When Madeline felt Calhoun's hands pick up both her legs to place it on the surface of the bed she hadn't expected him to push her petticoat up until her knee like it was nothing. She tried to stop his hand, but she had forgotten how strong he was. Pushing him away was like dealing with a rock.
"When did you get hurt?" he asked her, his eyes moving from the wound and then looking at her. The blood had dried which was why he couldn't smell it. Not to forget the blood of the man that had been spilt by his own hands which made him not notice it earlier in the carriage and his room, "Speak," he demanded.
"In the maze," she muttered under her breath, "I can take care of myself."
