Page 33 of Sutherland's Secret
She drew the chair closer to the bed and sat down, studying Brice’s face. There was a bit more color in it, she was glad to see. He was breathing normally, and every so often he would twitch, which gave her hope that he wasn’t too deeply unconscious and gone to a place where no one could reach him.
The fire crackled and popped in the grate, and the room grew warmer. Eleanor fought to keep her eyes open. The excitement of the night had given way to lethargy. She leaned forward and took Brice’s hand in hers, rubbing her thumb along the top of his hand.
He stirred and moaned. His eyes fluttered open, closed, then open again, as if he were struggling to lift his lids. He stared up at the canopy of his bed, then slowly turned his head toward her. His eyes were dulled with pain and confused. “Am I in heaven?” he asked, his voice rough.
She smiled. “Hardly. You’re in your own bed.”
His eyes drifted closed, and with an effort, he opened them again. “What happened?”
“You’ve been shot.”
He grunted, then grimaced. “What really happened?”
She frowned. “You were shot in the shoulder.”
“I don’t get…shot.”
She bit back a smile. Apparently it was beneath him. “Well, you were this time.”
“Huh.” He looked up at the canopy again. “Feels like I’ve been trampled by a dozen horses.”
“I’m sure it does. Rest, and you will feel better.”
“No time to rest.” But his eyes drifted closed again.
Some time passed. Shadows danced on the walls from the reflection of the fire. She still held his hand, loath to let it go. It was warm, and it enclosed her entire hand, fingers and all.
“Who fixed me up?”
She was so sure he was asleep that his question made her jump. “I did.”
He opened his eyes to look at her in disbelief. “Ye?”
“Aye. Me.”
“How?”
“Well, if you must know, I dug around in your shoulder and pulled the ball out.”
He grunted, still looking at her. “Ye’re speaking.”
“I had to in order to tell your men what to do while I performed surgery on you.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. “Ye’re sassy, too.”
Feisty and sassy. She was collecting all the monikers tonight.
“I like it,” he said softly.
“You like what?”
“Sassy women.”
“Ah.” She never used to be sassy, but she’d had sassy thoughts that she would squelch because they weren’t ladylike and men didn’t like sassy women. Turns out her mother was wrong about that.
A wave of grief washed over her at the thought of her mother. What had she been told about Eleanor? Did she even know that Eleanor was a widow?
Brice shifted and grimaced. “Thirsty.”
