet hole halfway between the knee and the…other place.

      “Check his pulse,” her father ordered.

      Susanna gladly turned to their patient’s neck. For a long moment, she was uncertain whether the pounding pulse at her fingertips was his or her own. She had discovered his, she decided, feeling the regularly spaced thumping. Hers was racing much faster and at a much more irregular rate. “Steady,” she managed to say.

      “Good. Ah, I hear someone. Must be the doctor.”

      A tall, thin man entered carrying a black case in one hand. “Well now, what have we here? Stand away and let me see.”

      “He’s been shot twice,” her father told the physician. “Once in the head and once in the leg. The bullet’s still lodged in the thigh, I believe.”

      The doctor looked up from the patient. “Two pounds sterling whether he survives this or not. Agreed?”

      “He will survive or you’ll have no use for two pounds,” the earl said with a quiet, threatening tone Susanna had never heard him use. “What is your name, sir?”

      “McNally,” the skinny physician croaked. His black eyes had widened and his face had paled. “I’m no surgeon,” he explained. “I cannot guarantee—”

      “Then take your damned leeches and get the hell out of here,” the earl snapped.

      The man left so quickly, Susanna barely had time to wonder what they would do now.

      Her father took hold of her elbow, bared as it was by her billowing short-sleeved nightrail. “Suz, I can do this, but I’ll need your assistance. Go ahead and cast up your accounts now if your stomach feels weak. And if you faint once we start in on him, I’ll beat you when you come ’round.”

      “Father!” she exclaimed, unable to recognize the man she had known all her years.

      “Hush and listen to me,” he commanded, pulling out the pocketknife he always carried and examining it. “You send that maid down to the kitchens for boiling water and a large bottle of whisky. Also fetch me your curling iron.”

      “My what?”

      “Do as I say while I build up the fire.”

      “I could call a footman to—”

      “Hang the footmen. This is up to us, girl. By the time we get a surgeon awake, into his clothes and up here, this poor fellow could die. His leg’s still bleeding and I daren’t stop that until we get out the bullet. Now go!” He gave her a gentle shove.

      A quarter hour later, Susanna joined her father at the bedside again, having done all the tasks he’d set for her. She’d also rushed into a shirtwaist and skirt, cinching her middle with a soft leather belt since she had no time to don her corset. Her face flamed every time she thought how she had darted around in her nightclothes for anyone to see. What must Father think of her?

      She watched as he poured whisky over her curling tongs and set the business end of them in the coals. His strange set of surgery tools lay in a pan of hot water, awaiting their baptism in blood. There was the trusty pocketknife he had used long ago to whittle wooden toy animals for her amusement. Also, he had commandeered her sewing scissors, needles and a spool of black thread. Probably the most useful were the small tongs from the kitchen.

      “Clean the wound, please,” he instructed her.

      Susanna took a soft cloth, dipped it into the hot water and bathed the portion of exposed limb. That’s how she would think of it. Not the Scot’s leg, but a disembodied limb. Not part a living, feeling human being. Thank heavens he was insensate.

      But would he stay that way once her father began?

      “What might he do when you start to probe?”

      “Hmm. You’re right, Suz. We should tie him. We could call some of the staff to hold him down, but the fewer people in here, the better. Besides, I doubt they could keep him subdued, as large as he is.”

      Suddenly the Scot shifted, straightening the injured leg and holding it stiff. “Gi’ me a dram and get on with it,” he commanded in a tight voice.

      “Oh, my God, he’s awake!” Susanna cried. “Father, he’s awake!”

      The Scot eyed her, his deep green eyes flashing with pain and impatience. “And he has a thirst, lass. D’ye mind?”

      Susanna looked to her father for permission.

      “Go ahead. He’ll bloody well need it.”

      Quickly, spilling the liquor over the edge of the glass, she hurried to offer him whisky. Sliding her free arm beneath his neck, she lifted his head enough for him to drink. He gulped down three good-size swallows and clamped his lips shut.

      “More,” she coaxed. “Drink until you fall asleep.”

      “Nay,” he argued, turning his head away from her effort to force it on him. “Trust me, you dinna want me drunk. I might hurt one of you. This much’ll take the edge off.”

      “Hold my hand, then,” she pleaded.

      He grunted a short laugh. “And break your fingers? Find somethin’ leather to bite on, aye?”

      “Aye!” she gasped, her gaze darting around, unable to find a thing.

      He calmly reached out and tugged at her belt until it came free. With morbid fascination, she watched as he laid it beside him, folded it one-handed and put it between his strong white teeth. Then he stretched out his