The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(35)

He cringed as she helped him walk. He decided the only way he was going to make it any farther was to keep himself awake and distracted. "I had two drinks at White's earlier this afternoon and emptied the contents of my flask on the way here to numb the pain, though I think your mouth helped more than the whiskey. Care to give it another try?"

"That depends." Gwen sighed. "Are you feeling the need to get shot again?"

Hunter waved into the air. "Take me to Dominique's study. We will have to dress the wound."

"We?"

"Yes." He cursed aloud.

"As in you and I?"

"Is there anyone else here?"

Servants walked silently by them, for the most part. The odd Russian butler ignored everyone anyway. Besides, he could not call for a doctor. He didn't want anyone knowing that his life was in danger. That would just draw more attention to Gwen, and the last thing he wanted was her in the line of fire.

"I cannot simply…" Gwen waved her free hand in the air as she braced him against her side. "Sew up your wound!"

Hunter leaned against her even more heavily than before. "But I thought you were a woman?"

"Pardon?" A perfectly arched brow lifted, as if to taunt him into thinking she was upset. Surely she knew her place in the world.

Hunter chuckled, partly because he was somewhat foxed and near fainting, and partly because he found her angry eyebrow intriguing. All dark and menacing, as if it had all the power in the world to make him feel intimidated. "Women, they sew all day long. They gossip, they sew, they drink tea, and they gossip some more. Surely you know how to do some of those things?"

Gwen was silent.

She helped him the rest of the way into the study and promptly dropped him onto the floor — onto his wound, to be more precise, and though the bullet had gone clean through his side, it hurt like the devil.

"What was that for?" he roared, suddenly seeing two of her standing before him.

"You son of a—"

"Sheep! Sheep! Bahhhh!"

"Are you mad? What nonsense are you spouting?" Gwen knelt by his side, concern etched in her brow as she pressed a hand against his forehead.

Hmm, that felt good. "Sheep," he repeated. Perhaps pretending to be mad with fever had its advantages.

"Sheep," she agreed. "Why are you screaming about sheep? Why are you making sheep noises? Oh, I've gone mad. Why do I even ask you these things when I know you're going to somehow turn it into something sensual or erotic?"

"I hate to break it to you, my dear, but there is nothing erotic about a sheep."

Gwen smacked him across the shoulder.

Hunter winced. "Sorry, I was just trying to keep you from screaming at me, causing Dominique and Isabelle to stop dallying upstairs and the servants to come running. We are spies, you know. Show a little decorum."

Hunter could have sworn that, in that moment, he saw her eyes flash pure murder, as if she dreamt she could have a pistol and shoot him repeatedly with it, or perhaps knock him upside the head with her hand or a blunt object, or perhaps throw him off his horse or— "Ohh…" He moaned. "I cannot decide what hurts worse, the bullet or my backside."

"Finally turned into a horse's a—"

Hunter clamped his hand over her mouth. "Whiskey, towels, and please cease your cursing before I'm forced to cover that dirty and delicious mouth with my lips again."

Gwen jerked away and went to the sideboard. She loudly pulled out two glasses and poured the whiskey, sloshing it over the side.

He muttered his thanks as she returned, only when he held out his hand for the glass, she lifted it to her own lips and drank heavily. "I believe you've had enough. This is for me. I know nothing of wounds, and I fear I may be a hindrance."

Hunter grimaced as pain shot down his side again. Gwen left the room and quickly returned with a cloth. "This will have to do."

"It is dirty." Hunter stared at the revolting cloth. What did she do? Stomp on it before bringing it in here? Feed it to his horse? Allow a chicken to relieve itself on the threads?

Gwen huffed and sat down. "It is fine. Besides, it is only to catch the whiskey after I pour it across the wound."

"Do you know?" Hunter felt the sweat drop from his chin. "I'm feeling much better. I—"

"Be still." Gwen was already lifting up his shirt. That was nice. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that she was seducing him. Her cold hands felt like heaven against his hot skin. He sighed loudly and then moaned.

Gwen gasped. He opened his eyes. "What?"

"There is a lot of blood." Her face went white as a sheet.

"Red," Hunter urged, not sure why he was using her little pet name. "Sweetheart, it must be cleaned. Besides, I'm a wolf. We are tolerant of flesh wounds."

"Are you now?" Her lower lip trembled before her teeth bit down on it and chewed. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be that lip instead of a wolf. Perhaps he should change his name. Yes, Gwen's lip, sounded much more fierce.

Obviously he was more foxed than he'd realized, considering he was contemplating changing his nickname to something so absurd. But blast, how she had plump lips.

"This is going to hurt." She tilted the glass of whiskey.