Page 157 of His Grace, the Duke
He grunted. “Yes.”
She sighed with relief, her lips pressing to his brow in a hurried kiss.
“James,” he muttered. “Tom.”
“Here.” James stepped forward, sitting on the side of the bed and taking his left hand in his. “I’m right here.”
He took another breath. “How long have I been out?”
“Three days,” James replied. “The doctor gave you laudanum each time you came to. We needed you not to move. You couldn’t agitate your shoulder any more than...”
“Any more than being shot already agitated it?”
Rosalie worried her bottom lip. “We weren’t sure how much you’d remember.”
The details were fuzzy, but the picture was complete. “I remember everything,” he mumbled. “How bad is it?”
“The bullet went through your back and out your shoulder,” James explained. “The doctor says you’re very lucky. You nearly bled to death.”
At those words, Rosalie sank forward, pressing her face next to his, kissing him on the cheek. “It was so awful.” She brushed his hair back from his brow. “We were so frightened. Doctor Evans saved your life.”
“I’m alright,” he said, wincing in pain as Rosalie jostled him. He didn’t have the heart to tell her. He didn’t want her to move away. “I can’t...” He took a breath, afraid to say the words out loud. “James... I feel like I can’t move my arm.”
James nodded. “Evans said that might be possible... and it might be permanent.”
Burke closed his eyes, letting the words sink in.
“You’ll have pain, certainly,” James went on. “Stiffness, perhaps some numbness, even down to your fingers. Evans says you may have trouble with the whole hand. He’ll be here in a few hours to check on you again.”
Burke nodded, then glanced around. “Where’s Tom?”
They both looked over their shoulders towards the corner of the room.
With a heavy sigh, he heard Tom call from the corner. “I’m here.”
“Well, I can’t really sit up at the moment, so I’m going to need you to come over here where I can see you,” Burke replied.
He heard Tom get out of the chair and stomp across the room, sitting on the other side of the bed.
Burke let himself look at Tom—his golden curls, his strong jaw, his deep blue eyes... deep blue eyes full of hurt, wariness... regret. “What happened?” Burke reached for him with his injured arm, but then hissed, wincing in pain.
“Christ, man, don’t move it,” Tom muttered.
Burke sank back with a tired sigh. “Look at you. I’m the one who gets shot, yet you intend to carry the pain of it.”
Tom just shook his head, still not looking at him.
“Shall we have Rosalie fetch the paper knife from my desk? Want me to stab it in your shoulder so we’re even?”
“Stop,” Rosalie begged. “That’s not funny—”
“I’m not trying to make him laugh,” Burke replied. “Tom, look at me.” Tom tensed, biting his bottom lip. “Look at me,” he said more gently. Tom lifted his eyes, meeting his gaze. “I am alive, and this was not your fault.” Tom groaned, trying to move away.
“Goddamn it, Tom, don’t you dare turn away from me! I took a bullet for you. So, you are going to sit here at my bedside, and you’re going to tell me why.”
Tom stilled, his face a mask of deepest misery. “Why, what?”
“Why did I do it? Why did I take a bullet for you?”
