He swallowed, trying to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe? Hadn’t he been shot in the leg? If he’d been shot. He still wasn’t sure that was what had happened.

“Oh, dear God,” came a new voice. Marcus Holroyd, breathing hard. His face was ashen.

“Put pressure on it!” the surgeon barked. “And watch out for that bone.”

Hugh tried to speak.

“A tourniquet,” someone said. “Should we tie a tourniquet?”

“Bring me my bag!” the surgeon yelled.

Hugh tried to speak again.

“Don’t spend your energy,” Marcus said, taking his hand.

“But don’t fall asleep!” Dunwoody added frantically. “Keep your eyes open.”

“The thigh,” Hugh croaked.

“What?”

“Tell the surgeon . . .” Hugh paused, gasping for breath. “The thigh. Bleeding like a pig.”

“What is he talking about?” Marcus asked.

“I— I—” Dunwoody was trying to say something, but it kept catching in his throat.

“What?” Marcus demanded.

Hugh looked over at Dunwoody. He looked ill.

“I believe he’s trying to make a joke,” Dunwoody said.

“God,” Marcus swore harshly, turning back to Hugh with an expression that Hugh found difficult to interpret. “You stupid, contrary . . . A joke. You’re making a joke.”

“Don’t cry,” Hugh said, because it looked like he might.

“Tie it tighter,” someone said, and Hugh felt something yanking on his leg, then squeezing it, hard, and then Marcus was saying, “You’d best stay baaaaaaack . . .”

And that was it.

When Hugh opened his eyes, it was dark. And he was in a bed. Had an entire day passed? Or more? The duel had been at dawn. The sky had still been pink.

“Hugh?”

Freddie? What was Freddie doing here? He couldn’t remember the last time his brother had stepped foot in their father’s house. Hugh wanted to say his name, wanted to tell him how happy he was to see him, but his throat was unbelievably dry.

“Don’t try to talk,” Freddie said. He leaned forward, his familiar blond head coming into the arc of the candlelight. They’d always looked alike, more than most brothers. Freddie was a little shorter, a little slighter, and a little blonder, but they had the same green eyes set in the same angular face. And the same smile.

When they smiled.

“Let me get you some water,” Freddie said. Carefully, he put a spoon to Hugh’s lips, dribbling the liquid into his mouth.

“More,” Hugh croaked. There had been nothing left to swallow. Every drop had just soaked into his parched tongue.

Freddie gave him a few more spoonfuls, then said, “Let’s wait a bit. I don’t want to give you too much at once.”

Hugh nodded. He didn’t know why, but he nodded.

“Does it hurt?”

It did, but Hugh had the strange sensation that it hadn’t hurt quite so much until Freddie asked about it.

“It’s still there, you know,” Freddie said, motioning toward the foot of the bed. “Your leg.”

Of course it was still there. It hurt like bloody hell. Where else would it be?