CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rafe’s hand felt as if he had thrust it deeply into a well-tended bank of coals. He sat against the side of his bed aboard El Verdad and struggled not to cry out as Claudio meticulously followed his instructions, bathing and dressing the gruesome wounds.
The entry gunshot had nearly severed his thumb, leaving it attached by only scraps of sinew and exposing a broad, bloody gouge of raw meat at the juncture of his wrist. The exit wound looked less severe, but Rafe suspected it had meted forth the worst of the damage, severing tendons and ligaments, crippling at least the last three fingers, if not his forefinger as well. He could not move them much to be certain; every attempt left him breathless with shocking pain. Between the two wounds, he knew he would be damn lucky if fever did not settle in and ultimately cost him the hand altogether―if not his life; at best, he might hope to retain at least a modicum of mobility and function.
Either way, it did not matter. His hand was ruined, and so was his life as a physician. He knew it, and Claudio apparently knew it, too. Rafe could tell by the gentle sympathy in his eyes, the abashed way he dared not look Rafe in the face for too long.
Claudio paused as Rafe hitched in a whimpering breath, despite his best efforts not to. He had not wanted to alarm Claudio, or upset Kitty any further, as she sat within ready ear shot on the bench by the stern windows. “I am sorry, hijo,” Claudio said softly. He had bathed Rafe’s hand with an herbal preparation at Rafe’s direction, and had begun to carefully stitch the gaping maw beneath Rafe’s right thumb.
“It is fairly well like darning a sock,” Rafe had tried to offer, as Claudio had looked apprehensive and somewhat intimidated by the notion.
“It is alright, Claudio,” Rafe said, his voice ragged and somewhat breathless. He nodded once, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Kitty remained unaware of his distress. “Do…do not stop. You are doing wonderfully.” He forced a weak smile. “You should be a surgeon.”
There were some significant blood vessels underlying the immediate area where he had been shot, and Rafe had bled profusely. He had known that direct pressure alone would not suffice, and Claudio and the crew had watched in helpless, horrified fascination as he had drawn the strap of a belt around his arm, cinching it tightly between his teeth above the crook of his elbow to staunch the blood flow. He felt weary and lightheaded yet for the loss, and it took all of his resolve not to swoon with each swell of pain as Claudio prodded against the edges of his wounds with a needle.
“I will stop awhile,” Claudio said. “Let you rest. You need―”
“No.” Rafe shook his head. “It…it must be immediately done, Claudio. As soon as possible, or not at all.” Again, he tried to smile. “It is alright.”
In the end, he had been unable to bear the persistent pain. By the time Claudio had closed the wounds as best as he was able, Rafe had slumped sideways against the bed, his mind reeling. He was dimly aware of Claudio settling him against his back, drawing a blanket about him, and when he tried to murmur in protest, to insist that he was fine, the older man stroked his hand gently against his face. “Sleep, Rafe,” he said.
He had dozed fitfully until Kitty came to him. He stirred as he felt her slight weight settle against the bed, and the delicate friction as her fingertips danced against his chest. His shirt had been soaked in blood, and he had removed it, sleeping in nothing but his breeches. She touched him, her fingers trailing against the muscles of his abdomen, lighting against the bruised places where Cristobal had pummeled him.
He opened his eyes and found her sitting beside him. She had been wearing the tattered remnants of a nightgown upon her rescue, but she had removed it before coming to him, and sat before him, nude and breathtaking. He reached for her with his uninjured hand, the one still cuffed, and drew her face down to his own.
He kissed her, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against hers, drawing her in deeply. He forgot his pain momentarily as heat stirred within his groin. Kitty leaned over him, kissing him, and shifted her weight as he eased her against him. Her leg slipped over his hips and she straddled him, pressing against his mounting arousal and stirring him even more. He reached between them, pushing the blankets away, fumbling with the ties of his breeches. She kissed his mouth, then let her lips trail along the line of his jaw toward his throat. She helped him unfetter his waistcord, and he raised his hips slightly as she pushed the breeches down, releasing the hardened length of him from their tight confines.
He moved his right hand without thinking; it lay beneath layers of swaddling beside him, and he raised his arm, wanting to touch her. The effort sent a spear of pain shuddering through him and he gasped sharply. Kitty kissed him, catching his whimper of pain against her tongue, and when she lowered her hips against him, drawing her into her warm depths, he whimpered anew, the pain forgotten.
He cupped his uninjured hand against her breast as she began to move against him, undulating her hips and marking a gentle but insistent rhythm. He moaned, moving with her, matching her pace as she quickened against him. He stroked her body, sliding his hand from her breast to her waist, to the curve of her hip and the length of her thigh, and upward again, at last splaying his fingers against the firm swell of her buttock, clutching at her as she drove him to a powerful, shuddering climax.
She lay beside him afterwards, tucked against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder. He closed his eyes, exhausted, holding her near to him and breathing in the soft, sweet fragrance of her hair. “Te amo,” he whispered to her, kissing her pate. “Con todo de mi corazón.” I love you with all of my heart.