“I don’t,” she whispered, only to him, to her great duke. “I never wanted you hurt.” She pressed harder on the shoulder, feeling vaguely grateful that the tall, redheaded gentleman across from her was strong enough to hold Temple’s arm down, as she had no doubt that he would like nothing more than to strike her. “I want you well.”
Temple resisted her touch, and she changed tack. “Stop straining,” she said, loudly. As firm as the pressure she exerted. “The more you fight, the more you’ll bleed, and you can’t spare it.”
He did not look away from her, and his teeth remained clenched, but he stopped fighting.
Hopefully by choice.
The linens were soaked through, as she’d expected. He was bleeding profusely, and she would need more padding to soak it all up.
She turned to the countess. “My lady . . . would you . . .”
The bespectacled woman responded without hesitation, knowing what Mara wanted without articulation. She took hold of the bandage as Mara reached for the bloody knife on the table.
“No—” The redheaded gentleman saw her movement first.
Bourne instantly released Temple. “Put it down.”
She did not hide her irritation. “You think I’ll slit his throat with all of you here? You think I’m so hateful I’ve gone mad?”
“I think I’d rather not risk it,” Bourne said, but Mara was already turning away, lifting her skirts quickly—even as the marquess came at her—and cutting away a layer of beautiful mauve underskirt. Bourne pulled up short, and Mara would have enjoyed the look of shock on his face if she weren’t so busy thrusting the hilt of the knife in his direction. “Make yourself useful. We’ll likely need your shirts, as well.”
Later, she would marvel at the speed with which the men responded to her demand, shrugging out of their coats and pulling their shirts over their heads, but in the moment, she added, “His is somewhere in this room, as well. Find it.”
And then she was nudging the countess out of the way and pressing her petticoats to Temple’s bare chest, hating the way his roars had turned to quiet, inarticulate protest at the feel of her firm touch. Hating that she couldn’t keep the life from seeping out of him.
“You made me ruin my new dress,” she said, meeting his gaze, trying to keep him awake. Alert. “You shall owe me another.”
He did not respond, his eyelids growing heavy. She registered the waning fight there. No. She said the only words she could think to say.
“Don’t you dare die.”
His black eyes rolled back beneath their lids, long dark lashes coming to rest on pale cheeks.
And Mara was alone once more, her only companion the ache in her chest. She closed her eyes and willed back the sting of tears.
“If he dies, you shall follow him into Hell.”
It was a moment before she realized that it was not the marquess—the man who had quickly become her nemesis—speaking. It was the other man, the ginger-haired, circumspect aristocrat with the lean face and the square jaw. She met his gaze, noting the way his grey eyes shone with barely contained emotion. And she knew without doubt that the threat in the words was true.
They would kill her if Temple died. They would not think twice of it.
And perhaps she would deserve it.
But he did not.
And so she would keep him alive if it took every ounce of her being.
She took a deep breath and exchanged her skirts for the man’s shirt. “Then he shall not die.”
He did not die that night.
Instead, he fell into an unsettling sleep, which continued when the surgeon arrived, instantly fussing over the wound.
“You should have waited for me to return before extracting the knife,” he said, inspecting the wound, deliberately not looking to the women in the room.
“You did not come,” Bourne said, anger in his tone, and Mara was happy to see it directed to one who so rightly deserved it. “We were to do nothing?”
“I have other business,” the doctor replied without remorse, lifting the linen from Temple’s shoulder and inspecting the now dry wound. “Nothing would have been better. You could have caused more damage. Certainly putting him in a woman’s hands was a questionable decision.”
The Countess of Harlow raised a brow at the words, looking to the redheaded aristocrat whom Mara had discovered was her husband, but said nothing, obviously not wishing to scare the elusive doctor away now that he had arrived.
Mara did not feel the same way. She’d seen too many doctors arrive, magic potions and tools in hand, and leave having done nothing but make the situation worse. Temple had never been luckier than when the doctor had been delayed eight hours. “I prefer a female doctor to none at all.”
The surgeon looked to her then. “You are no doctor.”
She’d faced stronger and worthier adversaries than this little surgeon. Including the unconscious man on the table. “I might say the same of you, for all the evidence I have seen of your medical acumen this evening.”
The Countess of Harlow blinked large eyes behind her thick spectacles, her lips tilting upward at one corner. When Mara met her gaze, the other woman looked away, but not before Mara caught the admiration there.