Page 130 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“Concern yourself with my wounds after we get off this ship,” she said with a wince, pulling away from his probing fingers.
“Is that a yes?”
“I’ll answer once we’re on land.” She offered him a tiny grin and winked.
Hope blossomed in his chest.
Then a gunshot echoed in the room.
The look that had crossed Mr. Evans’ face when Cedric shot him, shock and incredulity, crossed Cedric’s. He dropped to his knees, slumping forward on the bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALANA
Peering over Cedric’s unconscious body, Alana locked eyes with Mr. Evans, who pointed his pistol directly at her forehead.
Her left hand closed around Cedric’s gun, abandoned on the bed when he laid her down. With a screech, she sat up, giving Mr. Evans no time to react. Using Cedric’s shoulder for leverage, she lifted the pistol, pulling the trigger as she swung her arm.
The bullet struck Mr. Evans, who cried out and crumpled beneath the rafter, dropping his weapon.
“Cedric!” She shook him, keeping her trembling arm raised and aimed at Mr. Evans.
Cedric’s head rolled toward her, a soft moan escaping his throat.
“Mr. Hayward is correct. It doesn’t get any less painful,” he groaned, his eyes opening.
“What doesn’t?”
“Being shot.”
“How many times have you been shot?”
“Twice now.” The words were forced as though clenching his jaw was the only way to prevent himself from screaming.
“I’m going to need your assistance,” he said, drawing in a shallow breath after each word.
“Of course. What can I do?”
“First, you need to stop leaning on me.”
“Oh!” She jerked backward.
Placing his hand flat on the bed, Cedric shoved, lifting his head from the mattress. He cursed, a loud swear word he didn’t attempt to conceal.
“I thought gentlemen didn’t use that type of language,” she said, scooting to the edge of the bed and perching in front of Cedric. Leaning forward, she grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged, pulling the material over his head.
“Mrs. Dubois, what gave you the impression I was a gentleman?” he ground out.
“You made me sleep facing a wall.” She shrugged, drawing a chuckle, then a painful gasp from Cedric.
“I don’t see a wound,” he said, inspecting his chest and arm. “You’ll need to dig the bullet out of my back.”
“With what?”
“Your knife is in my upper desk drawer.” He grinned, and the sheepish expression was tinged with pain. “I thought the blade might have some sentimental attachment for you.”
Shaking her head, Alana crawled off the bed, her gaze flicking to Mr. Evans.
