Chapter 43.

It was almost three in the morning, and as physically exhausted as she was, Georgie was too excited to sleep. Benedict held her close in the carriage as they crossed a near-deserted London. She rested her head on his shoulder as they rattled along, her heart singing with happiness. He’d availed himself of the dry clothes the admiral had offered, found some linen to bandage his wound, and now they huddled together under a thick woolen cloak.

When they arrived at the Tricorn, it was to find Mickey the doorman still awake, despite the ungodly hour.

“Alex and Seb made it back all right?” Benedict asked him quietly.

“Aye, sir. And that scamp Jem Barnes is dossing down in the front room. Seb said you might’ve been winged in the arm?” He shot Benedict a concerned glance.

“It’s nothing serious, Mickey. No need to summon the sawbones just yet.”

The manservant gave a relieved grunt. “Right. I’ve kept the fire going in the kitchen. I’ll bring you up a pitcher of warm water in a minute.”

Benedict murmured his thanks and ushered Georgie up the stairs. As soon as they entered the apartment, she swung around and adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Let’s clean off that wound, shall we? I don’t want you to catch a fever and die, Wylde. Not now you’ve just started to be sensible. Take off your shirt.”

His smile was thoroughly depraved. “I don’t think I will ever tire of hearing those words come out of your mouth, Mrs. Wylde.”

Without even giving her time to brace herself, he stripped off his shirt and stood there in just a pair of buff breeches and his top boots. Her mouth went dry and her insides knotted. The man really did have the most splendid physique. Mickey’s arrival with a jug of hot water, clean linen bandages, and a bottle of brandy, prevented her from leaping upon her husband and ravishing him on the spot.

“Thought you might need these,” the servant rumbled. “’Night.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

Benedict took a swig from the bottle and handed it to her. “Do your worst, then, woman.”

She moistened a handkerchief liberally with the brandy.

“Easy!” he protested. “That’s France’s best Armagnac you have there.”

She slanted him a prim look. “Imported foreign spirits are illegal in this country, Mr. Wylde.”

He winked. “I may have stumbled across a few barrels of unclaimed contraband while infiltrating that smuggling gang.” He washed the wound, turning the water in the bowl pink, then hissed in through his teeth as she pressed the liquor-soaked pad to his flesh. Georgie winced in sympathy. It must sting like the devil.