Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(30)

Maude muttered to herself, but turned to the hearth.

“What’s wrong?” Indio said at the same time. “Why is Caliban all over blood? Did he kill that other man?”

He sounded elated rather than frightened, and Lily could only stare in horror at her son.

Caliban came closer, bloodied head and distracting chest and all, and knelt at Indio’s feet. He shook his head and took out his notebook from a battered cloth bag. It was a misunderstanding between friends.

Lily read the notebook aloud and stared at him incredulously. Not even Daffodil was naïve enough to believe that explanation.

The mute swayed where he was squatting and she rushed forward to take his upper arm—his very hard upper arm—and help him into a chair. If he fainted on the floor, he’d have to lie there, for there was no way she and Maude could lift him.

“Is he gone?” she asked urgently. “That other man?”

Caliban nodded wearily.

She leaned closer and whispered, “Is he dead?”

His mouth twisted wryly at that, but he shook his head slowly. His eyes were beginning to droop and his skin, usually a lovely golden color, was going gray.

She hurried to the mantel and snatched down their one bottle of awful wine. In the state he was in, he was unlikely to notice the quality—and in any case it was for medicinal purposes at the moment.

She poured him a glassful and pressed it into his hands. “Drink this.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Maude, the water?”

“ ’Tis only God can make water boil faster,” the maid muttered sourly.

“He’s hurt, Maude,” Lily chided and got to her feet. “Don’t move,” she said sternly to Caliban, for she wouldn’t put it past him to try to stand.

She crossed swiftly to her room. She had an old chemise tucked away and she scooped it up and brought it back into the main room.

Indio was now off his chair and peering into Caliban’s face while Daffodil licked the boy’s sticky fingers.

“Indio, don’t crowd him,” she said gently, and unwrapped the rag from Caliban’s head.

She had to lean close to do so and she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell his male musk. Her arm accidentally brushed his shoulder and that little contact made her shiver.

He sat docilely, letting her do as she would. The rag turned out to be the remains of his shirt, now entirely ruined, and she wondered if he had another. Maybe he’d have to go naked from the waist up, except for his waistcoat, as he labored about the garden. That would be a distracting sight: his huge arms flexing as he wielded a shovel or his savage hooked knife. She fancied she could charge ladies a shilling to come sit by the theater and sip tea as they watched him work—and wasn’t that a silly idea?

Frowning to bring her wayward thoughts under control, she carefully pried the last of the shirt from his head. The blood had begun to dry, sticking the material to his hair and scalp. She winced as fresh scarlet stained the tawny strands.

“An’ here’s the water,” Maude said, bringing over the steaming kettle and setting it on a cloth on the floor. She bent to peer at Caliban’s head as Lily began delicately washing the clotted blood from his hair. A seeping furrow appeared, about three inches long, running along the top of his head, slightly right of center.

Maude grunted and straightened. “Creased from a bullet, he is.”

She went to the corner where she kept her trunk.

“Cor!” Indio exclaimed, and for once Lily didn’t correct his common expression.

She frowned over the bleeding wound. “Shall we have to stitch it closed?” she called to Maude.

“Nay, hinney. Not much point since it’s so shallow.” The maidservant returned with a rag. “Pour a bit of wine over this and press it to the wound.”

Lily raised her eyebrows doubtfully, but did as she was told.

As soon as the cloth met his head, Caliban’s eyes widened and he grunted in pain.

“It hurts him!” Lily took away the rag.

“Aye, but the wine’ll help it heal, too.” Maude put her hand over Lily’s and pressed the rag back. “Now hold it there.” She carefully poured a little more of the wine onto Caliban’s scalp, ignoring his wince.

Indio, watching closely from the side, giggled. “He looks silly. Now his hair is red and brown and black.”

Caliban’s mouth lifted in a wan smile.

Lily frowned, concerned. “How do you know about such things, Maude?”

“Been around theater folk a long, long time,” the maid replied. “A right quarrelsome bunch, they are. Patched up more’n my fair share of young men after an argument got out of hand.”

Indio seemed deeply interested in this bit of information. “Has Uncle Edwin ever been shot in the head?”

“ ’Fraid not, lad. Your uncle is good at wriggling out of such things—likes to keep his skin whole, he does.” Maude tapped Lily’s hand to get her to lift the cloth, and inspected the still-bleeding wound. She nodded her head. “We’ll use your old chemise to wrap this, hinney.”

They tore the chemise up and while Lily held a folded pad over the wound, Maude wrapped strips around Caliban’s head to hold it in place. By the time they were done, he looked as if he’d been shrouded for burial and Indio was in fits of laughter.