Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

Frowning to bring her wayward thoughts under control, she carefully pried the last of the shirt from his head. The blood had begun to dry, sticking the material to his hair and scalp. She winced as fresh scarlet stained the tawny strands.

“An’ here’s the water,” Maude said, bringing over the steaming kettle and setting it on a cloth on the floor. She bent to peer at Caliban’s head as Lily began delicately washing the clotted blood from his hair. A seeping furrow appeared, about three inches long, running along the top of his head, slightly right of center.

Maude grunted and straightened. “Creased from a bullet, he is.”

She went to the corner where she kept her trunk.

“Cor!” Indio exclaimed, and for once Lily didn’t correct his common expression.

She frowned over the bleeding wound. “Shall we have to stitch it closed?” she called to Maude.

“Nay, hinney. Not much point since it’s so shallow.” The maidservant returned with a rag. “Pour a bit of wine over this and press it to the wound.”

Lily raised her eyebrows doubtfully, but did as she was told.

As soon as the cloth met his head, Caliban’s eyes widened and he grunted in pain.

“It hurts him!” Lily took away the rag.

“Aye, but the wine’ll help it heal, too.” Maude put her hand over Lily’s and pressed the rag back. “Now hold it there.” She carefully poured a little more of the wine onto Caliban’s scalp, ignoring his wince.

Indio, watching closely from the side, giggled. “He looks silly. Now his hair is red and brown and black.”

Caliban’s mouth lifted in a wan smile.

Lily frowned, concerned. “How do you know about such things, Maude?”

“Been around theater folk a long, long time,” the maid replied. “A right quarrelsome bunch, they are. Patched up more’n my fair share of young men after an argument got out of hand.”

Indio seemed deeply interested in this bit of information. “Has Uncle Edwin ever been shot in the head?”

“ ’Fraid not, lad. Your uncle is good at wriggling out of such things—likes to keep his skin whole, he does.” Maude tapped Lily’s hand to get her to lift the cloth, and inspected the still-bleeding wound. She nodded her head. “We’ll use your old chemise to wrap this, hinney.”

They tore the chemise up and while Lily held a folded pad over the wound, Maude wrapped strips around Caliban’s head to hold it in place. By the time they were done, he looked as if he’d been shrouded for burial and Indio was in fits of laughter.

“He looks like an old man with a toothache!”

Daffodil yipped and jumped up to nip at her giggling young master, and even Maude broke into a reluctant smile.

The maid hastily repressed it, though. “I’ll have you know, young Indio, that this here is the finest of nursing work.”

“Yes, Maude,” Indio said, more soberly. “Will he be all right?”

“O’ course, lad,” Maude said stoutly. “Best your mother helps him to her bed, though, because he looks like he could do with a nice long sleep.” Her voice softened just a fraction. “Poor man probably hasn’t a decent bed to sleep on, wherever he takes his rest. Come, you an’ I will start the supper.”

Indio leaped at that, always eager to be allowed to help in grown-up endeavors, and both maid and boy went to the fireplace, trailed by a curious Daffodil.

Lily looked into Caliban’s face. He had his eyes closed and was listing slightly in his chair. “Can you walk to the bed?”

He nodded and opened his eyes. They were duller than she was used to now. It reminded her uncomfortably of the time when she’d thought him mentally incompetent. How strange that idea seemed now.

“Can you stand?” she asked softly.

He answered by rising like a drunken behemoth and she hastily dipped a shoulder to bring it under his arm. It wasn’t that she could physically hold him up—he was much too big—but she helped guide him as he stumbled unsteadily toward her little bedroom.

Inside was her bed—a narrow, pathetic thing—and she helped him climb in, drawing the coverlet over his chest. He looked as if he lay in a child’s cot. His feet hung off the end and one arm dangled almost to the ground from the side.

Caliban seemed comfortable enough—his eyes already shut. Was he asleep? She bent over him, whispering urgently, “Caliban.”