By this time, the noise had awakened the other household occupants, and ladies’ voices came from the rooms overhead.
“What the devil is going on?” one asked.
“Sabine?” another said.
The first man Max had struck was now attempting to get to his feet, but Max was able to hit him on the head, and he sank back to the floor. The one with the bloody nose struck Max on the jaw, rocking him backward. Max would be lucky if the punch only resulted in a blackened eye and didn’t also bruise the entire side of his face.
The other man made a direct line toward Sabine. Three older women came rushing down the stairs, their nightrails flowing behind them. They all carried makeshift weapons: a fire poker, a heavy candelabra, and a small, jeweled pistol.
Excellent. He was getting the shit beat out of him, and Sabine was about to be rescued by the fairy godmother brigade.
Max took another hard blow to his shoulder before he managed to grab the third man and slam his head against the doorframe.
A shot rang out. “Get out!” the woman shrieked. “Out, out, out!”
The three thieves wasted no time in scrambling out the door.
“You, too,” she said to Max.
But Max did not move. Instead, he simply stared at his chest, where a bloodstain grew across his coat.
“Lydia, you shot him!” Sabine said.
CHAPTER4
Damnation,” Agnes said.
“Oh, no,” Calliope said.
Panic seized Sabine. Her mind stumbled over several scenarios in which Max bled to death on their floor. But then she caught sight of his crooked smile. Damned man was too stubborn to die of a piddling gunshot wound.
She took several steadying breaths. Agnes was here; she would ensure all was well.
“Let’s get him upstairs,” Sabine said. She braced herself against him, wrapping her arm around his waist. “Don’t get any foolish ideas,” she warned, remembering their heated kiss under the stairs. She herself tried to ignore his taut abdomen and firm back.
He chuckled but allowed her to lead him up the wooden staircase.
They stepped into the small kitchen, and she helped lower him into one of the chairs. She was painfully aware of how confined the space felt with his large masculine form there. Her aunts immediately went about gathering the items they needed: a small bowl of water, tweezers, a clean rag, and some makeshift bandages. For a moment, she was back in the kitchen in their cottage in Essex preparing to care for one of the villagers who’d had an accident with a hoe, or who had gotten into a brawl after imbibing too much whiskey. There, everything had been peaceful, but here in London, life moved at a much quicker pace. Though she had always considered herself a calm person, the bustle kept her on edge.
But they weren’t in Essex, and this man was not one of their own. He did not know of their ways or of their capabilities. And she would risk much in sharing them, but his complexion had paled, and his coat was heavy with his blood loss. They had no choice; they certainly couldn’t risk his bleeding to death or developing a life-threatening infection.
“Don’t forget the salve,” Sabine said.
“Truly?” Lydia asked. Her three aunts exchanged looks.
“Yes,” Agnes said. “We will need the salve.”
Lydia would not question Agnes. As the guardian, she was the Healer, and the elixir would be used as she deemed necessary. They would never have even paused to consider its use on a villager. But this stranger would notice when his wound healed twice as fast as it ought.
While Agnes gave further instructions, Sabine pulled Max’s coat off his shoulders and down his arms.
Blood stained his white shirt, coloring a large section of his chest beneath his right shoulder.
“Damn,” he swore.
Calliope stepped forward with a glass of deep-red liquor. “Here, this should help with the pain.”
“A lady after my own heart.” He raised the glass in a toast, then winced. “Thank you.” He downed it in one gulp.