Page 60 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Miss MacDonald was twenty paces away, head ducked as she was speeding off, her skirts a blue shimmer.

“Miss MacDon—”

“Sloane!” Burton yelled.

Asmackvibrated in his skull. Pained fireworks exploded behind his eyes as a red ball droppedto his feet. He fell to his knees, cradling his skull. Anger spiked, then crawled away as happened with a strike to the head. Slick warmth oozed onto his palms. He checked his hands. They were coated with blood. On instinct, he covered his forehead and eyes, blocking the sun.

Footsteps pounded the grass. Shade covered him from a surrounding crowd.

“Mr. Sloane.” Miss MacDonald’s voice was at his ear, her hand the light touch on his back. “Tell me what you’re feeling?”

“Only the pain of my diminished dignity, which seems to be a habit with you.”

Miss MacDonald gently dabbed his forehead with a cloth. “I look forward to your third act. Hopefullysansblood.” There was more tender dabbing. “You know I can’t bear the sight of it.”

“I am grateful that you and your senses are making an exception today.”

Her breath feathered his ear. “You are my exception. For everything.”

He basked in the moment. A breakthrough, he believed.

“Thank you.”

She shivered against him, adding in a near whisper, “I must get away from here. Come with me...please.”

“Of course,” he murmured. He wouldn’t let her down again.

“If I cover the blood dripping down your forehead, I’ll see less of the odious stuff and I can get through this.”

He opened his eyes. Red silk danced over them. Beyond the fabric, he could see the blur of a gathering crowd. Miss MacDonald was on her knees besidehim, her body gloriously close and her rosewater scent divine.

“Good to hear you talking, Sloane. For a second there, I thought you might be knocked out cold.” That was the ginger-haired Viscount Felton, a St. James man.

“Too thick-skulled apparently,” he jested.

Male laughs rippled through the dozen gathered around him. He winced behind red silk curtaining his face. Miss MacDonald was parting his hair close to the wound. The sting was ferocious.

“Everyone, back away. Give him some air.” Burton knelt beside him. “He’s still bleeding.”

“There’s always profuse bleeding with head wounds.” Miss MacDonald’s light fingers tested the gash in his hairline. “More so than other parts of the body.”

“And how do you come by this knowledge?” Burton asked.

“My father was a surgeon for the Jacobite army.”

Ardent words said while her fingers sifted through his hair. Mutters circled through the small crowd but Miss MacDonald didn’t care. She applied pressure to the wound and addressed Burton and the circle of men as a nanny might instruct unruly boys.

“There are four common types of bleeding injuries: abrasions, lacerations, punctures, and avulsions. Mr. Sloane has a laceration.” The evaluation of his scalp done, she stanched the cut with one hand while the other rested on his shoulder. To Burton, she said, “You may want to check your ball. I suspect a tear in the leather caused the cut when it hit his head.”

“Or his hard head ruined a perfectly good cricket ball,” Burton muttered.

Pride swelled in Alexander. Such cool authority in her voice and she was on her knees with him, her petticoats a blue cloud enveloping his right hand. A subtle twist of his arm, and his hand was on her thigh. Layers of silk and linen separated his hand from her leg, but he gave her thigh a reassuring, covert squeeze.

“A fine physic,” sniffed a lordling. “Jacobite or not, I might need some tending after today’s match. You can be sure I have the coin to pay for it.”

Alexander swiped the silk shawl from his face.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll jam my bat up your arse. Miss MacDonald is a gentlewoman and should be addressed accordingly.”