Page 6 of The Duke’s Man-At-Arms (The Duke’s Guard #11)

H er storm of tears ended as abruptly as it had begun. Michaela sighed, comforted by the weight and strength of O’Malley’s arms wrapped around her, the rhythmic thud of his heart beneath her cheek.

“Better?” His voice resonated inside of his broad chest, the soothing vibration adding to the mix of emotions swirling inside of her. What she felt for O’Malley stirred in her breast. If she let go of the hold she had on her feelings, she was afraid that she would lose her heart to him.

Was he feeling even the tiniest bit of the attraction that threatened to swallow her whole? She braced her hand to his waist, leaned back, and gasped. “You’re bleeding!”

He frowned at her. “I’d know if I were bleeding, lass.”

“Take off your coat!”

His laugh was low and sensual. “We aren’t alone, mo ghrá .”

Worry snaked through her irritation at the teasing tone of his voice. “Bloody hell, O’Malley! Take. Off. Your. Coat!”

Aimee rushed over to the settee. “Let me help, O’Malley. I am so sorry we did not realize you were injured. What happened?”

“I’m not hurt, and I’m not…”

Michaela held up her blood-smeared hand. “Something cut you near your waist. How can you not feel it?”

“Me strapping physique, for one. Haven’t ye noticed I’ve more than a bit of muscle on me frame than most? Me tolerance for pain is another. ’Tis probably just a scratch.”

Michaela scooted off his lap and grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Aimee, we’ll need more hot water and bandages.”

“What’s wrong?” Miranda asked, rushing toward them.

“Emmett’s bleeding and refuses to cooperate,” Michaela said, struggling to catch her breath.

“For heaven’s sake, Michaela, sit down!” Miranda ordered her.

“Only if O’Malley takes off his coat.”

He growled at her and stripped it off. “Happy now?”

“No,” Michaela answered. “Black hides most stains, especially blood.” She put her hand gently to his side, and he winced. She showed him her bloody hand a second time. “Proof that you’re still bleeding, Emmett. Please cooperate, and let us see how badly you’re cut.”

The blond giant rolled his eyes, endearing him to her. “Fine.” Before she could ask, he stripped off his waistcoat. His cravat followed, but he paused before taking off his shirt. “Being as how I’m not unconscious, I don’t think yer husbands would like ye seeing me without me shirt on. I know I wouldn’t want Michaela to be seeing Darby or the captain without theirs.”

“I’m a healer, for heaven’s sake,” Michaela muttered, then what he’d said about husbands hit her. “You cannot tell me what to do. We aren’t married.”

“Ah, but we could be, lass. Even if we aren’t…yet. Ye’re not supposed to lift yer arms, twist, bend at the waist—”

“Or anything,” Michaela interrupted as his words elicited twin emotions inside of her—irritation and wonder. “I’ll sit, but you cannot bend to inspect or tend your wound. You will either let me, an unmarried healer, or someone else cleanse and wrap your wound.” She bit her lip. “Masterson is standing guard outside. Aimee, would you poke your head out the door and see if he will come inside for a moment?”

Aimee left to do her bidding, and O’Malley turned to the captain’s wife. “It would be best if you went into Emma’s room, Miranda. Don’t be thinking it is like the time we carried the captain home after we found him beaten, lying in that alley. ’Tisn’t a prodigious amount of blood—I’d have passed out by now from the loss otherwise.”

She sighed. “Since you put it that way, I’ll go. Call me if you need me.”

The sound of heavy footsteps ascending on the stairs was followed by two sets of heavy footsteps descending, and a knock on the door. “It’s Masterson—I’m coming in.” He walked into the room and stared at O’Malley. “What happened?”

“Damned if I know, but apparently I’m bleeding.”

Aimee scooted around Masterson, who stood just inside the door, to the cook stove. She filled two bowls from the hot kettle and carried them over, setting them on the table next to the settee. “I’ll just fetch the bandages and soap.”

When she returned with the items, Masterson thanked her. “On his way outside to man my post, Garahan asked me to see that you join Miranda in Emma’s bedchamber.”

Aimee hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

Masterson smiled. “Between Miss Michaela telling me what to do, and the number of times I have given aid to the men in my regiment, I doubt it.”

Aimee nodded. “If you need me, just give a shout.”

“I will,” Masterson promised.

When the room had cleared, the colonel turned to Michaela and surprised her by frowning. “We’re going to do this my way, Miss Michaela. You will sit in the chair next to the settee or be relegated to the back room with the others. Between O’Malley and myself, there is no room for anyone else. Especially a headstrong healer poking her nose under my arm and getting elbowed in the head, or risking being bumped in her broken ribs.”

She reacted to the command in his tone. It was the only reason she did not question Masterson. Well, other than the fact that she was not physically able to push her weight around at the moment, nor did she want to be sent from the room. Michaela glanced at the supplies Aimee had set out on the table and noticed there was no needle. No threads. She started to rise from her seat but was immediately blocked by a broad chest garbed in dark blue.

“When I give an order, Miss Michaela, I expect it to be obeyed.”

O’Malley cleared his throat. “Ye’ll stay seated, lass, or else Colonel Masterson will carry ye into Emma’s bedroom to wait with the others.”

“I can sit after I fetch the boiled threads and needle,” she insisted.

“As you seem to have assumed responsibility for Miss Michaela, O’Malley,” Masterson grumbled, “and I would not want to have to go a few rounds with you for raising my voice to her, I suggest you tell her to obey, or I will lock her in Emma’s bedchamber!”

O’Malley snorted with laughter. “I’m thinking it must be killing ye to be so gracious, colonel.” He turned to Michaela. “’Tis yer choice, lass. Sit, or be locked in Emma’s room.”

“That is not a choice,” she huffed. She had never been told to sit or leave before, and did not like it one bit. Both men outweighed her and were twice as tall—and wide—as she was. She knew that she had to listen, though it irked her. “Fine!” She tried to cross her arms beneath her bosom and ended up gasping as pain radiated from her broken ribs up her side.

Strong hands settled on her shoulders. “Just breathe, lass. In through yer nose and exhale through yer sweet lips.”

She must be suffering from lack of air. O’Malley could not have just said her lips were sweet in front of Masterson, could he? When she had her breathing, and the sharp pain, under control, O’Malley lifted his hands from her shoulders and trailed the tip of one finger along the curve of her cheek before returning to the settee.

With his gaze riveted on hers, he stripped off his shirt, and every blessed thought in her brain simply evaporated. The glorious display of musculature had her breath catching in her lungs again. His well-defined pectoral muscles were sprinkled with dark blond hair that narrowed beneath his breastbone, forming aV that accentuated the muscles of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

“You’d think she never saw a man’s chest before,” Masterson mumbled.

Michaela blinked, but the sheer masculine beauty of O’Malley’s body had cast a spell around her that she did not want to break. Hand to her breast, she lifted her gaze to his and got lost in the swirling emotions in the depths of his brilliant green eyes. The unspoken promise twined with desire was clear, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. After what had happened to her, she accepted that she would never marry. She had vowed to never suffer the pain that she knew would await her in the marriage bed. Closing her eyes, she was finally able to turn away.

By the time she opened her eyes, Masterson had cleaned out the jagged wound in O’Malley’s side. O’Malley was right—it wasn’t as deep as she had feared. The amount of time that had passed, between when he had been injured and when they had returned, was a worry. It should have been cleansed and taken care of long before now.

“When did this happen?” the colonel asked.

“I remember feeling a bit of jab when I climbed through a broken window but didn’t think anything of it.”

Guilt swept up from her toes. The wound in his side was her fault. “I am so sorry you were injured rescuing me,” Michaela rasped.

“’Tis but a scratch, and nothing to worry about.”

Masterson shook his head and stared at O’Malley’s side long enough for Michaela to scoot to the edge of her seat. He lifted his head and locked gazes with her.

“I promise not to get up,” she said, “if you tell me what has you worried.”

“Have I mentioned that stubborn women irritate me?”

She fought the urge to smile. “Have I told you that military men are like a rash that won’t go away?”

Masterson snorted with laughter. “Good God, I do not envy your being leg-shackled to the angel of the streets, O’Malley.”

“I never said I was going to marry Emmett,” Michaela protested.

“But ye will, lass,” O’Malley said with an easy confidence that had her bristling. Before she could contradict him, he added, “When I get around to asking ye.”

Incensed that the two men believed she would simply capitulate, she drew in her breath to lambast them, and ended up placing a hand to her side, bracing it against the pain. At O’Malley’s direct stare, she silently reminded herself to breathe in and out through her nose until she had her breath back.

“She’s stubborn to the bone, O’Malley.” The irritating colonel sounded as if being stubborn was a count against her.

But O’Malley’s reply warmed her heart. “Some of the finest women I know are stubborn.”

Masterson stared at her. “I prefer a quiet woman. One who will spend all of her time catering to my every need.”

O’Malley sat up straight and squared his shoulders. “Ye’ll apologize for poking fun at the lass when she isn’t up to fighting form and able to continue the battle of words with ye.”

“Forgive me, Miss Michaela,” Masterson rumbled. “I could not seem to help myself.”

He sounded sincere, but Michaela had learned long ago not to trust men. There were a few exceptions: Cameron, Greenwood, O’Malley, and three of the Garahan brothers. She never intended to trust another man, but when Cameron first came to her aid, when she was rescuing a young woman, she’d lowered her guard and trusted the Scotsman. When Cameron married, he had suggested Greenwood as a man he trusted as his replacement, and she accepted his word. James and his brother Darby were instrumental in rescuing two women whom they later married, and their brother Aiden had kept Michaela’s identity secret when she contacted Gavin King with the damning information of who had murdered Emily Montrose’s father.

Her most recent rescues were tied to shutting down a notorious boarding house that lured young women to London with the promise of employment, but was in fact a cover for a brothel. After the attempted kidnapping that occurred as a result of her involvement, she could not in good conscience keep lending aid, unless she had protection to ensure those she helped were not recaptured by those who saw them simply as a way to put coin in their pockets.

“Lass? Are ye all right?”

O’Malley’s voice snapped her back to the present. “Pardon me. I was woolgathering.” She turned to meet Masterson’s questioning gaze and remembered his comment…and apology. “Apology accepted, but I should warn you that once my ribs are healed, I will be merciless if you taunt me again.”

His smile transformed the man from austere to approachable. “I have no doubt that you will. May I say that I can see how you have snagged the attention of the one O’Malley I never thought would take the fall.”

She had no idea what the colonel was referring to. “The fall?”

“Aye. I believe it best to let O’Malley explain after I add a few stitches to his hide. That is what I was contemplating before you interrupted my train of thought.”

“Forgive me.” Concerned that she would not be able to inspect Emmett’s wound to see for herself how many stitches she would recommend, she could not help asking, “What can I do to help?”

Masterson lifted his eyes to the ceiling. When he finally looked at her, he was frowning again. “Stay put in that chair.”

She was about to respond when O’Malley distracted her. He reached for her hand and said, “Ye need to try to remain calm. When ye get riled, ye draw in deep gulps of air. Ye really should avoid doing so with yer ribs wrapped. Please try, lass. If not fer yer own sake, will ye do it for mine?”

Humbled by his concern and quiet request, how could she refuse? She could not help how she reacted whenever a man tried to tell her what to do. Masterson was no different than her father and the way he spoke to her—

Good Lord, her father !

“Emmett, I need to send word immediately to my father. He must be beyond worried by now. I haven’t been home in almost forty-eight hours.”

“Let me finish patching up O’Malley,” Masterson said. “Then the two of you can discuss matters. Garahan needs me to relieve him. One of his contacts sent word that he has information.”

O’Malley nodded. “I hope he has a name for me.”

Michaela put a hand to her throat. “God help me if he has.” O’Malley stared at her. She shook her head and tugged her hand free. “Let Masterson sew your wound closed. The last thing you need is an infection.”

He brushed the tips of his fingers along the line of her jaw, turning her to fully face him. “The last thing I need is ye worrying about something that has always been out of yer control. Let me handle the matter. Ye know what I need ye to do. Ye know what I need ye to confide in me.”

“Don’t move,” Masterson warned, “while I bandage your side.”

Michaela’s mind raced as she stared at O’Malley. Did he know? Had he guessed? She shook her head, not ready to have that particular conversation with him—nor would she tell him the name of the man who took her virtue all those years ago.

She suddenly felt every one of those years weighing her down. She had lived her life on a knife’s edge for a decade, worrying that someone would find out and spread the ugly truth. It would not matter that she had done nothing wrong, that she was the victim. The ton would never see it that way.

Lord, she was tired. Just once, she wondered if mayhap she should unburden herself to someone who would protect her from the wrath of the man responsible. Though she was proud of the fact that she had helped so many young women since, it had cost her the close relationship she’d had with her father. Since then, Papa rarely had the time for conversations over afternoon tea…and neither did she.

Haversham had not only taken something she had been saving for the man she one day hoped to wed, but he had robbed her of a decade of conversations, and a warm relationship, with her father. Knowing Haversham had the power and connections to tear away her father’s hard-won reputation as an excellent surgeon, most of whose patients were members of elite Society, to shreds, she had never uttered his name to her father. To anyone.

With a determined look, she met O’Malley’s gaze with defiance.

While he clearly tried to think of a way to extract the name, Masterson handed O’Malley his shirt. “Do you need help putting it on?”

Michaela blew out a frustrated breath. “Do you have attics to let? You just cleaned his wound. Even though you covered the wound, you cannot seriously expect him to don the same shirt. I am quite certain the captain or Garahan will have a clean shirt O’Malley could borrow.”

“Forget the blasted shirt, lass. I’m needing the name of the bastard that did this to ye.”

She ignored the hard edge in O’Malley’s voice. “There is no need to use that language with me.”

“Tell me his name, lass,”

She glared at O’Malley. She would not tell him. Not now. Not ever.