Page 66 of The Forbidden Lord
“Well, if it isn’t the good earl himself,” said a cold voice. Jordan tore his gaze from the delectable image to find Pollock standing by the window, a wineglass of delicate crystal cupped in one equally delicate hand. “Welcome, Blackmore. You’re missing a fine burgundy.” Pollock held up the glass, then shifted his gaze to Emily. “And even finer company.”
Pollock? Here? Had Ian gone mad? Didn’t he realize Pollock had his eye on Emily? Oh, how he’d like to smash that dandy’s face for even daring to look at her!
By some miracle, he made himself sound nonchalant. “Good evening, Pollock. If I’d known you were here, I would’ve hurried. I wouldn’t want to miss your latest riveting account of your trip to your tailor.”
At his sarcasm, the ladies tittered, the gentlemen smirked, and Lady Dundee cast him a calculating smile. Only Emily ignored him, turning her back deliberately to him.
Pollock gestured dismissively with one manicured hand. “At least I know what the ladies want to hear. You’d bore them with stories about your precious reforms.”
“Ah, yes. God forbid we should discuss anything important, like how to feed the poor and provide the workingman with a decent wage. We’re much better off focusing on the cut of your fancy coats.”
“Why, you—” Pollock broke off as the glass he was holding shattered in his fist. “Damn you, Blackmore! Look what you’ve made me do!”
A pall fell on the room, the other guests staring in horror, uncertain what to do, where to look. This sort of thing just wasn’t done.
Pollock grabbed at his hand, now studded with glass shards. “It’s bleeding, for God’s sake!” It was indeed, dripping down overPollock’s other hand and onto Ian’s Moroccan carpet, the blood and burgundy mingling into a vermillion stream. “Somebody do something! Get a doctor!”
Whirling around, Emily hurried to Pollock’s side. “Let me see that.”
When he resisted at first, she caught his wrist and took out her handkerchief. “Stop it! You’ve cut an artery! Do you want to bleed to death?”
He went limp, his face turning ashen as she dragged up his lace-edged sleeve, then wound the handkerchief tightly around his forearm in a tourniquet.
Her common-sense reaction and lack of aversion to blood took Jordan by surprise, until he remembered the night he’d first met her, when she’d given Sophie some elixir and the two women had discussed her penchant for doctoring.
“Come over here,” she commanded, leading Pollock to the settee. “We must pick the glass out of it. I’m afraid you’ve got quite a nasty gash. I may have to sew it up.” She scanned the room, her eyes fixing on Ian, who was calming his guests. “Lord St. Clair, I’ll need some towels and clean rags, a bowl of hot water, a needle, and some clean thread. Ask your cook for garlic, rosemary, or mint. And bring some brandy. Mr. Pollock will need it.”
Ian called for a servant and passed on Emily’s instructions, then returned his attention to his hapless guests, who were now milling around the chair where Emily sat.
“Rosemary and garlic?” Pollock snapped as she bent her head over his hand. “Sounds like you’re making a soup.”
“Both are good for treating wounds. I’d prefer eucalyptus,” Emily muttered, “but I doubt Lord St. Clair keeps that on hand.”
“What does a mere girl know about doctoring anyway? It’s not exactly the pastime for an earl’s daughter.”
Jordan’s blood chilled in his veins. There was a vague suspicion in Pollock’s tone. The man couldn’t possibly know anything. Still … .
“Surely you’ve heard of the Scottish penchant for physic,” Jordan said. “I believe it’s common for even their women to learn such things. Isn’t that true, Lady Dundee?”
The countess raised one eyebrow. “Oh, certainly. My Emma has learned from the best doctors. You’re in safe hands with a Scot, Mr. Pollock.”
“I never heard any such thing about the Scottish,” Pollock grumbled. Emily dug out a piece of glass, and he jerked his hand. “Ouch! Are you trying to murder me?”
“I will if you don’t sit still! Would you rather we send for a doctor? Then you can bleed to death while you wait for him to arrive.”
Pollock lapsed into a resentful silence. The servant entered, bearing the items Emily had requested, and Ian tactfully offered to take the ladies on a tour of the house so they wouldn’t have to watch. The other men left with them, as did Lady Dundee. Only Jordan remained. He wasn’t about to leave Emily alone with Pollock for one minute.
“Staying to gloat over my pain?” Pollock snapped at Jordan.
“Not at all. But Lady Emma might need something else.”
“Yes, make yourself useful.” Her calm, clear gaze met his for the first time all evening. She handed him a rag. “Tear that into strips, will you?”
“Don’t give that to him,” Pollock muttered peevishly. “He might put poison on it.”
Jordan bit the ragged edge with his teeth, then tore a strip loose. “Ioughtto poison you. The world would be better off without fools who cut themselves on wineglasses.”
“Why, you arrogant ass!” Pollock said, half-rising in his seat.
