Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(42)

“I want to see your leg.”

Her heart seemed to stop at the outrageous statement. When her pulse resumed, it was weak and far too brisk. “I would rather wait until the doctor arrives.”

“I’m not asking for permission.” Ignoring her protests, Hunt reached for the hem of her skirts.

“Mr. Hunt,” Daisy exclaimed in outrage, hurrying over to him. “Don’t you dare! Miss Peyton is ill, and if you don’t remove your hands at once—”

“Settle your feathers,” Hunt replied sardonically. “I’m not going to abuse Miss Peyton’s maidenly virtue. Not yet, at any rate.” His gaze switched to Annabelle’s pale face. “Don’t move. Charming as your legs undoubtedly are, they’re not going to incite me to a frenzy of—” He broke off with a sharp intake of breath as he lifted her skirts and saw her swollen ankle. “Damn. Until now I’ve always thought of you as a reasonably intelligent woman. Why the hell did you go downstairs in this condition?”

“Oh, Annabelle,” Daisy murmured, “Your ankle looks terrible!”

“It wasn’t that bad earlier,” Annabelle said defensively. “It’s gotten much worse in the past half hour, and—” She yelped in a mixture of pain and alarm as she felt Hunt reach farther beneath her skirts. “What are you doing? Daisy, don’t let him—”

“I’m removing your stocking,” Hunt said. “And I would advise Miss Bowman not to interfere.”

Frowning at him, Daisy came to Annabelle’s side. “I would advise you to proceed with caution, Mr. Hunt,” she said smartly. “I am not going to stand by passively while you molest my friend.”

Hunt sent her a glance of scalding mockery, while he found the ridge of Annabelle’s garter and unfastened it deftly. “Miss Bowman, in a few minutes we’re going to be overrun with visitors, including Mrs. Peyton, Lord Westcliff, and your hardheaded sister, followed soon thereafter by the doctor. Even I, seasoned ravisher that I am, require more time than that to molest someone.” His expression changed as Annabelle gasped in pain at his gentle touch. Deftly he unrolled her stocking, his fingertips feather-light, but her skin was so sensitive that even the softest stroke caused an unbearable sting. “Hold still, sweetheart,” he murmured, drawing the length of silk from her flinching leg.

Biting her lip, Annabelle watched as his dark head bent over her ankle. He turned it carefully, taking care not to touch her more than necessary. Then he went still, his dark head bent over her leg. “Just as I thought.”

Leaning forward, Daisy looked at the place on her ankle that Hunt indicated. “What are those little marks?”

“Adder bite,” Hunt said tersely. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing muscular forearms covered with dark hair.

The two girls glanced at him in shock. “I’ve been bitten by a snake?” Annabelle asked dazedly. “But how? When? That can’t be true. I would have felt something…wouldn’t I?”

Hunt reached inside the pocket of the coat that was still wrapped around her, searching for something. “Sometimes people don’t notice the moment they’re bitten. The Hampshire woods are full of adders at this time of year. It probably happened during your outing this afternoon.” Finding what he sought, he extracted a small folding knife and flipped it open.

Annabelle’s eyes widened with alarm. “What are you doing?”

Picking up her stocking, Hunt severed it neatly in two. “Making a tourniquet.”

“D-do you always carry one of those with you?” She had always thought of him as somewhat piratical, and now seeing him in his shirtsleeves with a knife in hand, the image was strongly reinforced.

Sitting beside her outstretched leg, Hunt smoothed her skirts up to her knee and fastened a length of silk above her ankle. “Nearly always,” he said wryly, concentrating on his handiwork. “Being a butcher’s son consigns me to a lifelong fascination with knives.”

“I never thought—” Annabelle stopped and gasped in pain at the soft cinch of silk.

Hunt’s gaze shot to hers, and there was a new tautness in his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, carefully looping the other half of the stocking beneath her injury. He talked to distract her while he tightened the second tourniquet. “This is what comes of wearing those damned flimsy slippers outside. You must have walked right over an adder who was sunning himself…and when he saw one of those pretty little ankles, he decided to take a nibble.” He paused, and said something beneath his breath that sounded like, “I can’t say that I blame him.”

Her leg pulsed and burned, causing a watery sting of response in her eyes. Fighting the mortifying threat of tears, Annabelle dug her fingers into the thick, brocaded counterpane beneath her. “Why has my ankle only started to hurt this badly now if I was bitten earlier in the day?”

“It can take several hours for the effects to set in.” Hunt glanced at Daisy. “Miss Bowman, ring the servants’ bell—tell them that we need some clivers steeped in boiling water. Immediately.”

“What are clivers?” Daisy asked suspiciously.

“A hedgerow weed. The housekeeper has kept a dried bundle of them in her closet ever since the master gardener was bitten last year.”

Daisy rushed to comply, leaving the two of them temporarily alone.