Page 97 of Stealing Sophie
“Musket fire.”
A thousand replies came to her—questions, comments, reprimands. Some inner voice told her to be still, hold her silence. She only looked at him, then moved to fetch the bandages and jar of salve.
“Splendid lass,” he murmured.
She came close again, hair sliding over her shoulder. “Let me see again,” she ordered. “You will have to get out of the tub.”
“In a moment. It feels good in here.”
She leaned to peer at the wound. “That gash needs stitching. I do not know if I can do it.”
“Have you done much embroidery? No? Then I would prefer you did not attempt any on me,” he drawled. “It is a clean slice. The bullet went past.”
“Fortunate.” She shook her head. “The angels saved you.”
“At least I was not punished for bedding a nun.”
“Hush. You never did.” Her gaze snapped up to meet his.
“A saint, then. Look here, my lass, the edges of the skin nearly meet. If we can bandage it tightly, and if I can behave for a day or two, it will knit quickly.”
“I do wonder if you can behave yourself, Connor MacPherson.”
