A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(52)

“Only? Only an adder bite?”

He shrugged. “Just a scratch.”

“A scratch infected with venom.” She pulled on his sleeve, tugging him back toward the castle keep.

“There’s a lot of me. It would take more than a few drops of poison to bring me down.”

Nevertheless, he walked with her to the corner of the keep that served as his personal quarters. As he nudged the door open with his left shoulder, she saw him misjudge his step and stumble against the door.

“Are you dizzy?”

“Just . . . a misstep.” But he stayed there, leaning against the door, his eyes unfocused. “Give me a minute.”

Absolutely not. At the rate his hand was swelling, she wouldn’t give him another second.

She found a stool beside the lone, small table and braced it against the turret’s interior stone wall.

“Sit down,” she ordered. He might be a big, intimidating infantry officer, accustomed to having men march, load, and fire at his command—but she would not be countermanded on this score. She grabbed his good arm and pulled with all her might.

Oof. He barely budged. Goodness, he was just an enormous lump of masculinity, all muscle and heavy boots. There was a lot of him, as he’d said.

“I’m well,” he protested.

“I’m worried. Humor me.”

Kate coaxed him to the stool and made sure he sat with his back well braced against the wall. Badger came to his heels, sniffing about his boots and making small whining noises.

Once Thorne was seated, she began tugging at his sleeve. “I’m sorry. We have to remove your coat.”

She began with the sleeve of his injured right arm, carefully drawing the red wool sheath down until he could pull his entire arm free. She eased a hand behind his shoulder to help him out of the sleeve. An involuntary tremor passed through his sculpted shoulder muscles—a whispered confession of the danger he faced, despite his impressive size and strength. Kate shivered in response.

While she propped his wounded wrist on the table for examination, he twisted his torso and shook the garment down his left arm. The red coat slid to the floor.

He gave the discarded coat a regretful look. She knew it must pain him to see the uniform crumpled on the ground. But he didn’t bend to retrieve it.

“Perhaps I’m not so well,” he said.

Her pounding pulse accelerated. If he admitted it, he must be very bad off indeed.

A serrated knife lay on the table. She reached for it.

“Be still,” she warned.

With clumsy swipes of the blade, she laid open the linen sleeve of his shirt, rending it all the way up to the elbow. Angry streaks of red blazed from the adder bite. She could follow those streaks halfway up his thick, muscled forearm, even through the covering of dark hair. She needed a tourniquet.

When she raised her head to ask Thorne where one might be, she saw that his face had gone pale. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow, and his breathing was uneven. She reached for his unknotted cravat and worked it loose with trembling fingers. He tilted his head back to assist her. As her fingers brushed the freshly shaven skin of his throat, she could see the pulse beating beneath his jaw, as though a butterfly were trapped under his skin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re undressing me,” he said thickly.

“It can’t be helped.”

“Wasn’t complaining.”

Once she had the cravat free, she doubled the arm’s-length strip of fabric and wound it around his arm, just below the elbow. She took one end of the fabric and clenched it in her teeth, then pulled the other end with both hands. Her efforts wrenched a groan of pain from his throat. By the time the thing was in place, she was huffing for breath and sweating just as much as he was.

“Where is your medical kit?” she asked, already scanning the room for likely places.

He slid his gaze toward a battered wooden chest on a high shelf.

Kate hastened to the shelf and stretched up on her toes to retrieve the box.

When she turned back, she nearly dropped it. Thorne had the knife in his left hand. His sweat-covered brow was furrowed with concentration and he was pressing the serrated blade against the angry, swollen skin at his wrist.

“Oh, don’t—”

He grimaced and twisted the knife. A growl of pain forced through his clenched teeth, but his hand didn’t falter. Before she could reach his side, he’d turned the blade a quarter turn and slashed through the distended flesh again. Blood flowed freely from the crossed incisions.

He let the knife fall to the table and slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.

“Why’d you do that?” she asked, carrying the kit to the table.

“So you wouldn’t have to.”

Kate was thankful. She knew he’d done the right thing. Releasing the blood—and venom—from the swollen area was necessary, lest it travel to other parts of his body. But the sight of so much blood stunned her motionless for a moment. She had helped Susanna a time or two when she’d treated the villagers’ illnesses and injuries. But that was offering a bit of assistance to a skilled, competent healer. This was the two of them, alone with desperate measures.

He could die.

A wave of nausea passed through her. She rode the crest of it, then put a hand to her belly and willed herself to be calm.