Victoria eyed him warily. “Well, that is certainly a better attempt.”
“I want to pledge me loyalty to ye, for the way ye helped me back to health. If it was nae for ye, I’d be in me bed of dirt right now.” He paused, lifting his hand as though he wanted to touch her, only to drop it again. “I owe ye me life, lass. That means I’ll protect yer life with what ye gave back to me.”
She took a moment to properly scrutinize him, to make sure that he was genuine in his words. His handsome face had softened to a sweet expression, one eyebrow partially raised in anticipation, while the firelight reflected in his entrancing brown eyes. It was hard to believe that he had ever shown her any malice, for there was not a trace left of it on his features. The monster she had briefly witnessed had evidently been bridled.
She laughed awkwardly. “If I asked for a life every time I healed someone, I might be suspected of being a witch.”
“That would explain why ye’re so bewitchin’,” he replied, his smile widening.
She ignored him, feeling suddenly flustered. “You do not need to give me your loyalty, Mr. McKay, nor do I need you to protect me. Aside from people in need, I do not have many visitors to my house. I am in no danger of an unseen enemy creeping up on me.”
“Then… what can I give ye?” His voice held a strange, weighted note that only increased the burn in Victoria’s cheeks. Thanks to her unruly dream, she had several inappropriate ideas of how he might show his gratitude, but she would rather die than entertain them aloud.
Clearing her throat, she replied, “Friendship. That is what I would ask in return, for though I have my beloved Genevieve at my side, I do not have many people that I can call friends. I believe that would be a fair exchange.”
He grinned, looking so utterly endearing that Victoria could have eaten him up.
“Friendship. Aye, I can do that.” He ran a hand through his russet hair, his nightshirt lifting to reveal his muscular calves, while his sleeve rolled back to expose a sturdy, corded forearm that prompted her to swallow nervously.
I suppose I would feel protected, were I wrapped in those arms.
She brushed off her wayward thoughts. “Let us start again, as if we had never met.”
“Aye, let’s start again, like ye never saw a flare of temper out of me,” he replied, offering his hand.
Gingerly, she put her own hand out, and let him take it. Her heart thudded like a caged bird, desperate for escape, as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. His lips were just as soft and sensual as she had imagined.
Chapter 9
The tentative truce began the very next day, when a washed and dressed Camdyn limped into Victoria’s private study shortly before noon. The door stood open, so he had not thought to knock. However, as he stepped across the threshold, he halted in his tracks. Victoria was crouched beside a young woman and a little girl, applying some kind of thick, yellowish substance to the child.
“Oh…” he said involuntarily, prompting Victoria, the woman, and the child to turn and stare at him. “I… uh… dinnae realize ye had company.”
Victoria continued to slather the substance on the child’s body. “Do not stand there like a gooseberry. Come in and serve some tea to Mrs. Donnelly here.”
Not wanting to appear rude, Camdyn did as she asked, though he only had a vague idea of how to pour the tea so the leaves would not topple into the cup. Adding a dash of milk, he carried the cup and saucer over to the young woman, whom he presumed to be Mrs. Donnelly. She took it from him with a nervy smile.
“Thank ye,” she said.
He nodded. “Nay bother.” Awkwardly, he gestured to the little girl. “What’s wrong with the bairn?”
“A rash, Mr. McKay,” Victoria answered, without pausing in her work. “I am applying a salve to heal the sores, and I will give some to Mrs. Donnelly that is to be applied to the skin, to prevent the rash from returning.”
“It smells somethin’ rancid.” Camdyn wrinkled up his nose.
“Most remedies that work tend to smell awful.” She chuckled, as she finished rubbing the salve into the girl’s skin. “Now, Becky, you must promise that you will not scratch. I know it will be difficult, but I can give you a small treat if you say you will do your best.”
The little girl nodded effusively. “Aye, I’ll nae scratch, I swear!”
“Excellent.” Smiling, Victoria washed her hands in a basin and plucked a wooden box off a nearby shelf. Opening the lid, she took out a little canvas bag and handed it to the girl.
Eagerly, the girl opened it and took out a pink-colored, flattened sphere. Camdyn had no clue what it was, but the child seemed delighted, and promptly bit into it. Flaky debris crumbled away from the delicacy, and the little girl squealed with happiness.
“What’s that?” he asked, intrigued.
“A macaron, Mr. McKay. Genevieve makes the finest ones in Scotland, I should imagine.” Victoria flashed him an amused look. “Mrs. Donnelly, this is the salve I just used. Make sure you apply it every morning and night, and whenever Becky is particularly itchy. In a week or so, the rash should have gone away entirely.”
Mrs. Donnelly took the proffered jar of salve. “Thank ye, M’Lady. Ye’re a wonder, ye really are.”
“I am just doing what I can, Mrs. Donnelly.” Victoria seemed to radiate in this environment, her green eyes filled with a contentment and a confidence that Camdyn found compelling.
A few minutes later, she had ushered the Donnellys out of her study. Camdyn watched her as she sank down into an armchair and heaved a sigh of relief, stretching out her legs. He caught sight of a slender, stockinged ankle as her skirt rode up, and felt a sudden urge to kneel at her feet and remove her shoes, so he might massage the tension out of her limbs. Fortunately, he resisted, choosing to sit down on the chaise-lounge instead.
“I was nae sure if Genevieve were teasin’ me, when she said ye see people every day,” he said. “Makes me wonder why they cannae just call ye a physician and be done with it. Ye do what a physician does.”
Victoria chuckled drily. “That would mean accepting that a woman can do the same employ as a man and can do it just as well. I do not think that is likely to happen in my lifetime.”
“Still, seems a shame to me.” He shifted on the chaise, to alleviate the pressure from his abdomen. “Where do ye get all yer medicines and stuff from?”
“I make them,” she replied, as though it were nothing at all. “I forage for the herbs and roots where I can, and I buy what I cannot find myself. After that, I concoct my tonics and salves and tinctures, and replace them when they have fouled.”
Camdyn’s eyes widened in surprised. “They must pay ye a fair sum then, if ye’re puttin’ all that work into yer healin’.”
“I only charge the wealthy.” She rubbed the back of her neck, inciting that urge in Camdyn to go to her and offer a massage. It took all of his willpower to remain in his seat, for he did not think she would welcome such an offer.
“Those two dinnae pay?”
Victoria shook her head. “I never take money from those who cannot afford it. That is why I am visited by so many of the homeless and poor of Inverness, because they know I will aid them when others will not.” She smiled across at him. “It is the least I can do, considering the good fortune I have been given in life. It is my duty to share the wealth, even if I cannot do it in a monetary capacity.”
“Well, ye must either be daft in the head, or ye’ve got a good heart.” He laughed, admiring the way she looked as she reclined in the armchair, her lips slightly parted.
“I hope it is the latter,” she said, turning her gaze up to the ceiling. “Instead of money, they sometimes give me small gifts: eggs, honey, meat from their hunting excursions. Others give me their gratitude and respect.”
Camdyn clamped his hand to his chest. “Och, ye got me there, but I probably deserved it.”
“Not at all, since we have decided to begin afresh.” She returned her gaze to h
im, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “There is value in the respect and loyalty of others. You see, that is why I told you I did not need your protection, for I know that if I were ever to find myself in trouble, I have friends all over Inverness who would assist me.”
“Aye, I bet ye’ve all sorts of fancy friends. All them Sassenach lords and ladies that built these nice houses, eh?” He had meant it in jest, but Victoria’s expression darkened unexpectedly.
“The English, believe it or not, rarely associate with me unless they are desperate for medicinal aid,” she explained, her tone cool. “They do not trust me because I am acquainted with so many Scots, while the Scots I tend to do not seem to have any issue with my Englishness. With a few exceptions, of course.” A flicker of that former lightness came back to her face.
Ach, she’s goin’ to enjoy teasin’ me for what I did afore, I can tell.
And he did not mind one bit, for he rather liked the way it transformed her into a girlish cherub, full of giggles and smiles.
She sighed, twirling a strand of golden hair around her index finger. “If my husband could see me now, he would expire all over again if he knew I was letting the lower classes into his home. And, not only that, but treating them in his old study and taking no pay for my troubles!”
“What happened to him?” Camdyn regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. All of the youthful joy that had graced Victoria’s visage melted away, leaving behind a sad, stoic echo.
Her gaze met his, and she shook her head slowly. “That is a story for another day, Mr. McKay. There are more unfortunate souls downstairs, and I would not prolong their suffering.” With that, she called for Genevieve to send the next patient up.
He realized, in that moment, that she was carrying some scars of her own. Painful ones, that she evidently did not want to tear open anew. It left Camdyn wondering, with a heavy heart.
Then who fixes ye, lass, when ye need healin’?
As Victoria toiled through a morning’s worth of patients, she stole discreet glances at Camdyn. He had positioned himself on a chair beside her shelves of medicine, watching her work with a quiet intent.
He looks… charming with his hair freshly washed.
She admired the new glints of auburn in his clean locks, tied back off his face with a length of string. It exposed more of his corded throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with every swallow, bringing her eye down to the white shirt that concealed his sculpted chest.
The sight of him on that chair, his legs wider than might have been polite, causing the wool of his laundered kilt to sag between his thighs, brought back memories of her feverish dream of her lying down with him before that lakeside fire. If she were to duck down to retrieve one of her tonics from the floor, and turned her head slightly, she knew she would be able to see beneath the tartan.
What is that matter with you! she scolded herself.
Feeling warmth in her cheeks, she turned back to the fisherman’s wife who had been experiencing some unexpected pains as her abdomen swelled with child. Pressing firmly across the mound, she felt a sudden kick against her hand, and a sad smile crested her lips.
How blessed you are to be given this gift of creating life.
For there was another reason she had not been able to rid herself of that heated dream. During her marriage, she had never made love. She had coupled with her husband as a matter of duty, in the hopes of creating a child of her own, to bring some joy back into her world.
When ten years had gone by without conception, her husband had simply… given up. He had shown her a distant sort of affection—a peck on the cheek, a squeeze of the shoulder, a hand upon the small of her back when they retreated to their separate bedchambers. But they had not joined together in their marital bed for at least a year before his death. She could not even remember how it felt.
Until that dream… though my encounters with my husband never felt like that.
She swallowed thickly and tried to avoid stealing glances at Camdyn, as she returned her focus to her patient.
“The child is kicking, which shows it is strong. That may be why you are experiencing pains,” she said.
Mrs. Ferguson smoothed a hand over her belly. “Me husband swears blind it’s goin’ to be a lad, but I’m nae so sure.”
“I would advise complete bedrest for at least a week, if you can manage it, to help with the complaint in your lower back.” Victoria picked up a small bottle of herbal tonic and handed it to the woman. “And take a spoonful of this, twice a day.”
Mrs. Ferguson eyed the liquid, which glinted a deep red in the morning sunlight. “What is it?”
“A blend of berries and herbs, to improve your vitality.”
Mrs. Ferguson took the bottle. “Aye, I could do with some of that, M’Lady. And I’ll try and do what I can about the bedrest, but with two other bairns runnin’ wild, it will nae be easy.”
“If you would like me to speak to Mr. Ferguson, I could come to your cottage and speak with him? It is of paramount importance that you stay off your feet for a while,” Victoria replied, knowing she was asking a great deal. A wealthy patient would have heeded her advice without flinching, but the poorer folk did not have the luxury of remaining idle when they had mouths to feed.
Mrs. Ferguson shook her head. “I’ll talk him round, M’Lady. He’s still… sore toward the English, ‘cause of Culloden.”
“Ah… I see.” Victoria stood and went to one of her mahogany cabinets. Pulling out the top drawer, she removed one of the small pouches of coins that she kept in there for this sort of occasion. “Well, take this and use it to bridge the deficit you might incur by not working for a week. Tell your husband it came from…” She glanced over at Camdyn. “Someone who was also close to the Jacobite cause.”
Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes widened. “I cannae take yer coin, M’Lady.”
“You can and you must, for the sake of your unborn child,” Victoria insisted, folding the pouch into Mrs. Ferguson’s hand.
“I dinnae ken how to thank ye.” Mrs. Ferguson clutched the pouch and the tonic to her chest.
Victoria smiled. “Rest well, give birth to a healthy baby, and that will be thanks enough.”
After embracing the fisherman’s wife in a fond farewell, Victoria went to the window and watched the woman leave through the front gate. Behind her, the carriage clock chimed midday, which meant there would be no more patients until she began her afternoon hours at two o’clock.
“That were kind of ye, lass.”
Victoria jumped in alarm as she found Camdyn standing behind her, following her gaze out of the window. He stood a good two heads taller than her, his shoulders so broad that they cast a shadow over her as she stood there, inhaling sharply at his proximity. If she took but half a step back, her own narrower shoulders would press against his chest.
I wonder if it would feel the same, in real life, to have him slide his arms around me?
She did not dare to look back, lest her eyes give away her shy desire. But he was so close… so very close. She could smell the scent of lavender soap on his skin, overwhelming her senses. Not for the first time, she felt that feverish heat prickle up the back of her neck, prompting her breath to come in sharpened rasps.
“Are ye unwell, lass?” Camdyn’s voice carried the weight of concern.
Steeling herself, she finally turned. “Some days, healing so many patients can be tiring. That is why I take two hours for my luncheon.” It took all the willpower she possessed to get the words out cleanly, for his warm, umber eyes threatened to steal all sense from her mind. And those honed arms, the muscle visible beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, did little to help her steady her racing mind.
“Here, ye should sit yerself down.” Camdyn took her by the elbow and ushered her toward the chaise-lounge. His touch was surprisingly tender, his fingertips adding pressure, but not so much that it would hurt her.
He sat beside her, and grabbed a woven wool blanket from the back
of the chaise, draping it carefully over her legs. Victoria sat stiff, trying to urge her breathing to return to normal, before she actually fainted. With her stays so tight, and the whalebone restricting her lungs, it was a perilously common occurrence in women.
She lay her head back and closed her eyes, gripping the slightly coarse fabric of the blanket to try and anchor herself into a more relaxed state. Her breaths were beginning to return to normal, when she felt fingertips brushing strands of hair away from her throat.
Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 7
