Page 33 of The Taste of Light
Before she could place her palm on his forearm, her lips a pretty moue of concern, he strode past her in the yacht's direction, his heart pounding in his ears.
Blood washed with the hot spray to pool on the white marble. Pedro allowed the water to pour over his naked body, a balm to scars old and new. Gaslamp light caught on his mother's ring. The band dangling from his chest was a valuable reminder of his goals. Before the year's end, the ring would crown a princess's finger. Cris could have Anne if he so wished.
A wave of nausea swept over him.
Locking his jaw, Pedro applied carbolic soap to the angry flesh between his hip bone and ribs. The two-inch gash burned as if coals were inside. Hissing, Pedro leaned on the tiled wall. With a shuddering breath, he closed the faucet and dried himself. He pressed the terry cloth to the wound, staunching the blood, and shoved his legs into a pair of Cossack trousers. Keeping a steady pressure, Pedro came around the silkscreen to the cabin's bedroom. Cris sprawled on his bed, his boots on the feet rest, hair disheveled as if tangled by a woman's hands.
"I can manage this one by myself."
"May I have a look?" Cris said, his voice grave.
"You've seen worse." Pedro uncovered the cut, glad it had stopped bleeding.
Cris whistled. "Did you wash it?"
"What do you think?" Pedro snarled.
Cris probed the jagged edges. "Dagger? Short sword?"
"Dagger. New." The soldier who stabbed him had been so young, he must have used the standard-issue blade for the first time.
Cris nodded and reached for the medical supplies. "Better sew it. Leave it alone, and it will take too long to close."
"It's just a scratch."
"Don't be a mule, for heaven's sake. You know I'm right."
After a soft knock, the captain's niece entered with a food tray. The yacht's all-men crew had carped about her presence, but Pedro had ignored their superstitions and ordered her uncle to fetch her from the village. The young maid would be a suitable company for Anne on their voyage.
The smell of stew and fresh-baked bread invaded the cabin, and his stomach lurched. Pedro pointed to the table. "Over there." He couldn't stand food, not yet. "Did you find the clothes?"
"The chest is already in her cabin, Your Excellency."
"Has Miss Maxwell eaten?"
Eyes averted to the floor, the girl settled the burden as directed. "She said she wasn't hungry, Your Excellency."
"Take a tray to her cabin, anyway. See that she has everything she needs."
The maid nodded. "She asked about you."
His pulse sped up. "Tell Miss Maxwell I'm in perfect health. That will be all."
"As you wish." She curtsied and moved to the door.
Cris winked at the young maid and followed her trim back as she left. "If you won't allow me to suture you, I'll check if Anne is settled."
Pedro glared at his brother. "Fine. Close the cursed thing."
Cris chuckled but didn't lose time, his hands busy pouring laudanum into a flowery cup.
Pedro eyed the tincture with distaste and dread. "Can't you do it without the foul stuff?"
Cris pursed his lips. "I can't stick a needle into your flesh in cold blood."
"Then you should drink it yourself." If he didn't take the anesthetic, his brother's hands would not cease shaking, so Pedro drank it in a single gulp, grimacing at the bitterness.
Pedro watched Cris strain his eyes to thread a needle, his rough hands ill-fitted for the delicate job. Had Cris developed an attachment for Anne so quickly? If so, what would Pedro do? Endure their blossoming relationship? Warn him away from her, and then what? So far, Cris’s feelings for the opposite sex have been limited to lust. Should Pedro rob him of that?
