A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Like the devil.” Her jostling, necessary as it was, left him ashen.

“If you faint, I’ll kill you,” she said grimly. She eased away the tattered remnants of coat and shirt.

His lips, white with pain, stretched in a travesty of his usual grin. “Warning noted.”

Using his shirt, she cleaned the wound. What she’d give for a bowl of warm water and some soap. What she’d give to be back in her parlor, battling to keep Richard Harmsworth from guessing that he attracted her like a magnet attracted iron filings.

“Will I live?” he asked after a long silence.

Would either of them live? Right now it seemed unlikely. But she took a lesson from him and answered with fabricated confidence. Not about his wound—he was right, and lucky; the bullet had merely grazed him. Despite the copious blood loss, she found no major damage. “You’ll be dazzling the debutantes in no time.”

This time his smile was a little more convincing, although she couldn’t deceive herself about his discomfort. “My days of dazzling debutantes are over.”

Ignoring his banter, she bent to inspect the wound. Now she’d cleaned the injury, she saw a long gash along the outside of his upper arm. At least it had stopped bleeding. She ca

st away the filthy shirt. “A new coat or two and you’ll be your irritating self again.”

She ripped the dirty hem from her petticoat and discarded it. She tore off a cleaner strip and wrapped it securely around Richard’s arm.

“I’ll owe you some new undergarments,” he mumbled. He’d been stoic through the agonizing process, but the thready note in his voice indicated that his endurance faded.

She made herself smile. “More than one set.”

“Brazen wench.”

“That’s me,” she said lightly, even as apprehension gripped her. Given the blood he’d lost, she was surprised he’d stayed so chipper for so long. Now exhaustion shadowed his features. Suffering pared him down, made him much more like a regular mortal.

She tied the bandage as firmly as she could. “There’s a comfortable tomb waiting. If you promise not to snore, I’m prepared to offer my shoulder as a pillow.”

“I’d be honored.” For once, he didn’t sound like he joked. Another sign of failing stamina.

She rose and gently helped him up. For one frightening moment, he staggered. Then he found his feet and covered the short distance. He couldn’t hide his weariness when he slumped to the ground, leaning heavily against the carved tomb.

Oh, Richard. Compassion squeezed her heart as she slid down beside him. She’d give anything to relieve his pain. But there was nothing she could do.

Except perhaps one thing.

Carefully she drew his ruffled head to her breast. Tearful gratitude thickened her throat when within minutes he sank into sleep.

“What the devil—”

Richard stirred in thick darkness. He was cold and sore and his arm throbbed like a drum. Yet well-being outweighed every other sensation.

“It’s all right,” a beloved voice murmured and he remembered. The clash with Fairbrother. The gunshot. Being trapped in this pit with Genevieve.

Genevieve who embraced him with a tenderness that banished the chill.

“Did the candle burn out?” He wasn’t a fanciful man, but the air in this crypt oozed wretchedness. The prospect of perishing here with no glimmer of light was grim.

“No. But I only have two. Better to save them.” She shifted. Even that slight movement jogged his wound. He bit back a groan. Nonetheless she must have heard because she stilled. “How are you feeling?”

Reluctantly he straightened away from her and rested against the stone behind him. “Not as bad as I thought I would.” It was true. His arm was bearable and sleep restored his wits. “Your touch has healing powers.”

“If only my touch had altar-shifting powers,” she said bleakly.

“Where’s Sirius?”