And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

The woman grabbed the lapels of his coat and tried to haul him to his feet. Twice, he collapsed back onto the cold stones. Twice, the woman almost came crashing down on top of him. After some perseverance he managed to stand—only to cast up the quart of brandy he’d downed two hours earlier.

“Mother Mary, give me strength,” she muttered, staring at her soiled boots.

“Maria,” he whispered, draping his arm around his saviour’s shoulder. “My mother … her name was M-Maria.”

“Then for her sake try to place one foot in front of the other.”

“She’s dead.”

A compassionate sigh left the woman’s lips. “And you will be, too, if you do not heed my advice and hurry.”

They shuffled along together. Damian gripped the wall with his good hand while the woman at his side clutched his wrist rather than his broken fingers. As soon as they made it beyond the battered blue door, her shoulders sagged and she exhaled deeply before kicking the door shut with her dirty boot.

She dragged him into a small room, sparse but clean, and settled him onto a bed.

“Forgive me,” she b

egan in an eloquent voice so opposed to the crude living conditions, “but if I’m to help you, I need to remove your breeches.” Her hands came to rest on his thigh. “It is the only way I can tend to the wound.”

Damian nodded but lacked the enthusiasm to offer the usual lewd suggestions.

After tugging off his shoes and throwing them to the floor, she took a knife to the garment and used two hands to rip the material from his knee to his groin. Amid the chaos of his mind, he thought to inform her he never wore drawers, but then her fingers swept up his thigh, grazed his ballocks.

“Good Lord!” Perhaps she was referring to his impressive manhood for her tone held a hint of panic. “I need to find something to stem the bleeding.”

Perhaps not.

“Argh!” His groan failed to convey the extent of the pain when she pressed the area around the wound. Damn, it ached like the devil.

“Forgive me, sir, I have no choice but to use a needle and thread.” She raced across the room, rummaged around in a drawer and returned with a stocking and a small basket. “Do you happen to have a flask of brandy?” When he failed to answer, she said, “No matter.”

She fastened the stocking around his thigh so tight his heartbeat pulsed in his leg, but it would stem the flow of blood.

“N-name?” he managed to say. He would know the identity of the angel attempting to save his life.

She drew a stool up to the bed and placed a bowl of water on the floor beside her. “If you survive tonight, you may call me Scarlett.” Grabbing the lit candle wedged into the neck of a green bottle, she moved it to the side table and then took a seat.

Scarlett.

The name didn’t suit her. She looked too prim, too wholesome to be loose with her affections. But then he recalled the red shawl draped over her shoulders and pondered the possibility that she used an alias to conceal her identity.

“Now hold still,” she said in a voice not too dissimilar from that of his first governess—a wicked devil of a woman who found pleasure in torturing small children. “I’m afraid I have nothing to numb the pain. But if you can resist the urge to cry out, I will be most grateful. This may help.” She thrust a ball of material into his good hand. “The stocking is clean. I assure you.”

Oh, he’d tugged a lady’s stocking off with his teeth on numerous occasions but could not recall ever forcing one into his mouth.

As Scarlett threaded the needle, a sense of trepidation took hold. A woman lacked the strength of heart to stab a man’s skin. Cutler’s hands didn’t tremble when he contemplated the first stitch. Cutler didn’t frown and bite down on his bottom lip as if faced with a mammoth task.

“My needlework skills are sufficient,” she said, more to reassure herself than him. Lord, if she did not get on with it soon, he’d be spewing bile.

By way of a prompt, he scrunched the stocking and pushed it into his mouth. Even while skirting the edges of death, he found the action mildly erotic.

A wipe with wet linen preceded the first jab of the needle.

Damian closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly through his nose.

Scarlett dug too deeply on the first stitch. He might have cursed had he not been chewing on the lady’s hosiery. With the second stitch, the room rocked and swayed. An ominous black cloud swamped his field of vision. With the third stab, the swirling mass smothered him, sucked him down, down into the dark depths of oblivion.

Damian woke to the distant sound of a door slamming, to the pounding of footsteps on the stairs beyond. His forehead burned, and his neck felt damp to the touch. A homemade splint supported his broken fingers. The wound in his thigh throbbed. Daylight broke through a small gap in the curtains covering the tiny window looking out onto Drury Lane. Lacking the strength to sit up, he glanced around the room and found no sign of Scarlett. He tried to call her name, but the word died on his lips as he slipped back into the void.