Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“What’s happened?” Cecily and Denny joined them, linked arm in arm as they pushed through the brush.

“She’s stepped in a trap,” Luke replied, not risking a glance at Cecily’s face. “A small one, fortunately, but it has quite a grip on her foot. We’ll have to pry it off.” He scouted around him for a suitable branch, pausing only long enough to catch Denny’s eye. “Find me two sturdy poles, about six feet in length. I can release her from the trap, but we’ll need a pallet to carry her home.”

Denny nodded, and with a murmured word to Cecily, began searching the environs for saplings.

“It hurts,” Portia moaned. “It hurts so much. I must be dying.”

“Of course you aren’t.” Folding her skirts, Cecily settled at her friend’s side. Luke could feel her blue eyes on him as he selected a thick branch and stripped it of twigs.

Having removed his coat, Brooke folded it and propped it beneath Portia’s head, for a pillow. “You can’t die,” he told her, crouching at her other side. “Who would argue with me then?”

“Anyone with sense,” she said tartly. But when Brooke took her hand, Portia allowed him to keep it. “Don’t you aggravating know-all’s have some sort of debating society?”

“Yes, but none of the members have your amusing imagination. Nor such lovely hair.” He stroked an ebony lock from her pale, sweating brow.

Luke pushed her skirts to the knee and took a firm grip on his branch. “Mrs. Yardley, this is going to hurt.”

Portia whimpered.

Brooke kept stroking her hair, murmuring, “Be brave, darling. Scream all you like. Break every bone in my hand, if you must. I won’t leave your side.”

Cecily moved toward Luke. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.”

“I can,” she insisted. “Just tell me what to do. Shall I help you pry?”

“No,” he replied tersely. Damn it, he didn’t want to expose Cecily to this, but an extra pair of hands would be useful. “Just…hold her. Keep her ankle steady, even if she bucks.”

She nodded. “Portia, I’m going to hold your leg now.” Her delicate fingers closed around her friend’s ankle and calf, in grips so tight her knuckles blanched. “I’m ready.”

He bent his head and threaded the branch between the jaws of the trap. Despite his attempt not to jostle Portia’s leg, he could not help but brush it. Her low moan of pain was met with more murmured assurances from Brooke.

Luke looked to Cecily, anxious to gauge her reaction.

“Go ahead,” she said calmly, still gripping Portia’s leg. “Just do it.”

Luke braced his boot and levered the branch with all his strength. Pain ripped through his forearm, and Portia released a bloodcurdling scream that surely belonged in one of her gothic novels. But Cecily held her friend’s leg stoically, using all her weight to keep it still.

Within a few seconds, Luke had pried the jaws apart. “Now,” he commanded in a grunt, and Cecily understood him. She pulled her friend’s boot up and out of the trap, a half second before the branch splintered and the metal spikes snapped on air.

“We’ll need to assess her wound,” Cecily said, unlacing her friend’s boot while Luke stood panting for breath. She had Portia’s boot and shredded stocking removed within seconds.

Together they knelt over her wounded foot.

“These don’t look deep,” Luke said, observing the two puncture wounds on Portia’s pale foot. “And only a scratch below.”

“Thank heaven for sensible shoes.” Cecily flashed him a little smile.

A sweet pang of affection caught him in the chest. She was handling this so well, soothing everyone—Luke included—with her serene competence and dry humor. Where had she learned how to cope with scenes like this? Certainly not in finishing school.

Desperate to distract himself before he lost sight of any goal but kissing her, Luke returned his gaze to the wound. After studying it a few moments more, he said, “It’ll need to be cleansed thoroughly. But we’d best bind it for now, until we can get her back to the Manor. Cecy, give me your—”

“Stocking?” A wide ribbon of ivory flannel dangled before his eyes.

He looked up, startled. Her expression was all innocence.

“I was going to say handkerchief,” he lied, taking the garment from her. “But this will do.”

As Cecily jammed her bare foot back into her boot, Luke looped the stocking over Portia’s foot and ankle repeatedly, binding her wounds tight.

Denny returned, two serviceable poles in hand. Luke stripped off his own coat and threaded a pole through either sleeve before buttoning it down the middle. He did the same with Brooke’s coat, coming from the poles’ opposite end. The result was a makeshift conveyance that would bear Portia’s weight easily.

Brooke fussed over the wounded lady as they transferred her to the pallet, going so far as to plant a kiss on her brow to praise her bravery.