Allison Lane by A Bird in Hand Read Free Book Online

midwife.
    She started with his jacket, rolling him onto his stomach so she could remove it more easily.  Tugging on his injured arm made her cringe.  Yet he was no dandy.  The jacket slid off without protest.
    The waistcoat was more difficult, for she had to turn him over to unbutton it, then turn him back to remove it.
    She paused to catch her breath.  His shoulder was still bleeding, so she had to remove his shirt.  But its neck opened only far enough to provide clearance for his head.  The only way to get it off was to raise his arms.  She briefly considered cutting it, but there was no replacement until he reached his destination.  He must be a traveler, for she had never seen him before.  But while a search of his pockets turned up a well-filled purse, she could find no card case.
    As she slid off the shirt, a spasm of pain twisted his face, accompanied by a wrenching groan.  He was still conscious on some level, though he did not respond to her voice.  Rolling him onto his stomach, she examined his wound. 
    Thank God she had moved her head before the branch hit.  It had struck him end-on, its broken splinters driving deep into his flesh.  Some had pulled out.  Others remained.
    At least he had not broken anything or dislocated the shoulder.  She had seen such an injury when a rider fell on a jump, and had watched as another rider popped it back into place.  But she lacked the strength to perform such a maneuver.
    “You’ve amassed quite a collection, sir,” she told him, pulling out splinters.  “You are fortunate that it is not worse.” 
    She didn’t have any of her salves – nor could she find Sadie’s – but a cupboard yielded a partial bottle of brandy, which she poured over the wound.  Then she wrapped the shoulder in a strip of linen.
    Arranging more peat on the fire, she turned back to her patient.
    Relief weakened her as she washed away the mud and blood.  His head was even less injured than she’d thought, being mostly scrapes.  Again, she doused them in brandy.
    “You will be quite presentable once that swelling goes down,” she murmured, noting that his brown hair was nearly the same color as those chocolate brown eyes.  While not conventionally handsome, his features were even, and faint lines near his eyes hinted that he smiled regularly.
    She considered wrapping him in a sheet, but he was shuddering again, his teeth clattering together.  Water pooled under his boots and pantaloons.
    “I do wish you could do this yourself,” she grumbled.  But she had no choice.  He must get dry.
    The boots would never be the same, but cutting them off would leave him barefoot.  Yet tugging did not budge them, for they fit like a second skin.  She finally braced her foot against one sole for leverage, then jerked as hard as she could on the other.  The boot came loose without warning, slamming her into the wall.
    “Dratted men with their dratted fashions,” she grumbled, rubbing her backside.  “Why couldn’t he have been wearing shoes?”
    She was more careful with the next one, but it made no difference.  When it finally popped loose, she again slammed into the wall.
    “How do their valets manage this every day?  No wonder Sheldon always looks so dour,” she muttered.  Sheldon attended Fosdale.
    Keeping the image of flying valets firmly in mind, she quickly unbuttoned his pantaloons and tugged them down.  They were knit almost like stockings, so they came off easily.  She reached for the tie of his drawers, then shook her head.  This was far enough.
    Drying him off as best she could, she rolled him onto a rug and dragged him nearer the fire, tucking another rug around him.
    By the time she had arranged their clothing near the hearth, she was again exhausted.  But her mind had already leaped ahead to the consequences of this day.
    The situation was frightfully compromising – something Fosdale would never ignore.  He would demand marriage.  And her rescuer’s