Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) by Baird Wells Page A

her as a woman and appealed
to a trace of aristocrat inside.
    She ran a finger over a ragged pink
line just below his heart in a bid to ignore the smell, the intimate proximity
of their bodies. It was an old scar, its thickness hinting at severity. “More
serious than a table leg.”
    His eyes closed and he nodded. “Mm.
Would have killed me. Webb shot the bastard in the head and caused the ball hit
low. Kept my guts from spilling out.”
    General Webb was the only person
from home that Ty mentioned regularly and fondly. Olivia wondered absently how
they managed a friendship. She had certainly never been able to. Kate was
rarely mentioned, and Olivia suspected she knew why.
    There were more scars. Smooth,
narrow saber lines, fat cords of healed tissue left by a bayonet. She was
staring; she realized it when Ty cleared his throat. “The attention is
appreciated, but the anticipation is killing me.”
    “What? Oh, oh. I'm...of course.”
She shook her head and picked the knot from a strip of linen around his ribs.
It was doing a less than satisfactory job of holding down his bandage. Why had
they used it in the first place? She pried at the damp wad, crimson almost to
its edges. Fibers had crusted to his skin with dried blood, and Olivia did her
best to pull the fabric without disturbing the wound. This would take some
time.
    “Rip it.”
    “What?” She'd heard him, but she
couldn't believe it.
    “Trust me, it's kinder if you get
the thing over with. Grab it.”
    Sucking a deep breath in unison
with Ty, she pinched the bandage and jerked.
    “Huh!” Ty's fingers bit her
shoulders and he doubled over, resting his forehead against her crown. After a
moment, his chest stopped heaving and he sat up.
    Of all things, he smiled. “Thank
you.”
    Her trembling arms relaxed. This
was not her area of expertise. “We'll see if you feel the same tomorrow.
Ready?”
    “All that I can be.”
    Pressing her finger along the gash,
Olivia worked to get a sense of what was wound and what was blood. Once she
felt certain, she pinched both sides of the crescent together with one hand and
retrieved her needle with the other. Digging teeth into her lip, she pierced
Ty's flesh bracing for a groan, a wince. He was still. She glanced up at his
face, expecting to find discomfort. His expression was flat, fixed on the
mantle but far away.
    Looping the needle, she pulled the
amber gut through tissue, daring three more stitches before she looked up
again. Now he faced her, neck craned to observe her progress. “You have lovely
fingers.”
    Outwardly ignoring the remark,
preening inside, she waved the needle. “Doesn't this hurt?”
    He half shrugged. “It smarts at
first. After a pass or two, there's numbness and it all tends to feel the same.
Also, gin.” His grin was crooked.
    “How could I forget?” Anxious to be
finished, she pulled the last two stitches through. “That's good. Even better,
I'm done.” Relaxing her shoulders, Olivia surveyed her handiwork and plucked a
small pair of steel shears from her case. She knotted the twine and snipped off
its tail, taking her time to avoid his eyes.
    Ty craned his head left and right,
examining the result. “Not half bad, Dimples. Perhaps I'll keep you around
after all.”
    She glanced up, ready with a sharp
retort, and stopped. His gaze stole her words, warm and steady. She could rest
fingers at his throat, run them over his chest, the flat plane of his
stomach...
    And be dismissed for it. Shamed
for it . The voice doused her in shame and common sense. Throwing the shears
back into the box harder than intended, she rolled back onto her heels and got
up. “In my opinion, you'll live.”
    “I agree with you now .” He
shook the decanter, then placed it back on the side table. “In a few hours,
however, I will undoubtedly feel otherwise.” He rolled back onto the bed with
masculine grace, stretching slowly out along the quilt. “Coming to bed?”
    His question tugged at something in
her