Page 50 of A Remarkable Rogue

“He’s my half brother.”

Hisbrother? Good Lord…

At her silence, he asked, “You didn’t know?”

“No.” She didn’t look at him as she threaded the needle. “I’d heard vague rumors, but…what sane person believes society rumors?”

Yet now, having seen the two of them together, she no longer doubted the gossip. The two men resembled each other greatly, with both possessing the same eyes and hard jaws, the same broad shoulders, the same flaring tempers and confident posturing. They were far more alike than either man would admit.

She tied off the end of the thread as if preparing to do nothing more than fix a snagged bit of lace. “You’re working together, too?”

“Not anymore. He was wounded when the Everett School burned down. Now he only gives advice.” He muttered, “Lots and lots of unwanted advice.”

A smile teased at her lips. Knowing St James as she did, she didn’t doubt that. “Did you know about him before this?”

“Yes.”

The single word was uttered with such finality she knew not to pry further, no matter how curious she was. So she nodded and bent over his arm to continue with her ghastly sewing.

Pressing together the two sides of the long gash with her fingers, she held her breath and pushed the needle through his skin. The resistance beneath the needle’s point gave way with a sickening pop.

Nate flinched.

She froze, mid stitch.

“Go on,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “I can take it if you can.”

She swallowed. “I’m not certain I can.”

“Oh yes, you can.” His deep voice softened. “You’re so much braver than you give yourself credit for.”

She held his gaze for a moment, wishing she felt the courage he claimed he saw in her. Then she inhaled a deep breath, dropped her attention back to the wound, and slowly pulled the thread through to draw up the two sides of the cut.

He flinched with each pass of the needle and the careful tightening of the thread that bound the wound, but his stony face showed no emotion, his teeth clenched hard and his hands pulled into fists.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, so softly she wasn’t certain he could hear her and uncertain herself for what exactly she was apologizing…the wound or prying into his past. But she knew she’d hurt him.

“It’s nothing,” he returned, yet his breathless whisper matched hers.

After an eternity of the grisly work, she finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, careful not to jostle his arm any more than she had to. His arm was whole again but scarlet with blood, already purple and blue, and swollen with bruising. She wiped away the remaining droplets of blood clinging to his skin and noticed how white his forearm was, how black the thread against it.

She applied the salve that Cook used to dull the pain of burns, then ripped away a long strip from one of the kitchen towels and wrapped it around his arm to protect the stitches and stop the bleeding from the needle pricks. She had nothing at hand to secure the bandage, so she reached beneath her skirt.

Nate watched her curiously as she pulled off the blue ribbon that held her stocking in place. It would be the perfect—if decidedly feminine—bandage tie. She wrapped the ribbon around his arm and tied it off with a knot.

Exhaling a long, deep sigh of relief, she lowered her hands away and sat back in her chair.

He inspected his arm. “Nicely done, Baroness.”

She smiled faintly at that obvious lie. But the terrible ordeal was finished.Thank heavens.Only then did she realize that teardrops clung to her lashes.

She wiped them away with the back of her hand and reached for a clean towel to wet it in the hot water and gently wipe the blood away from the tiny cut at his temple. It wasn’t deep or wide enough for stitches.Thank God. She didn’t think she could survive sewing up a second wound. She reached for the jar of Cook’s salve and smeared a dollop onto her fingertip.

“You’ll need to change the bandage on your arm every day.” She frowned at the tiny cut on his head as she applied the salve, but her thoughts focused on larger, unseen wounds that couldn’t be healed with thread and bandages. How did she heal those? “Everyday,” she emphasized. “I don’t care what the leeches say. Soiled bandages simply cannot be—”

“You have to leave London.”

She froze, her fingers stilling at his temple as her eyes lowered to meet his. “Pardon?”