Free Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) by Baird Wells Page B
Authors: Baird Wells
you're not going
to let anyone look at it, then hush.”
“I am sorry that my discomfort is a
burden, madam . It seemed unwise, revealing my table leg shaped
injury to any local physician.”
“Well...” He had her there. If
Osipova went to Talleyrand or the authorities, people would be watching for a
potential culprit. But still, he was being stubborn. She drained her tea cup
and clanked it against the saucer. “Well, I could have helped you, but you
didn't ask.” So there .
“You didn't offer ,” he
drawled, succumbing at last to the gin.
“Well, I'm offering now. Mostly so
you'll stop moaning.” She felt terrible for having injured him, and had his
accusations not bordered on theatrics, she would have apologized hours earlier.
Probably. “Sit up and let me fix you, or go to bed.”
“Fine,” he bit back.
“Fine. Excellent. Sublime .”
She checked the urge to poke out her tongue.
Ty's laugh surprised her. His hand
flew up, clutching his torn flank, but he went right on laughing. “Dimples, if
you were a man, we might have come to blows by now.”
Tension unlaced, and she slid
deeper into her chair, smiling. “We still may.”
One hand flew up. “Wait until I'm
patched up. Give a man a fighting chance.”
“I accept your terms. Now come on,
up with you. Let's go have a look at your scratch.”
Not that she was looking forward to
it. Cutting a man open was, for no rational reason, less stomach-churning than
putting him back together. Killing a man was a simple matter, but fixing one?
She stood and held out a hand,
waiting until Ty wrangled and maneuvered himself into a sitting position, all
the while clutching a bandage beneath his shirt. With one foot braced on the
rug, the other on the sofa, she hauled him up.
He searched her face with a narrow
gaze. “Where are we going?”
“Whoo!” Fanning away his breath,
she pretended to cough. “Upstairs. There's some gut twine and needles in a kit
under the bed.”
His brow arched. “How do you know
that?”
“Because I put them there, in the event
I finally succumb and sew your mouth shut.”
He pointed a finger, pressing the
end of her nose. “ You are going to stitch me up?”
“Mmhmm.”
Leaning past her with a groan, he
snatched the bottle of gin from her table and held it aloft. “Very well. Let's go.”
She snatched for the bottle,
impressed by how quickly he lifted it out of reach. Sighing, she pointed to the
door. “Forward march, soldier. Up you go. And no more down your gullet till I
know you can make it up the stairs.”
That earned her a jaunty little
salute, and he shuffled past out into the hall.
* * *
The safe house was certainly not
palatial, and in some ways functional at best. As she lit the lamp, however,
Olivia was reminded that the place was cozy . The décor was plain: white
walls, wood plank floors. Their room was small, as bed chambers went. You could
lie in bed and nearly stick a hand inside the firebox – an observation that
reminded her to double check the quilt before turning in. Worn planks were
covered by a thick but unattractive Persian rug whose scratchy pile warmed her
feet while she lit the candles. A lone table stood between the bed and the
fireplace, a strange piece of roughly- made furniture resurrected from
something once much grander. Ty occupied its nicked surface with his gin, and
occupied the high narrow bed with his backside. “I don't enjoy it when Miss
Foster patches me up. Don't be offended.”
“Me, offended by you? Amusing.” she
sniffed. “Besides, if you have complaints about my skill, you are welcome to
address them with my superior.”
“Hah. Grayfield always takes your
side.”
Ignoring him, and the potential
truth of his accusation, she got down on all fours beside the bed, peering into
the dim light and sweeping a hand beneath for her case. It took a moment to
register that something was brushing her hair, and it wasn't the
to let anyone look at it, then hush.”
“I am sorry that my discomfort is a
burden, madam . It seemed unwise, revealing my table leg shaped
injury to any local physician.”
“Well...” He had her there. If
Osipova went to Talleyrand or the authorities, people would be watching for a
potential culprit. But still, he was being stubborn. She drained her tea cup
and clanked it against the saucer. “Well, I could have helped you, but you
didn't ask.” So there .
“You didn't offer ,” he
drawled, succumbing at last to the gin.
“Well, I'm offering now. Mostly so
you'll stop moaning.” She felt terrible for having injured him, and had his
accusations not bordered on theatrics, she would have apologized hours earlier.
Probably. “Sit up and let me fix you, or go to bed.”
“Fine,” he bit back.
“Fine. Excellent. Sublime .”
She checked the urge to poke out her tongue.
Ty's laugh surprised her. His hand
flew up, clutching his torn flank, but he went right on laughing. “Dimples, if
you were a man, we might have come to blows by now.”
Tension unlaced, and she slid
deeper into her chair, smiling. “We still may.”
One hand flew up. “Wait until I'm
patched up. Give a man a fighting chance.”
“I accept your terms. Now come on,
up with you. Let's go have a look at your scratch.”
Not that she was looking forward to
it. Cutting a man open was, for no rational reason, less stomach-churning than
putting him back together. Killing a man was a simple matter, but fixing one?
She stood and held out a hand,
waiting until Ty wrangled and maneuvered himself into a sitting position, all
the while clutching a bandage beneath his shirt. With one foot braced on the
rug, the other on the sofa, she hauled him up.
He searched her face with a narrow
gaze. “Where are we going?”
“Whoo!” Fanning away his breath,
she pretended to cough. “Upstairs. There's some gut twine and needles in a kit
under the bed.”
His brow arched. “How do you know
that?”
“Because I put them there, in the event
I finally succumb and sew your mouth shut.”
He pointed a finger, pressing the
end of her nose. “ You are going to stitch me up?”
“Mmhmm.”
Leaning past her with a groan, he
snatched the bottle of gin from her table and held it aloft. “Very well. Let's go.”
She snatched for the bottle,
impressed by how quickly he lifted it out of reach. Sighing, she pointed to the
door. “Forward march, soldier. Up you go. And no more down your gullet till I
know you can make it up the stairs.”
That earned her a jaunty little
salute, and he shuffled past out into the hall.
* * *
The safe house was certainly not
palatial, and in some ways functional at best. As she lit the lamp, however,
Olivia was reminded that the place was cozy . The décor was plain: white
walls, wood plank floors. Their room was small, as bed chambers went. You could
lie in bed and nearly stick a hand inside the firebox – an observation that
reminded her to double check the quilt before turning in. Worn planks were
covered by a thick but unattractive Persian rug whose scratchy pile warmed her
feet while she lit the candles. A lone table stood between the bed and the
fireplace, a strange piece of roughly- made furniture resurrected from
something once much grander. Ty occupied its nicked surface with his gin, and
occupied the high narrow bed with his backside. “I don't enjoy it when Miss
Foster patches me up. Don't be offended.”
“Me, offended by you? Amusing.” she
sniffed. “Besides, if you have complaints about my skill, you are welcome to
address them with my superior.”
“Hah. Grayfield always takes your
side.”
Ignoring him, and the potential
truth of his accusation, she got down on all fours beside the bed, peering into
the dim light and sweeping a hand beneath for her case. It took a moment to
register that something was brushing her hair, and it wasn't the