by Meara Platt
Oh, dear.
She dreaded hearing the news. No doubt he would return to the clinic in a temper, finally coming to his senses and detesting her for ruining his hospital project. Would they go so far as to remove him as chairman and take away his dream? He’d be furious. Bereft. And how could he not blame her?
Under those circumstances, she could never confess her love for him. He’d laugh in her face, toss her out on her ear, and demand that she never come near him again. She was clearly the cause of his ruin. “Robbie, please let all be well,” she said in a whisper as the carriage drew to a halt in front of the clinic and the driver hopped down to help her out.
The clinic door was unlocked so she walked in and called for Mrs. Pringle. The waiting room was empty since it was too early yet for patients. “Mrs. Pringle, may I be of help? Do you need me to stock the examination rooms?”
The efficient woman bustled up the steps. “Och, lass. That would be grand. How was Lord Danforth’s ball? Did His Grace attend? Grudgingly, I’m sure. You look a little pale. Did ye get any sleep? We’re out of fresh linens. I’ll scoot over to the hospital and take some from their laundry. I won’t be a moment.”
Frances smiled as she watched the tireless maelstrom that was Mrs. Pringle bustle out the door. She’d miss this efficient woman who was the bulwark of this clinic, always present, always ready to lend a helping hand. No wonder Robbie thought the world of her.
She shook her head and turned with a sigh to attend to her chores. She had just finished stacking fresh bandages in each examination room when she stepped into the hall and saw a looming shadow in the doorway, quite a big shadow that blocked the sun’s rays from shining into the hall. She stopped short and tittered nervously. “May I help you, sir?”
A low, feral growl emanated from the man’s throat.
Stay calm, Frances. Remain in control. But her heart was pounding wildly and she had difficulty catching her breath. Something was off about this man. She glanced around in desperation for something to use as a weapon, for she was alone and needed to defend herself. Nothing in sight, not so much as a walking cane or sturdy mop. A chill ran up her spine. “The clinic isn’t open for another half hour yet.”
“Are ye the fancy pigeon putting wild ideas into m’wife’s head?” He took a menacing step toward her, his beefy hands curling into fists at his sides.
Frances held her ground, determined not to show fear, for this was the sort of man who would prey on weakness. He was dangerous, to be sure. Obviously a nasty drunk, for his breath reeked of ale and the rest of him simply reeked as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks, which he probably hadn’t. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s your wife?” She had to keep this stranger talking until Mrs. Pringle returned and could run for help.
“Mairee Cranshaw. I’m ’er ’usband.” He raised a fist. “And yer the troublemaker who’s tryin’ ta break up our marriage.”
“You are squarely to blame for any difficulty in your marriage.” Her heart was still wildly pounding and a painful ball of fear had lodged in her throat. Had he harmed Mairee? “Where’s your wife? Have you struck her?”
“She said she was leavin’ me.” He appeared despondent, as though he might actually care for Mairee, which he might when he was sober. But he didn’t care enough about her to stop his drinking or refrain from taking out his anger on the defenseless woman.
“Is she hurt?” Frances curled her own fists and tried to calculate the best way to slip past him, her only thought being to fetch a doctor to pay a call on Mairee. Next, she’d call in the authorities. She saw her chance when he took another step toward her, which left him no longer blocking the door.
But as she attempted to run past him, he reached out and shoved her hard so that she flew across the small hallway and landed hard against one of the sturdy oak benches along the wall. She held out her hand to break her fall as she tumbled to the floor and felt a sharp pain run up her arm as it took the full impact of her weight.
The acute, agonizing jolt shot straight into her head and stunned her.
She tried to roll to her feet, but couldn’t. It was all she could do to simply catch her breath. She blinked her eyes to clear her vision and saw Mr. Cranshaw hovering menacingly over her, his big, booted feet mere inches from her prone body.
Trapped against the bench and the wall, she was unable to roll away and could only watch helplessly as he drew one foot back, intending to kick her. But the blow never came, interrupted by piercing shrieks and cries of “Murder!” Bless Mrs. Pringle! She’d returned and was shouting loud enough to bring down the rafters. Mairee’s husband turned and ran.
Frances emitted a sob of relief, not caring that even this one breath caused her vivid pain. The pain persisted as she lay still and waited for help to come, but the danger had passed and all she needed was for Robbie to mend her. She worried that she’d broken her arm in the fall. Perhaps a rib. In truth, everything hurt, but she gave silent thanks because it could have been so much worse.
She closed her eyes, for that seemed to ease her aching body.
“Och, Frances. Can I no’ leave you alone even for a moment without your getting into mischief?” She opened her eyes upon hearing Robbie’s gruff voice and saw nothing but gentle concern in his expression. She knew he was rattled; the thickening of his brogue gave him away.
“Apparently not,” she said with a wincing smile. “I seem to have a talent for causing trouble.”
He caressed her cheek. “Well, life would be rather dull otherwise.”
She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but he’d already turned away to speak to others behind him. She recognized three of the hospital trustees who were standing behind him, their eyes as wide as saucers and gloating expressions on their faces. She ignored them and tried to smile once again at Robbie when he turned back to her, but even that small gesture hurt. “Mairee Cranshaw’s husband did this to me.”
“I know.” Robbie smoothed a few stray curls off her brow, his touch gentle and affectionate. “We’ve got him. I’ve sent one of the doctors to the Cranshaw home with a couple of burly guards. They’ll bring Mairee here if she’s badly hurt.”
He shook his head and sighed, for both of them knew the sot must have struck his own wife, perhaps killed her, before coming after Frances in a drunken rage. “The law grants little protection to a wife beaten by her husband, but Cranshaw struck you as well. You’re the grandniece of the Duke of Lotheil. He’ll be hauled into prison for the rest of his days.”
She nodded. “At least some good came of my broken arm. Or is it a broken rib? I struck the bench hard.”
His big hands slid over her body, his touch so warm and gentle it made her wish for so much more, shocking wishes of nights alone with him in his bed, of hungry kisses in the dark. “I don’t think your arm’s broken, Frances. Just badly sprained. Your rib is bruised. I’ll give you something for the pain.” Ever so carefully, he wrapped her in his arms and carried her into one of the examination rooms she’d just stocked.
“Robbie,” she said in a whisper, “you were meeting with the board of trustees. Why did they call a meeting this early? What have they done to you?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. Close your eyes, Frances. Take a deep breath. I need to be sure your arm’s not broken. This might hurt, but only for a moment.”
“I trust you, Robbie. You know I do.” She did as told and felt a small jolt of pain as he carefully touched along the bone. She gasped several times, but didn’t allow a single tear to slide down her cheeks. It was important for her to appear brave—something she was not—especially in front of the gawking trustees who were peering in the doorway.
“I’ll fashion a sling for it while it’s still sore and also give you a small dose of laudanum to take the sting out of every little movement.”
“Good thing it’s my left arm. I can still write since I’m right-handed.”
His eyebrow shot up as he regarded her in confusion. “You�
��re to do nothing but rest today, Frances. I’m taking you back to Vi’s.”
“But what about the daily reports? Who’ll write them up for your patients if I’m not here?”
He rolled his gorgeous eyes and in the next moment ran his warm hands along her ribs. “Does that hurt?”
“No, your touch soothes me. You have a fine, gentle hand, Robbie. I love your touch.”
He cleared his throat and then lifted her into his arms to carry her out of the room. “Lord Pertwee, will you be so kind as to call for my carriage.”
“Does that mean she is unable to work?” Lord Pertwee asked, the question repeated by the other parrots on the board of trustees with noticeable glee.
“Miss Cameron has already fulfilled today’s duties in accordance with the dare,” Robbie said with a growl. “She restocked the examination rooms this morning, as you can plainly see. I have no other need for her today, so I’m ordering her to return to Lady Brazelton’s and do nothing more until further notice.”
Lord Pertwee muttered an oath. “Why are you so solicitous of the girl? Are you making use of her other than merely as an employee?”
Frances felt the ripple of Robbie’s muscles as he tensed. She knew he was enraged enough to strike the loathsome lord, but striking two trustees in the span of less than twelve hours? Even he would be banned from the hospital and its projects for life. Perhaps banned from ever stepping foot in Edinburgh again. “You’re fortunate that my fists are occupied at the moment,” he said in his most daunting ducal tone, “or they’d already be in contact with your face, Pertwee. You have to the count of three to apologize to Miss Cameron or I shall call you out. My second shall—”
“We’re all under strain, Kintyre! Very well, you have my apologies, Miss Cameron.” He glowered at her and then fixed his attention on Robbie. “How long will you protect this girl? Isn’t it enough that she’s upset our expansion plans, brought scandal to the Cameron and MacConnell families, and now interfered with sacred relations between husband and wife?”
“Sacred? Surely, you jest. Cranshaw is a bully and a wife-beater. It’s time someone stood up to him, and I’m ashamed for all of us that we left the distasteful job to Miss Cameron. I’m proud of her for defending Mrs. Cranshaw. Her husband needs to be placed in confinement so that he can no longer hurt those he’s sworn to love and protect.”
Was Robbie truly proud of her? She doubted it and expected he’d be furiously lecturing her about the foolishness of her interference as soon as they were once more alone.
“Frances,” he said in an aching whisper. “How are you holding up?”
“No pain,” she assured with a nod, which wasn’t quite true but she wasn’t about to give Robbie something more to worry about. In truth, she was comfortably nestled against his hard body and had no wish to be elsewhere.
“Your face is green.”
“A trick of the light.” But she knew she was nauseated and would be useless to him for the next few days while in a laudanum-induced stupor to ease her obvious discomfort. Her arm might not be broken, but it was sore and swollen and in generally bad shape. Her rib was bruised, making every little movement sheer agony.
The trustees knew that she was in no condition to work. They stared at her, tossing glowers to warn that they’d be watching her closely these next two days. They desperately wanted her to lose the dare.
Admittedly, so did she if it meant that her winning would cause Robbie to lose his chairmanship of the board… or his trustee position… or his control of the hospital expansion project.
When would it sink in to his thick head that he should not support her?
But her heart was glad that he did, for his good opinion mattered most to her.
She closed her eyes and savored the wondrous sensation of his body pressed against hers, or was it the other way around? Hers pressed against his. Did it matter? Although her breaths were fairly shallow because inhaling deeply was still too painful, she caught the scent of sandalwood along his throat and felt the heat of his skin as her cheek came in touch with his neck.
The laudanum must have worked its way into her system already and dulled her senses, for there was something exquisitely tender in the way Robbie held her—or was it simply the fact that he refused to put her down—that made her feel as though he wanted to take her upstairs to the small bedchamber beside his office and perform hot, steamy and thoroughly scandalous acts upon her body.
Or was that merely her uninhibited wish?
Why would she wish such a thing? If he took her upstairs to his bed now, she’d be ruined, even though it was only meant to be a sickbed. Right now, she was merely a laughingstock, but in his bed, she’d immediately become an outcast. The only way she could ever be restored in society’s good graces would be for him to marry her.
“Frances,” he said in an urgent whisper, “stop moving against my body.”
Heavens! Was she doing that? Even a small dose of laudanum was proving to be quite dangerous. How obvious was she? Could everyone see what she was doing? “Sorry, I can’t get comfortable.” Lamest excuse ever spoken.
As her head continued to spin, she rested it against his shoulder. Cold air struck her cheeks the moment he walked outside to his waiting carriage. He lifted her in, and to her pleasant surprise, settled beside her instead of across from her. “Didn’t jostle you too badly, did I?” he asked, circling his arm around her waist to hold her close against him.
Too bad Vi only lived a few miles away because she could remain in his arms for hours on end. “No, you’re perfect.”
He eased back and chuckled lightly. “I’m hardly that.”
“Perfect,” she insisted, shuddering to think of the damage she’d caused him. “It’s a good thing you’re not married to me,” she rambled, “for it’s one thing to be burdened with me for thirty days, but a lifetime? I would never ask it of you, not even to save my reputation.”
He tipped her chin up so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “Do you detest me that much?” He frowned. “Would marriage to me be that repulsive?”
She shook her head against his chest, wishing she had the right to remain in his arms forever. “You’re awfully dense for a brilliant duke. Marriage to you would be a dream come true for me. It’s you I’m concerned about. Everyone knows that marriage to me would be a nightmare.”
Frances smiled when the first packet of patient notes was delivered to Vi’s townhouse the following day along with Robbie’s instructions to put them in coherent order and prepare the “bloody” reports demanded by the trustees. He truly hated this aspect of his work and believed with a moral certainty that the trustees were determined to torture him. But Frances knew that the medical staff who worked directly with patients day in and day out would make good use of them. They were a necessary evil, although Robbie would never agree.
Perhaps one day someone with an organized and brilliant mind would use these records to chart better ways to help the ill and prove Robbie wrong.
Frances continued to read his instruction letter and burst out laughing, which shot a pang to her ribs each time she did so and made her laugh and groan simultaneously.
Vi walked in and sat at the foot of her bed. “What’s so funny, Fee?”
“Robbie. I can’t repeat his exact words, for they’d make a sailor blush. I can hear his grumbling impatience in my mind as I read.” She sighed and set the note down on her lap. “Vi, he’s wonderful. How can I tell him that? I’ve been a burden to him all month long. As soon as our time is up, I fear he’ll run as far away from me as he possibly can.”
Vi patted her hand with motherly affection. “Don’t underestimate Robbie.”
She shook her head. “I never do. He’s wonderful, isn’t he? I wish love was an orderly thing that could be put in a neat little box.”
“No, my dear,” Vi said with a mirthful grin. “Love is best when uncontrolled. Robbie keeps a very tight rein on his feelings, but you’ve done an admirable job of shaking hi
m up. It’s time he stepped away from his comfortable existence.”
Frances rolled her eyes. “He thinks I’m a nuisance.”
Vi’s grin turned delightfully wicked. “He thinks you’re beautiful. Haven’t you noticed? I’m disappointed in you, my dear. All those tawdry books you’ve been reading ought to have taught you something about men. Robbie’s subtle about it, to be sure, but the signs are there. The heat in his gaze the moment he sees you, the tension in his muscles as you draw near. He’s a finely built man, isn’t he? I’m sure you’re not the only young woman who’s wished to see him undressed.”
“I’ve had no such thoughts!” But Frances felt her cheeks heat and knew her furious blush was giving her away. “Oh, Vi. Haven’t I done enough to him? And he’s been a gentleman about it.” Needing urgent distraction, she picked up his note once again and continued to read. “He says that Mairee is unharmed. That’s quite a relief. I was so afraid her husband had murdered her.”
Vi patted her hand again, the teasing glint in her eye replaced with sober admiration. “You ought to be proud that you saved her life.”
“Oh, dear.” She glanced up and stared at Vi in dismay. “He also says that Mairee came to him pleading for mercy for her husband.” Frances shook her head in disbelief. “Why would she do that? It was only a matter of time before he killed her in one of his drunken rages. Doesn’t she care that she’s safe while he’s imprisoned? Why would she want him out?”
Vi shrugged her shoulders. “As bad as he was, he gave her a home and put food on the table, probably loved her in his own distorted way. Now she’ll have to make her way alone and without the few shillings he earned in wages. That must terrify her.”
Frances sank a little deeper under her covers, feeling quite foolish for overlooking the obvious difficulties that a woman like Mairee, one who was truly on her own, would face. “Oh, I see your point. I’ll do whatever I can to help her. Perhaps find a position for her in our household. Maybe Robbie can find something for her in the hospital.”
