The Tiger Prince by Iris Johansen Page B

“Are you … hurt?” she asked faintly.
    “Why should I be hurt?” he said roughly. “I didn’t take the knife.”
    “I thought Pachtal … where—” She broke off as she saw their attacker on the ground a few feet away. His mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream; his eyes were open and bulging from their sockets, staring straight ahead. She had never seen him before. “It’s not Pachtal,” she whispered. “Is he dead?”
    “Very.” He started to move quickly across the street. “But not in time to help you. Now, be quiet until I get you away from here.”
    Something warm and wet was flowing down her arm. “Bleeding.”
    “I know you’re bleeding, dammit. I’ll fix it as soon as I can, but I—”
    “Good God, what did you do to her?” Another voice with the same Scottish brogue. The owner of the voice stepped out of an alcove and looked down at her.
    Abraham Lincoln, she thought hazily as a long, homely face swam into focus. No, this face was cleanshaven, not the bearded visage she had seen in pictures in the newspaper. Besides, Lincoln had been shot, hadn’t he?
    “I didn’t do anything to her,” Ruel said curtly. “She took a dagger in the arm meant for me.”
    “Dear me, another Mila? You do seem to inspire self-sacrifice in the female gender.”
    “I’m glad the situation amuses you, Ian. Are you going to continue to chuckle while she bleeds to death?”
    All amusement instantly vanished from the expression of the man Ruel had addressed as Ian. “Is she seriously injured? Put the lass down and let me take a look.”
    “She says someone else is after her and I want to get her away from here. Tie your handkerchief around her arm above the wound to lessen the bleeding.”
    “Aye.” Ian obeyed, his gaze fixed on her face. “It’s going to hurt a bit, lass.”
    It hurt more than a bit. She gasped as he tightened the bandage carefully about her arm.
    “Tighter,” Ruel said. “Now isn’t the time to be gentle. The blood’s still flowing, dammit.”
    Ian tightened the bandage. She bit her lower lip to keep back the cry of pain, but Ruel must have heard her sudden intake of breath, for his gaze flew to her face. “I know,” he said hoarsely. “But we have to stop it. I’m not going to let you die.” He turned to the other man. “Let’s get her away from here.”
    “I’ll carry her,” Ian offered.
    “No.” Ruel’s arms tightened possessively around her. “I’ll take care of her. You watch the rear.”
    She opened her eyes to see Abraham Lincoln sitting beside her bed.
    No, that was wrong, she thought hazily, she had made that mistake before.
    “You’re going to be fine, lass. It’s hardly a pinprick, though you bled quite a bit.” He smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ian MacClaren, Earl of Glenclaren. Ruel’s my brother.”
    She glanced down at her arm. She was still fully dressed, but the sleeve of her shirt had been cut away and a neat clean bandage encircled her upper arm. Her gaze flew around the room. “Where—”
    “The Nayala Hotel. This is Ruel’s room. When you fainted we decided to bring you here. Ruel said it was closer than your bungalow.”
    “I never faint,” she protested.
    “Of course not,” he said gravely. “Let’s just say, then, that you were sleeping very hard indeed.”
    “Where is Ruel?”
    “He was a trifle bloody from carrying you and smelled atrociously, so I sent him next door to my room to change. I was afraid you might be alarmed if you woke and saw him.”
    He spoke of sending Ruel off as if he were a naughty little boy, and yet she could not imagine the man she had met at Zabrie’s tamely going off at anyone’s command. Her gaze flew to the darkness beyond the window across the room. “What time is it?”
    “Almost one o’clock in the morning. As I said, you had yourself a bit of a nap.”
    She struggled to a sitting position. “I have to get back to the bungalow.”
    “You can stay here