Page 52 of Stuck

“I didn’t see any scars when we were swimming. I hardly dare ask where he punched you.”

I repressed a groan—she was killing me. I thought I’d been the only one paying that close attention at the lake. “We weren’t fist-fighting. We were fencing.”

Her eyes popped open. “He stabbed you with a sword?”

I nodded. “Through the thigh.”

“Wow. Horse riding, fencing, and a mansion for a house. Your family really are toffs, aren’t they?”

“We prefer ‘aristocratic’.” I pointed through the window behind her. “We’re here.” And I couldn’t be more pleased about it, because this car journey, short though it was, had been testing me in ways I was not prepared for.

Trent dropped us right outside the entrance. Elizabeth didn’t wait for me to open her car door for her, though doing so herself required her to take the pressure off her cut, and it immediately started bleeding again, red seeping through the bandage before my eyes. It was a shame, because she’d started regaining the colour in her cheeks, and it drained again immediately. She didn’t comment on it, though, so neither did I.

As we’d expected, A&E was packed. A quick search of the waiting room showed me Bingley hadn’t arrived yet. He still hadn’t by the time we’d booked Elizabeth in and found somewhere to sit.

“Are you bearing up?” I asked, eyeing Elizabeth’s grey pallor.

She nodded. “You’d think, with my track record, I’d be more used to blood by now, wouldn’t you?”

“You’ve got a nasty cut. It’s normal that you feel woozy.”

A quiet hum of agreement was all the answer I received. In fact, she looked so woozy that I almost put my arm around her to prop her up, but in light of our conversation in the car, any pretension to platonic touch felt dishonest.

“Where’s Bingley got to?” I asked, angry that he wasn’t here to provide the comfort I didn’t have the right to give.

“There’s no rush,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll be here for ages.”

I peered at her for a moment, considering. “You did tell him how bad it was, didn’t you?”

“It’s not that bad. That girl they just called in practically had one arm hanging off.”

“Elizabeth.”

She let out a weary sigh. “You don’t need to stay, if you have plans.”

“I’m not leaving you on your own.”

An hour later, I was finding it increasingly difficult to contain my annoyance with Bingley. I’d suggested contacting him once more, but Elizabeth had grown visibly distressed and tried to convince me to leave again, so I hadn’t brought it up since. He needed to get his sorry arse here soon, though. His girlfriend was alarmingly pale and her bandage now almost completely soaked with blood. Pain or worry—probably both—had drawn tight lines around her mouth and eyes, and she was so uncharacteristically quiet it was unnerving.

We’d talked a little—the odd observation of the various injuries people were presenting with, a brief debate on which was rowdier, this waiting room or the Wig and Gavel—but I was useless at small talk, and she didn’t seem in the mood for anything deeper, so we mostly sat in silence. If I had to watch her flinch in pain one more time, I thought I might throttle someone.

“I’m going to ask how much longer this is going to take.”

“Don’t,” she said quietly before I stood up. “Asking won’t make it happen any sooner.” In an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, she teased, “Maybe you should stitch it for me. You seem determined to be useful. But can you sew? That’s the question.”

“Are you expecting me to say no because I’m a man?”

“Knowing you, I’m expecting you to tell me you have a degree in it. Proficiency seems to be your MO.”

I tried to ignore the thrill it gave me to hear her admit to knowing anything about me. “No degree. My mother taught me.”

She smiled a tired but warm smile. “That’s a nice memory to have of her. My mum isn’t that practical, bless her. The extent of her lessons in life has been the importance of wearing sunscreen to avoid wrinkles and to always wear clean underwear in case I get run over.”

I chuckled quietly, recalling what she’d said before about her mother’s volatile personality. I guessed she felt guilty for mocking it because she immediately recanted her remark.

“Although, that’s not entirely fair. She did try to show me how to sow seeds one summer. If only they hadn’t been toasted, we might have had some success with them.”

My smile widened. “Is that where your interest in growing things comes from—your mother?”