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sp; “Pastel thread?” Daniel watched Miranda remove the bandage from his side to reveal a long S-shaped gash, two or three inches of which were stitched in sky-blue thread. “You sewed me up with pastel thread?” Thank God Malden couldn’t see that!
She bit her bottom lip at the sight of his injury. The area around the gunshot wound was bruised, and the bruise had turned from dark red to an angry blue-and-purple color. Miranda untied the bandage and removed it, immensely relieved to find the linen clean and fresh. The ugly gash was about five inches long and marked a line from his ribs to his abdomen. The neat blue stitching she’d done on him had held, and although the wound was an angry pink color, there was no sign of infection.
“Be glad I sewed you up at all,” Miranda defended her actions and her choice of thread. “And be thankful that I found silk, because according to Alyssa, it works best.” She gave him a quelling look. “Or would you rather have had pink?”
“You couldn’t match Mistress Beekins’s serviceable black? Don’t they make silk thread in black?”
“I’m sure they do, Your Grace,” Miranda snapped, “but beggars cannot be choosers. I was only able to find one sewing basket in this house, and it contained a limited supply of silk thread.” She turned away and picked up the bar of soap she’d used the night before and a clean cloth, and dipped them into the basin she’d filled with water from the bathing room tap. “I chose blue because it matches your blood, and because I thought you would rather have blue silk stitches than stitches the color of this room.” She wet and soaped the cloth, then wrung out the excess water and pressed it against Daniel’s side.
He sucked in a breath. “Blast it, Miranda! That’s cold!”
“As cold as your heart, Your Grace?” Miranda asked in a sickly sweet tone of voice. “Could mere water be that cold?”
Daniel blinked. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Then allow me to make it clear for you, Your Grace,” Miranda continued, diligently bathing the wound, pleased to see that her blue stitches had held and that while there had been a bit of drainage, the bleeding had stopped. “Might it be possible that you’ve become so spoiled by your lofty title that you have no consideration for lesser beings?”
“Might it have been possible for you to set the basin near the fire to warm the water?” he inquired just as sweetly. “Because your ill-tempered accusation couldn’t be further from the truth.” He winced as Miranda scrubbed a bit harder with the soapy cloth than was necessary.
“You couldn’t prove it by me.” Miranda looked down at him. “ ‘You sewed me up with pastel thread?’ ” she repeated, mimicking his tone. “ ‘You couldn’t match Mistress Beekins’s serviceable black? Don’t they make silk thread in black?’ Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to sew you up at all? Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to push a needle and thread—any color thread—through your flesh? I had to borrow your liquid courage and finish off what was left in your flask to keep my hands from shaking. And the entire time I was stitching your wound in sky-blue silk, I prayed I wasn’t doing you further harm … Wondering if you were going to live or die …” Miranda began to cry and angrily wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “Are you so spoiled and arrogant that you’ve forgotten other people have feelings? Or have you simply forgotten that I have feelings? Feelings you seem to enjoy trampling?” She looked at him and shook her head. “The devil take you, Daniel! Have you, after all these years, finally become your mother’s son? And if so, what in Hades do you want from me?”
Daniel was momentarily stunned by Miranda’s outburst. They had been getting along so well, and then he’d gone and spoiled it with an uncharacteristic blunder. What did it matter what color his stitches were, so long as she had repaired the damage? Daniel clamped his jaw shut. But seeing sky-blue stitches in his side had come as a surprise.
Had he finally become his mother’s son? Was he guilty of being callous and insensitive to the feelings of others? He didn’t think so.
But he was guilty of being insensitive to Miranda’s feelings.
He’d made her cry. Twice in one day. And Miranda never resorted to tears, never resorted to the weapon women had used against men since the beginning of time. Miranda fought back with wit and words and wisdom. She didn’t cry. At least, Daniel had never known her to cry.
Until today.
Of course, he’d never asked the sort of favors from her that he had last night or this morning. He had never depended upon her to stitch his wound or to sit with him during the night or keep him safe and warm. But Daniel knew that everyone had a breaking point, and Miranda had apparently reached hers.
And no wonder.
Not only had he trampled her feelings, but he had asked more of her than he had ever asked of anyone. Daniel grimaced. He hadn’t asked. He’d demanded. He’d ambushed her and demanded that she put her reputation and her emotions at risk by doing his bidding without regard for her feelings or for the consequences.
Blister it! He couldn’t remember all the details of the previous evening, but he remembered this morning. Daniel was ashamed of himself. Miranda was right. He had thought the worst of her instead of the best. He had been demanding and ungracious and ungrateful. He wanted to blame it on his massive headache, but Daniel knew that he had, much to his chagrin, finally become his mother’s son!
He’d expected Miranda to do the near impossible. And she’d done it. He shuddered. Miranda had kept him from bleeding to death, and he’d thanked her by criticizing the color of the thread she’d used. She’d been the best friend for whom any man could ask, and he’d treated her shabbily.
Daniel closed his eyes. He’d thanked Mistress Beekins for her care and had gone so far as to show his gratitude by giving her money. He hadn’t been nearly as gracious to Miranda, and her task had been more difficult. Daniel had tried to thank her, of course, but his attempts had been so awkward and condescending that Miranda had threatened him with bodily harm if he complimented or thanked her again.
Mistress Beekins was a common woman with a husband and grown sons engaged in a very dangerous enterprise. Mistress Beekins was a midwife and a healer, accustomed to performing menial labor and tending the sick and wounded.
Miranda was a lady, a peer of the realm, an unmarried woman who had been born into a position that enabled her to have servants who took care of her every need. The only menial task Miranda had ever performed was weeding flowerbeds and cutting the blossoms. And she only performed those when she felt like gardening.
And now she was bathing him, cleansing the wound she’d sewn up, and assisting him with the most intimate of tasks. Daniel shuddered. The thought of pushing a needle and thread through her tender flesh sent cold shivers down his spine. And although he was not intimately acquainted with Miranda’s body, Daniel was intimately acquainted with the female body.
As far as he knew, Miranda had never seen a naked man, much less bathed one.
She had dried her tears and composed herself by the time Daniel opened his eyes and reached up to take hold of her hand. “I owe you an apology, Miranda.”
“I accept.”
Daniel had expected her to make him grovel a bit. “Don’t you want to hear it?”