He tried with one hand to unbutton his shirt, but he took too long, so Sabine swatted his fingers out of the way. “Here,” she said. Her deft fingers worked the buttons swiftly, though she would have sworn she’d felt them shaking ever so slightly. There would be no reason for that, though. On more than one occasion, she’d helped Agnes tend to men’s wounds. She pulled the shirt the rest of the way off and exposed his wound.
It was caked in blood, and she could not see enough of the actual bullet hole to gauge the true damage. Blond hair covered his torso, but in the wound area, it had matted. Without warning, she ran the wet rag against the wound. Rivulets of blood and water dripped down his arm.
“That stings,” he growled.
Sabine had to clean the wound. Perhaps in her determination to ignore his fine form, her ministrations were rougher than she’d intended. “Don’t act like a child,” she warned. “Besides, it’s not that deep.” She caught Agnes’s eyes as she obviously lied to Max.
Agnes nodded almost imperceptibly.
Sabine hoped he wouldn’t notice that it was, in fact, quite deep. The best thing for all of them was to convince him the injury hadn’t been that bad to begin with, and then he might not be so curious when it healed quickly. They needed to patch him up and send him on his way before he became suspicious of their ways. Now that the Chosen One was searching for Agnes, they all had to be extremely vigilant.
A cold chill shivered down Sabine’s neck. What ifthis manwas the Chosen One? Her hand stopped midstroke, and she met Max’s eyes—clear blue and lined with real pain. No, Madigan would have known if Max was the Chosen One. He had their map, and he considered himself a scholar, though he’d referred to himself as an adventurer. And hadn’t Agnes said that Phinneas had once had a vision about a “great one” discovering their map? She relaxed a bit.
“Little more than a grazing,” she added.
Lydia’s eyes rounded, and Calliope opened her mouth to argue, but Agnes shook her head. “Calliope, pour the marquess some more of your fine whiskey.”
He sat taller. “Wasn’t the first time I got shot,” Max ground out. “Probably won’t be the last.”
Lydia poked a scar on his back. “Shot in the back, I see. Perhaps you shouldn’t invade people’s homes in the middle of the night.”
“Lydia,” Calliope chided as she handed Max the whiskey.
“Who were those men?” Sabine asked as she continued to wash his wound.
“I don’t know. Thugs hired to find something would be my guess.” He winced. “They were digging through all your belongings, then headed upstairs to continue their search.” His blue eyes locked onto hers. “Care to share what you’re hiding?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We have absolutely nothing to hide.” She turned back to the basin and poured clean water into the bowl. “They obviously had mistaken our shop for someone else’s.”
“Then why were they intent on going upstairs?” he asked.
“Perhaps they planned on ravishing us,” Calliope said with great drama.
Sabine pressed near his wound until he grimaced. “The bullet seems to still be lodged in your chest,” she said.
“I thought you said it was a grazing,” he gritted through his teeth.
“My mistake,” she said with a shrug.
“Let me remove the bullet. You can prepare the ointment, Sabine.” Agnes stepped forward. “But first you tell me who you are.” She leveled her gaze on him.
He nodded once. “Maxwell Barrett, Marquess of Lindberg.”
“And precisely what were you doing in our shop?” she continued.
He met Sabine’s glance. “I just happened by and saw the intruders. Perhaps I was merely in the right place at the right time.”
Sabine made no move to correct him. “Our hero,” she said tightly. She watched as her aunt gathered the tools she needed and then approached the table.
“I am Agnes,” her aunt said as she sat in the chair next to him and scooted it forward. “These are my sisters: Lydia, whom you probably have realized is the one who shot you. And Calliope, my youngest sister, the one responsible for that foul liquid you’re consuming at a rather alarming rate. And this is our niece Sabine, but it appears that the two of you have already met.” She paused and met his gaze. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt.”
“Splendid,” he said dryly. “And up until now this evening had been so pleasant.”
Sabine watched Agnes use the tweezers to pull the bullet out of the marquess’s chest. His jaw tensed and ticked, but he made no sound. Of course, he’d had three glasses of Calliope’s homemade whiskey, so he wasn’t feeling much of anything.
While Lydia finished cleaning the wound, Sabine turned away from them to ready the salve. She scooped out a small amount into a shallow dish, then stirred it to loosen the compound. She had assisted her mother this way when she’d treated villagers. But that was a long time ago, back before everything had changed for Sabine.
His wound was worse than she’d expected, and one of her aunts had caused it. All they needed was for him to turn them in to the police, and attract all kinds of attention from the newspapers. Not a great way to hide.