Mary's Christmas Knight Read Online Free

said it back at him. “And you can go do it to yourself, for all I care.”
    Sir Wesley raised a brow, then improbably, he cracked a smile. Not a nice one — his beautifully carved mouth pulled into a cruel line. “Who are you?”
    “A decent left-handed surgeon, but a questionable right-handed one.”
    He released her wrist, her veins throbbed, and she resisted the urge to shake out her hand.
    “I’m starting to worry this emergent laceration of yours is located on your backside, or else you wouldn’t be so surly about presenting it. Never fear, for I have likely seen many a worse and better one.”
    His snor t of laughter woke Lieutenant Baxter, who eyed the scene warily. Despite his trussed leg, he appeared willing to fly out of bed to her defense. She stilled him with a glance, communicating it hadn’t come to that yet. Her friend gave a slight nod then feigned closing his eyes, likely watching through his eyelashes.
    “As much as I hate to disap point you, madam, it is my left shoulder that has suffered injury.”
    Mary hoped she showed no reaction to being called madam . Having passed her twentieth year, she wasn’t precisely a blooming ingénue. Besides, if he’d been paying any attention at all, Sir Wesley would’ve heard both Tom Hart and Mr. Warren call her Miss Cavendish. Clearly the insult was intended.
    “Then I sup pose my luck has finally turned, since I have little inclination to tread the path so many fools have trod.” Mary held up the bottle of morphine. “Last chance for anesthesia.”
    “Difficult to tell whether you’ll kill me with an overdose or your quack surgery.”
    “Take your chances, sir, but choose swiftly. I am tired and out of sorts, which increases your risk of amputation.”
    “Out of sorts? I hadn’t noticed.”
    “Now where did I put that hacksaw?”
    With a disgruntled sigh, Sir Wesley levered himself off the ground, leaving prints of mud and sticky half-dried blood in the shape of his purportedly very fine backside. Without an injured man leaning on him to hunch him over, the full effect of his height struck her, her nose level with his breast pocket.
    He bared his forearm and held it out for the injection. She grimaced, still looking at the floor. “I suppose that’s your idea of a practical joke.”
    Sir Wesley looked down at the dual-moon-shaped spots on the floor. “Shall I autograph it?”
    She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent another curse word. “The only signature I want from you is on the bill for services rendered. Which I shall promptly double if you don’t lie down on the bed forthwith.”
    “Forthwith?”
    “Triple.” Mary wielded the syringe and squeezed a small stream out the tip in warning. His eyes sparked a challenge at her — clearly he enjoyed looming over her and looking like Erebus on a pedestal. His assumption that his beauty should cow her only steeled her against it.
    He stared, she glared back, and the few seconds spent in impasse stretched improbably into what seemed like hours, until an unwelcome finger of heat whittled its way through her disdain. His remarkable sea-god eyes seemed to look past her skin into her thoughts, where little traitors whispered bad advice.
    She shook it off, determined. Who cared if he was exceptionally virile and interesting? Her female instincts were completely out of adjustment, alerting her to attraction for a strutting peacock of a man. Hadn’t she had enough unrequited affection for one day? “Is it still Christmas, or has New Year’s come and gone already?”
    Finally he shrugged out of his filthy jacket, pulled his collar loose, and raised his shirt over his head, one-handed. It caught on his head, and unable to raise his injured arm, he froze like an absurd statue with his head swathed in dirty linen.
    She injected the morphine, then went to work.
    It would have been petty to deliberately prolong cutting along the seam of his sleeve in order to remove the tangled garment, thereby