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“No, you will go back to the carriage and wait for me to return,” he hissed as his side gave a sharp ache.

She looked past him and addressed the bar wench. “Can you bring us a shot of your strongest whisky, please? My brother is hurt.” She threw him a meaningful gaze at the word ‘brother.’

“Did you not hear what I just said?” Adam growled.

“What’s the harm?” Beatrice insisted. “You need your wound taken care of, and we need to find your watch. The patrons are not here anymore. I am not in any kind of danger, am I?”

“She doesn’t seem to listen to you at all,” one of the men said as he lifted the chair and plopped it back on the floor.

“No, she really doesn’t,” Adam murmured.

“Here.” The bar wench slammed a shot of whisky by Adam’s elbow. “Is there anything else you need? Perhaps to ruin the pub even more?”

“We shall happily pay you for all the damages,” Beatrice hurried to answer as she rushed to his side. “My brother, here, is actually… ahem… a very successful merchant. Your kindness will not go unrewarded.”

“Merchant?” Adam mouthed silently, and Beatrice just shrugged her shoulders.

“You don’t look like no merchant to me,” the barmaid said with a huff.

“Sounds like a toff,” the other man commented as he continued cleaning the space.

“We had to adopt the accent for our business,” Beatrice said with a smile. “Didn’t we, brother?”

Adam almost rolled his eyes. He did tell her to pretend to be a commoner. He had only himself to blame. But Adam didn’t know whether revealing he was a viscount’s brother would help them at the moment as the owners of the pub seemed to have a certain disdain for aristocracy. “Yes, and my sister is right. We shall gladly pay for all the damages,” he agreed.

“Then where are you hurt, love?” the barmaid crooned with a softer tone of voice.

“I can take care of it,” Beatrice said, taking the shot in her fingers. “Do you happen to have clean linen as well?”

“There might be some in the back.”

“Can you bring it, please?”

“Yes,” the barmaid huffed. “Are you sure you know what you’re doin’, love?”

“Yes,” Adam added in a voice laced with sarcasm. “She knows how to do it. She’s read all about it.”

“I have read all about it,” Beatrice said sharply and started tugging on his shirt.

“A clever one, isn’t she?” The barmaid smirked as she walked away. “I can’t read a word.”

Adam barely registered the woman’s words because Beatrice’s small hands kept tugging at his shirt, trying unsuccessfully to pull it out of his waistband. What was more distracting was the fact that she had to bend down to do it. And the view of her fumbling with his waistband as he stared at her bent head sent erotic visions to his intoxicated mind.

“Let me do it.” Adam covered Beatrice’s hand, and she looked up at him.

“I am quite capable—”

“I know, you’re…” Adam pushed her gently away. “You don’t have to argue about everything.”

He tugged on the shirt and freed it from his waistband in one swift motion, ripping the fabric as he did so.

“See, I would’ve done it gentler,” Beatrice insisted, and Adam stifled a groan, imagining her tender touch on his abdomen.

“I am certain you would have.” He perched on the table nearby and studied his wound. It was shallow, just as he imagined. And it had partially closed and was covered with dried blood.

“Let me see.” Beatrice pushed his hands away and touched the skin around the wound.

His muscles jumped.