Leaning forward, Daisy looked at the place on her ankle that Hunt indicated. “What are those little marks?”

“Adder bite,” Hunt said tersely. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing muscular forearms covered with dark hair.

The two girls glanced at him in shock. “I’ve been bitten by a snake?” Annabelle asked dazedly. “But how? When? That can’t be true. I would have felt something…wouldn’t I?”

Hunt reached inside the pocket of the coat that was still wrapped around her, searching for something. “Sometimes people don’t notice the moment they’re bitten. The Hampshire woods are full of adders at this time of year. It probably happened during your outing this afternoon.” Finding what he sought, he extracted a small folding knife and flipped it open.

Annabelle’s eyes widened with alarm. “What are you doing?”

Picking up her stocking, Hunt severed it neatly in two. “Making a tourniquet.”

“D-do you always carry one of those with you?” She had always thought of him as somewhat piratical, and now seeing him in his shirtsleeves with a knife in hand, the image was strongly reinforced.

Sitting beside her outstretched leg, Hunt smoothed her skirts up to her knee and fastened a length of silk above her ankle. “Nearly always,” he said wryly, concentrating on his handiwork. “Being a butcher’s son consigns me to a lifelong fascination with knives.”

“I never thought—” Annabelle stopped and gasped in pain at the soft cinch of silk.

Hunt’s gaze shot to hers, and there was a new tautness in his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, carefully looping the other half of the stocking beneath her injury. He talked to distract her while he tightened the second tourniquet. “This is what comes of wearing those damned flimsy slippers outside. You must have walked right over an adder who was sunning himself…and when he saw one of those pretty little ankles, he decided to take a nibble.” He paused, and said something beneath his breath that sounded like, “I can’t say that I blame him.”

Her leg pulsed and burned, causing a watery sting of response in her eyes. Fighting the mortifying threat of tears, Annabelle dug her fingers into the thick, brocaded counterpane beneath her. “Why has my ankle only started to hurt this badly now if I was bitten earlier in the day?”

“It can take several hours for the effects to set in.” Hunt glanced at Daisy. “Miss Bowman, ring the servants’ bell—tell them that we need some clivers steeped in boiling water. Immediately.”

“What are clivers?” Daisy asked suspiciously.

“A hedgerow weed. The housekeeper has kept a dried bundle of them in her closet ever since the master gardener was bitten last year.”

Daisy rushed to comply, leaving the two of them temporarily alone.

“What happened to the gardener?” Annabelle asked through chattering teeth. She was overcome with continuous shivers, as if she had been immersed in ice water. “Did he die?”

Hunt’s expression did not change, but she sensed that her question had startled him. “No,” he said gently, drawing closer. “No, sweetheart…” Taking her trembling hand in his, he warmed her fingers in a gentle grip. “Hampshire adders don’t produce enough venom to kill anything larger than a cat, or a very small dog.” His gaze was caressing as he continued. “You’ll be fine. Uncomfortable as hell for the next few days, but after that you’ll be back to normal.”

“You’re not trying to be kind, are you?” she asked anxiously.

Bending over her, Hunt stroked back a few tendrils of hair that had stuck to her sweat-shimmered forehead. Despite the size of his hand, his touch was light and tender. “I never lie for the sake of kindness,” he murmured, smiling. “One of my many flaws.”

Having given instructions to a footman, Daisy hastened back to the bedside. Although she raised her slender dark brows at the sight of Hunt leaning over Annabelle, she forbore to comment. Instead, she asked, “Shouldn’t we cut across the puncture wounds to let the poison out?”

Annabelle sent her a warning glance and croaked, “Don’t give him ideas, Daisy!”

Hunt looked up briefly as he replied. “Not for an adder bite.” His eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to Annabelle, noting that her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Is it difficult to breathe?”

Annabelle nodded, struggling to pull air into lungs that seemed to have shrunk to a third of their usual size. It felt as if bands were drawing more tightly around her chest with every breath she took, until her ribs threatened to crack from the pressure.

Hunt touched her face softly, his thumb passing over the dry surface of her lips. “Open your mouth.” Looking beyond her parted lips, he observed, “Your tongue isn’t swelling—you’ll be fine. Your corset has to come off, however. Turn over.”

Before Annabelle could form a reply, Daisy protested indignantly. “I’ll help Annabelle with her corset. Leave the room, please.”

“I’ve seen a woman’s corset before,” he informed her sarcastically.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Mr. Hunt. Obviously you’re not the one I’m worried about. Men don’t remove young ladies’ corsets for any reason, unless the circumstances are life-threatening— which you have just assured us that they are not.”

Hunt regarded her with a long-suffering expression. “Dammit, woman—”