Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(7)

“There, love,” Molly crooned, humming as they stripped him of his wool vest and shirt, lowering him to the bed, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Astrid’s throat tightened at the sight of so much bronzed skin.

“Lovely man you’ve got here,” Molly praised with a wink, trailing a chapped, work-worn hand down the hard muscles of his chest to the flat, sculpted plane of his belly.

“He’s not my man,” Astrid quickly corrected, heat firing her cheeks.

“No?” Molly cocked her head to the side. “Would that I were twenty years younger.” She winked at Astrid again, her hands moving to the man’s trousers with decided enthusiasm.

“I was something to look at in those days,” she continued. “Every man in my clan vied to have me in his bed. Even the Laird MacFadden himself…before he got himself wed.” Her eyes slid over Astrid critically, and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Course I knew a thing or two about showing off my assets.”

Astrid opened her mouth, and then completely forgot what she was going to say when the maid began tugging those breeches down narrow hips. One fierce yank and his trousers came to a stop at the middle of his muscled thighs.

Fire lit her cheeks.

“Oh, my.” Molly chuckled, eyes wide in her lined face. “He’s a brute of a man, isn’t he? Lovely.”

Astrid had not even occupied a room with an undressed man in years. She never thought the male form could be beautiful. Or particularly daunting. But then she had never seen a man like him before. Bertram only ever visited her room in the dark of night, arriving silent as a thief.

Swallowing past her suddenly tight throat, she forced her gaze away as Molly pulled his trousers down his legs.

The maid covered him with a blanket from the waist down, shaking her head sadly. “Shame to lose sight of that,” she mumbled just as a knock sounded at the door.

Grateful for the distraction, Astrid opened the door to reveal a florid-faced gentleman who stood no higher than her shoulder. He nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Dr. Ferguson. The innkeeper sent for me.”

Astrid waved him in, standing back as he moved to the bed, wasting no time inspecting the man lying there, prodding at the knot on his head until it bled freshly. Pausing, he frowned and glanced at Astrid. “How long has he been unconscious?

“Perhaps two hours,” she answered, seeing the stranger in her mind as he shot the highwaymen from atop his mount, reminding her of a warrior from old. A barbarian. Nothing like the proper gentlemen that pervaded her world back in Town.

Molly moved beside her and together they watched as the doctor grunted in what could have been disapproval. Standing back, he shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Picking up a damp cloth, he set to work cleaning the gash with swipes that could hardly be considered gentle. “He’s lucky. A little lower and he might have lost his eye. Highwaymen, I take it?”

Astrid nodded.

“They’ve been a plague in these parts lately. Damned famine…” his voice faded and he shook his head. “Most crofters in these parts have been evicted to roam the countryside…the rest are living off oat rations that wouldn’t keep a goat alive through winter,” he muttered. “How can a man survive, I ask you?”

Astrid shook her head, saying nothing. No comment was needed. The frequent aches of her own belly had taught her a thing or two about hunger.

With quick movements, the doctor rummaged through his satchel, soon settling back with a needle and thread. “A few stitches should set him to rights.”

Astrid watched for only a moment before turning away and moving to the window facing the yard. The flash of the needle before it plunged through flesh turned her stomach.

“He should be his old self in no time,” the doctor murmured as he worked, his voice carrying to her where she stood. “Assuming infection doesn’t set in.”

Astrid prayed it did not. She did not want this man’s death on her head. Her conscience was already burdened enough. It could not endure more.

“There now,” the doctor announced, rising to his feet.

Astrid returned her attention to the man asleep on the narrow bed, wrapping her arms around her middle.

Some of the color had fled his skin. The physician finished securing a stark white bandage to his head. A small stain of blood already spotted it.

“Change his bandages periodically, and keep the wound clean.” He set two small vials on the wood-scarred bedside table. Moving his hand from one jar to the other, he explained, “A salve for the wound and laudanum for the pain. Administer the laudanum with care. See he gets no more than a few drops a day.”

Dr. Ferguson looked directly at her as he spoke. “If infection sets in, send for me.”

“And how will I know if it does?” she asked.

“If the wound turns foul or a fever arises”—his mouth set in a grim line—“you’ll know.”

She glanced down at the man who had somehow fallen under her care, frowning at that irony. She did not possess a nurturing instinct. Not like other ladies—friends included—that cooed over kittens and babies in prams.

“He’s strong.” The physician’s voice broke through her musings as he shrugged back into his black wool coat, pulling up the thick collar in preparation for the cold. “I suspect your husband will pull through.”