But before she could wave off Piper’s question with a noncommittal answer, Felix entered, sending the small bell over the door swinging wildly—and saving the day.
“Mr. Anderson’s counter is tip-top again,” Felix said. “But it won’t last. He needs to shift things around a bit, so that he’s not bumping into the corner all the time.” At sixteen, Felix’s blond hair and good looks got him plenty of attention with the local girls. His ready smile and willingness to do just about anything won the hearts of all the shopkeepers on Long Acre.
“Glad to hear it. I’m sure he appreciates your assistance.”
“It’s no bother. Besides, I like hearing Mr. Anderson’s war stories. If he killed all the French he says he killed, France would have to be called something else, because there would be no French people to occupy the land.” He smiled broadly, rattling his coin purse. “It doesn’t hurt that he pays well, too.”
Piper chuckled. “With the way you’re saving your money, you’ll be richest man in Covent Garden by the time you turn one and twenty.”
The smile he sent his sister was broad, toothy, and full of masculine mischief. “That’s the plan, big sister.” He turned a slightly more circumspect look in Charlotte’s direction. “Do you need anything else, Mrs. Fielding?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” His expression fell. “That is, if you have time to deliver this”—she held out a bundle—“to Mrs. Taylor.”
She saw the moment he realized Taylors’ home was but five minutes from the Augusta Theatre. His disappointment turned into enthusiasm.
With package in hand, he saluted Charlotte and Piper. “See you tomorrow.”
The bell over the door chimed wildly with Felix’s exit. Charlotte shook her head. “If he ever makes it to the stage, he’s going to charm the audience till no end.”
“And he’s well aware of that fact,” Piper said disgustedly.
They worked in silence for the next half hour, filling orders for early morning clients. After Piper had labeled the last bottle, Charlotte stored everything in a locked cabinet against the wall.
“Perfect timing,” Charlotte said. “You’ve time to make it home before dark.”
“Are you headed to Mr. Whitley’s?”
Charlotte placed the laudanum and a few other necessities in a black medical bag. “Indeed, I am.”
“Would you like me to join you?”
“Goodness, no. You’ve put in a long day as it is. And I suspect your sister, Winnie, is dying to show you her latest masterpiece.” Twelve-year-old Winnie Scott’s talent with pencil and paper was amazing. She could bring any object to life with the use of shadows and light. Charlotte’s shop displayed one of her drawings, a beautiful rendering of a mortar and pestle and a jar sporting Charlotte’s new label design.
“Winnie can wait awhile longer.”
“There’s no need for you to accompany me. I promise to walk straight there and straight back. I won’t be gone more than half an hour.”
Nodding, Piper gathered her personal effects from Charlotte’s office and brought out both of their coats, mufflers, and gloves.
“I must say, I already long for spring.” Charlotte slipped on her gloves and lifted her bag off the counter.
“Don’t wish it here just yet, please. I want to enjoy Christmas first. For the first time since my father left us, we’ll actually be able to have a nice dinner and even a gift or two.”
“I hear your mother’s creations are growing more popular?”
“Yes.” Pride filled Piper’s voice. “The shop where she sells her handbags can’t keep them in stock.”
“How wonderful. I’m so happy for your family.” She pulled the door closed behind them and clicked the lock into place. “I’ll see you in the morning, Piper.”
Her assistant hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want company?”
“Quite sure.” Charlotte waggled her fingers at Piper. “Go home, get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
# # #
By the time Charlotte made her way back home, night had fallen over the city. Thick cloud cover created an impenetrable blanket over what Charlotte knew to be a near full moon. She resisted the urge to tuck her chin deeper beneath her woolen muffler.
To an extent, Piper had been right—she did feel comfortable enough in this area to walk about alone. However, she didn’t confuse that notion with being safe. Although many knew and respected her in this area of Covent Garden, she was careful not to invite mischief by staying alert and avoiding all appearances of weakness.
In the distance, she spotted the simple, white-lettered sign that marked her destination. Apothecary. The tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders since entering the Whitley residence loosened its biting grip. The strain between husband and wife had not lifted in her two-day absence. If anything, it had grown worse now that Mr. Whitley felt well enough to defend himself.
Charlotte’s brisk pace slowed. A man was slumped on the pavement between her shop and the boarded-up bakery next door. He sat with one leg stretched out across the walkway, the other bent at an angle. The brim of his hat protected his face from identification. So too did the long black woolen coat and matching muffler around his neck.
The tension in Charlotte’s shoulders returned in full force. Even though she could not identify him, she knew what he wasn’t—a beggar. Everything about him was too refined for him to be living in the streets. She glanced around, checking the evening shadows as best she could with only lamplight to aid her. Anderson’s lending library, Patterson’s coffee shop, Gertrude’s lace boutique, Tilly’s former bakery—they all stood silent and free of loitering troublemakers and customers. If she cried out for help, would the shopkeepers hear her from their snug, upstairs apartments?
She considered entering through the back of her building, an area normally reserved for deliveries, but she couldn’t bring herself to venture down the dank, narrow alleyway at this time of night. Drawing in a calming breath, she reached into her reticule and pulled out her pouch of pepper. A poor defense, she knew, but she always kept it, thinking it would give her a small chance of escape if thrown in an assailant’s face.
Increasing her pace, she stopped in front of her shop’s weathered door, the color of a cloud-streaked blue sky. The man remained motionless, silent. Eerily so. She experienced a moment of indecision. Should she nudge him? Could he be hurt and in need of assistance? Or should she continue on to the inside her own shop and mind her own business?
“Hello, Charley.” The voice was unmistakable.
A chill started at the base of her neck and swept through her body. Bone deep and breath stealing. With slow, precise movements, her gaze lowered to the source of the too-familiar voice. A voice that belonged to the only man who had ever called her Charley.
The man’s uplifted face revealed itself. Thick, bold eyebrows stood out on a pale, pain-filled face. A once-beloved face. Cameron Adair. What little air she had left disappeared at the sight of Cam—Cameron. Other than a brief glimpse of him a few months ago, she hadn’t seen him for years. But she would have known him anywhere. The shock of seeing him held her immobile, terrified in a way she hadn’t been since the early days of their falling out.
“Charley, I need your help.”
His words, laced with a strain born of hard-fought control, snapped her out of the past and plunged her back into the present. Cameron Adair was sprawled at her door, hurt, needing her help.
She slid her key into the lock. Metal scratched against metal until she heard a familiar click. Setting her bag inside the door, she returned outside. “Are you able to get to your feet?” She managed to keep her voice calm, unaffected. But inside, a violent tremor began and a maelstrom of questions flooded her mind. Why come to her? Where is he hurt? Why show up on her doorstep after complete and utter silence for five miserable years?
Carefully, she folded her arms around her waist and locked her knees before she could humiliate herself with senseless em
otion. She had decided long ago to waste no more of it on Cameron Adair.
Something like disappointment flared in his icy, blue-chipped eyes. “Yes, with assistance.”
“Where are you hurt?”
“Left leg, right shoulder.”
“Let’s get you inside out of the cold, and I’ll hail a hansom cab to take you to Dr. Hollingsworth.”
He shook his head and mumbled, “I’ve been shot. Lost too much blood.”
“Cameron, I can’t—”
“You must,” he interrupted. “I haven’t the strength to go elsewhere.”
She knew what it had cost him to admit to such weakness. And because she knew this about him, an unrivaled fear forced her to his side.
Positioning herself in a crouch, Charlotte took a steadying breath before sliding her arm across his broad back. Blood, sweat, and a masculine scent uniquely Cameron’s filled her nose. She gritted her teeth against an overwhelming desire to inhale deeply.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded once, his full lips pressed into a thin, determined line. Bending forward, he wrapped an arm across her shoulder to brace himself. The new position put them face-to-face, breath-to-breath.
Charlotte tightened her hold on his middle, and they slowly rose until he stood shakily on his feet. “Prepare yourself for a bit of a walk. The room I use to see patients is in the back of the shop.”
“Lead the way.”
One labored step at a time, Charlotte guided them to a small room she used for customer emergencies and minor injuries, or when she worked late and was too tired to climb the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber. She halted beside the small makeshift bed. Easing her arm from his waist, she paused a moment at his side to ensure he could maintain his balance. Except for the fine sheen of sweat covering his forehead, he appeared in control and unfazed by the short walk.
“Rest a moment. I’ll lock up out front and get a light.” She used the distraction of routine tasks to force her nerves into a manageable jitter. After lighting a candle, she retrieved her medical bag and Mrs. Cates’s laudanum. She carried both into the treatment chamber, then lit the two lamps inside the room.
He shifted on the edge of the high bed and pain streaked across the well-defined planes of his handsome face. Bloody, bruised, and achingly, hauntingly the same, but different somehow. His hair was the same deep rich brown, though he wore it longer now. Long enough for the tips to curl slightly. Long enough to run her fingers through the length.
Gone was the lean young man she’d fallen in love with. Even in his disheveled state, she could see his shoulders were wider, his jaw stronger, his arms and legs thicker. The one thing that hadn’t changed was his eyes. A breathtaking blue flecked with iridescent silver.
“Besides the bruise on your cheekbone, what kind of wound did you sustain to your leg and shoulder?”
“Gunshot to the shoulder. Knife wound to the thigh.”
Despite her best attempt to block all emotion, a twinge of anxiety clenched her heart. “Good God, Cameron, what mess have you involved yourself with?” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s none of my concern.” She moved his black, wide-brimmed hat to a nearby trunk. “With the extent of your injuries, you should be seeing a surgeon, not an apothecary. If you cannot make it to Dr. Hollingsworth, perhaps he will consent to coming here to tend to your wounds.”
Putting her hands on his bare flesh would be a torture she might not recover from. She was hoping he didn’t recall that part of her apprenticeship dealt specifically with wound care.
“Bollocks,” he said. “You’re more accomplished than any physician or surgeon in London.”
“You should find a better source of information. I assure you I have no such credentials.” She measured several drops of laudanum into a glass and filled it with water. “Drink this.”
He took the glass and drank, but never removed his sharp gaze from hers. “I don’t have a source where you’re concerned.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber. Charlotte wondered what he meant by his cryptic remark, then scolded herself for caring. She turned away. “Do you understand that in order for me to care for your wounds you’ll need to remove a good portion of your clothing?”
“I assumed as much.” His voice held neither distaste nor longing. It was a simple matter-of-fact statement.
“I’m going to start with your coat and shirt. I cannot guarantee there won’t be pain, even with the laudanum.”
“Understood.”
She set to unbuttoning his coat, an action she’d performed countless times before in the course of her duties. On most of those occasions, her patients were unconscious or near enough. Only on a few rare instances had she been forced to unclothe a gentleman while he looked on. As before, she found the situation unnerving, but never more so than tonight. Knowing the gaze that followed her every move belonged to Cameron Adair made her work through the process with lightning speed.
Moving behind him, she kneeled on the bed to grab the collar and lapel on his good side and helped him free his arm. She did the same with his injured arm, taking greater care. After placing the coat on a peg, she untied the simple knot on his cravat.
“You look tired,” he said quietly. “Long day?”
Charlotte considered not answering him. The last thing she wanted to do was become friendly with Cameron. She recalled all too acutely what it had felt like when he had walked away, and she was not keen to experience that again. She settled for a simple, “Yes.”
“Another patient tonight?”
She slipped the cravat from around his neck, noting the warm damp patches where it had touched his skin. Wadding the limp material, she used it to dab the moisture from his brow, cheeks, and neck. “Another stab wound.”
“Seems you’re having an eventful evening, Charley.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s your name.”
“Not anymore. I’m known as Mrs. Fielding now.”
“Why? You’ve never married.”
“You’re sure of that fact?”
“Yes.”
“I did what I needed to do to keep my father’s business.”
“Ah.” He searched her face, then he focused on the wall behind her. “Did your patient survive?”
Lifting her hands to the two small buttons at the neck of his shirt, she said, “Barely. If you bend forward a little, I’ll help you remove your shirt.”
Angling his body toward her, he stretched his arms out as much as his injury would allow. Charlotte gathered the fine linen near his shoulder blades in her hands and began to inch the garment over his head. Golden, smooth skin appeared, tempting her resistance, mocking her control. Muscle rippled beneath his flesh like a thoroughbred in full gallop. Sleek, powerful, beautiful.
Swallowing back the longing that welled deep in her chest, she finished the task. And immediately wished she had lingered longer over his back, for his torso could easily stand beside any Michelangelo marble in the Royal Museum. Except for the bullet hole spoiling the perfection of his right shoulder.
She watched his chest rise, expanding to an impossible degree. His hand lifted and his body tilted, swayed. “Cameron!” She caught him before he careened forward, and helped him back upright.
He dropped his head in between his hands.
Grasping a nearby newssheet, she unfolded it and placed it on the bed to protect the linens. “Lie down. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Afraid I’ll pass out from the pain?”
“It would be a blessing for us both.”
With exaggerated slowness he followed her directions, revealing the extent of his weakness. She folded his cravat a few times and pressed it against his shoulder wound.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Dammit, Charley. A little warning next time.”
She ignored his grousing and kept the pressure steady for a full minute. “Can you take over? I’ll assess the damage to your shoulder once
I have the bleeding on your leg under control.”
Nodding, he allowed her to guide his fingers to where they needed to go.
“Firm pressure. As much as you can handle and then some.” She opened a glass-paned cupboard where she kept several linens rolled into neat stacks. Grabbing several, she placed them within easy reach before turning back to him. “This is going to hurt.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
She hovered over him, undecided. Should she remove his trousers, rip the leg to get at the laceration, or cut off the entire left side?
“Is there a problem?” he asked in a husky voice.
“No.” She gently gripped the ragged edges of his damaged trousers, ripping them until the hole was large for her to see the deep, six-inch laceration. Carefully, she shoved a compress against the wound, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. Charlotte’s attention roamed over Cameron’s hard body and she experienced an overwhelming need to run. Everything about him was…too much. Too much masculinity. Too much perfection. Too much heartache.
Once she had the bleeding under control, she scooped up his discarded shirt and flattened the bloody material over the palm of her hand. Although somewhat jagged, all the fibers were connected.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to determine if the bullet took a piece of your shirt with it inside your shoulder.”
“What have you decided?”
“You are saved from being tortured by my tweezers.”
On a sideboard sat a basin, a pitcher full of water, and the stack of linens she had pulled from the cupboard. She filled the basin with water, placed it on a tray along with the rolled linens, and carried the ensemble to the small, rectangular table sitting near the foot of the bed.
“Let’s see how you did.” She waited for him to remove his hand before lifting the bloodstained cravat from his shoulder. “The bleeding has stopped.” Plunging a soft square of material into the water, she wrung it out only enough to keep from making a mess on the floor. “This will be cold.”
Night Storm (Bones & Gemstones Book 1) Page 2
