“Tell me something I don’t know,” Arundel said.
Belle looked up at him in confusion and then remembered that before she’d been distracted by his chest, she’d remarked that he was burning with fever. “Very well. You’ve opened your stitches and your wound is bleeding.”
“That must be why my side feels as though someone is holding a hot poker to it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said as she removed the last of the wrapping and tossed it aside. She had to take a deep breath before touching the scarlet bandage. Belle felt the nausea rise in her throat and preoccupied herself by mentally inventorying the shop.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t stab me,” Arundel said.
She nodded, still focused on her mental inventory. Holding the bandage in place with one hand, she reached for a clean piece of linen. She would do this quickly—swap one for the other and discard the bloodied linen so fast she would barely touch it.
Belle removed the bloody bandage and moved to quickly cover the wound with the clean linen when Arundel grasped her wrist, stopping her. “Let go,” she protested.
“I want to see it.”
“No, you do not,” she said.
“Yes, I do.” He was maneuvering himself into a half-sitting position so he could view the injury. The action caused his chest to all but push into her face, and she caught the scent of him. She’d expected him to smell of fever and sickness, but he smelled faintly of bergamot and... hmmm, what was that? Cardamom? Belle leaned closer to sniff again and bumped her nose into his ribs.
“Are you feeling faint?” he asked.
“No.” She withdrew, not feeling faint but definitely experiencing a bit of dizziness. She’d never been so close to an attractive man who not only had an extremely nice chest but a scent almost as intoxicating as tea. She felt all but compelled to discover all the components of the scent that was uniquely him but managed to restrain herself, especially when she saw he was twisting to view the damage to his side.
Belle hastily averted her eyes.
“This hurts worse than it looks,” he said.
“It’s bad enough,” she remarked, opting not to point out that the doctor had been less than confident in Arundel’s chances of recovery, especially if he developed a fever.
He made a sound of agreement. “Two stitches are torn. Do you sew?”
Belle made a gagging sound. “No!”
He gave her a look she could only describe as dubious.
“Just because I’m a woman, you think I sew?”
“It has nothing to do with your sex. Most people know how to sew, else they wouldn’t have any clothing.”
He had a point. It was quite expensive to buy ready-made attire, and even when one did, it often had to be repaired or altered after long days of wear.
“I don’t sew...people.” She swallowed, trying to keep the bile down.
“Oh, I see.”
Belle stood and glared down at him. “See what? What does that mean?”
“You’re scared of blood.”
“I’m not!” She had no idea why she said she was not as she very much feared blood. It made her want to retch just thinking about it. “I simply don’t want to stick a needle through your torn flesh and piece it together with another bit of torn flesh.”
“Then fetch me a needle and thread.”
“You can’t possibly think to—”
“The doctor is with Mrs. Randall. Her labor could last all day. Not to mention, the rain is coming down in sheets. While I’m still up to it, I’d better do what I can to tend to this injury.” He gestured to the wound, and Belle made the mistake of looking at it. Her gaze caught on the angry red gash, oozing dark, thick blood. Black thread held the top of the jagged flesh together, but it had ripped through at the bottom, leaving the skin ragged and raw.
“Damn,” she murmured as the room spun and she fell back. Thankfully, she had been kneeling beside the bed, so she did not have very far to fall. That was her last thought before her head hit the wooden floor with a thunk.
