The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(32)

He wasn’t old enough to have hair on his face, let alone save lives.

“I shall pay for it,” King replied, moving closer. “She’s hurt.”

The doctor barely looked at her. “I’d rather you’d not broken it in the first place.” He indicated the wooden dining table in the next room. “Put her there.”

King did as he was told, ignoring the twinge of discomfort he felt when he released Sophie from his grasp. Ignoring the fact that as he moved down the table, from her head to her feet to give the other man access to her wound, he couldn’t help but trail his fingers along her leg, as though, somehow, touching her could keep her alive.

The doctor replaced his spectacles and leaned over her. “There’s a great deal of blood. What happened?”

“She was shot.”

The surgeon nodded, rolling Sophie to one side, inspecting her back. When he returned her to the table, Sophie’s head lolled. “The bullet remains inside.” He moved to a large leather bag nearby and extracted a bottle and a long, thin instrument that King did not like the look of. “I don’t like that she’s unconscious.”

“Neither do I,” King replied, watching as the doctor peeled away the fabric to inspect the wound.

The young man waved a hand to a nearby cupboard. “There’s a collection of linen in there. And a bowl of water on top. Fetch it. She’s going to bleed quite a bit when I’ve extracted the bullet.”

King didn’t like the sound of that. He retrieved the cloth and the basin and, once he returned, asked, “Are you the only doctor in the town?”

The man looked up at that. “I’m the only doctor for twenty miles.”

King scowled. “Where did you learn your trade?”

“You broke down my door, sir. I don’t believe you are in a position to question my skills.”

King swallowed, knowing the man was correct. “You’re very young.”

“Not too young to know that your . . .” He paused, his gaze tracing Sophie’s outrageous clothing. “Footman?”

“Wife,” King said without hesitation.

“Of course.” The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “—that your wife has a bullet lodged in her shoulder that needs to come out. Would you like to wait outside for a more seasoned doctor to happen by?”

The point did not require a response.

“Will she die?” He hated the question and the edge of uncertainty in his tone when he spoke it. She would not die. Would she?

“The shoulder is not a vital locale,” the doctor said. “She’s lucky in that regard.”

“Then she won’t die,” King said.

“Not from the gunshot. But as I said, I don’t like that she’s unconscious.” The doctor raised the bottle over Sophie’s shoulder, “This should help.”

“What is it?”

“Gin.”

King stepped forward. “What in hell kind of medicine is that?”

“The kind that hurts like a son of a bitch.” Before King could stop him, the doctor poured half the liquid in the bottle onto Sophie’s shoulder.

Her eyes shot open and she sat straight up on the table with a wild scream. “Bollocks!”

The doctor smiled at that. “Well. That is quite a greeting.”

Sophie’s eyes were wild and unfocused. “It stings.”

“Indeed it does,” the doctor said. “But you are with us. Which makes me rather happy.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“He’s the surgeon.” King replied.

She looked to him. “He does not look like a surgeon.”

“I’m not certain of his skill.”

She returned her attention to the doctor. “Do try not to kill me, sir.”

The other man nodded. “I shall do my best.”

“And is it entirely necessary to pour that on my wounds?” she added, “I didn’t care for it.”

“There is some speculation that the alcohol helps with infection,” the doctor replied. “I do hope that’s the case, as I would like to think that I haven’t wasted a half a bottle of gin.”

Neither Sophie nor King found the jest amusing. The doctor did not seem to mind, choosing that moment to raise his strange device and say to King, “Please hold her down,” before saying to Sophie, “I’m afraid this is also going to sting.”

King’s hands were barely on her when the doctor began the bullet extraction, Sophie screaming, blood oozing, and King feeling a thousand times the ass for allowing this entire situation to happen. She protested his grip, writhing beneath him, and it took all King’s residual energy to hold her still rather than pull the doctor from her and end her pain.

“Finished,” the doctor said eventually, removing the forceps and showing the bullet to King before mopping up the river of blood that he’d summoned and moving to his bag once more.

King was riveted to Sophie, who had returned to the table, eyes closed, with a sigh that became a low whimper, and the sound nearly broke him. He resisted the urge to strangle the handsome man-child who called himself a surgeon. And he might have, had the doctor not returned with needle and thread. “Madam, would you like a drink before I stitch you up? It might well dull the pain.”