by Karen Ranney
“My days are remarkably serene without someone to argue with,” he said, “or to challenge my every word.”
“I doubt anyone ever challenges you as Dr. Thorburn,” she said. “But I only knew the footman. You were an arrogant footman.”
“I was your equal in arrogance,” he said.
He was also her equal in passion, another comment she would not make.
“How impolite of you,” she said.
His eyes twinkled when he smiled. What a waste of time to be mesmerized by such a sight. She must dust her room, change the linens, stare out the window, and pace the confines of her suite, all worthwhile chores.
“Have you been well?” he asked softly.
He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she shouldn’t have been able to feel it, but she did.
“I am well,” she said. “Exceedingly so. I am the picture of health. As soon as I stand before a fire, I’ll be warm enough to stop shivering.”
“Would you allow me to recommend a physician to you?”
“You think I’m ill?”
“No,” he said. “I think you’re the picture of health. But I want to do everything I can to ensure you stay that way. I would be remiss if I did otherwise.”
She nodded. “As a physician, of course.”
“Or your lover.”
Moving closer to the parlor fire, she took a few moments to remove her gloves, taking her time in order to compose herself. With only a few words he’d destroyed her day, and no doubt her night as well.
“Do you think to call upon me in such a role, Mark? Do you think Aunt Dina would accept if you said, ‘Mrs. MacTavish, I’m here because passion brought me?’ ”
“Are you with child?” he asked softly.
“Is that why you’re here? No.”
He came to stand beside her, reaching for her hand. As her eyes widened, he bent and kissed her bare knuckles.
“That’s not the only reason I’m here, Catriona.”
Just when she thought he would leave, he moved both of the chairs until they were directly in front of the fire, then removed his coat and placed it on one chair. He led her to it and stood there until she had no choice but to sit, then pulled up his coat until it covered her shoulders.
“There, are you warm enough?”
She nodded, bemused.
“We’ve solved the problem of the shivers. Now we need to work on the limp. Why haven’t you been walking?”
She didn’t want to tell him, but she must. “My leg has been hurting too much,” she said.
To her shock, he knelt before her.
“What are you about, Mark?”
He reached for his bag, opened it, and withdrew an amber-colored bottle with a cork stopper. He set it down on the floor, then raised her skirts.
She slapped his hands away, but he only smiled and continued with his explorations.
“You can’t think to bed me here, in the middle of the day. What about the maids? Or Aunt Dina?”
“How adventuresome you are, Catriona,” he said. “I’ve no intentions of bedding you on the settee.” He leaned back, eyeing the furniture’s dimensions. “First of all, it’s much too short and too narrow. I’d never fit.”
She knew exactly how large he was, but she wasn’t going to say such a thing to him.
“Or the floor? Is that what you’re thinking? That might be acceptable.”
She frowned at him, and wished he could see her expression.
He pulled up her skirts again and rolled down her left stocking. She tried to roll it back up, but he held her hands with one of his and grabbed the bottle.
“What is that?”
“Liniment,” he said. “It should take away some of the pain. Do you object to that?”
She sat back.
He poured the lotion on his palm. The pungent odor was strong enough that her eyes watered. She leaned back as he rubbed his hands together, then placed them on her knee. How large and warm his hands were.
Her heart thudded. Her mouth grew dry. Warmth traveled throughout her body, its origin not hard to decipher. He was warming her with his touch and the twinkle in his eyes as he knelt there.
Suddenly, it was difficult to breathe. Perhaps it was just the noxious odor of the liniment. Or was it Mark’s slow and teasing smile?
She looked away but felt his fingers splay around her knee. Was she supposed to sit here meekly and be mauled? He pressed against her skin, the heels of his hands gently massaging away the pain. She closed her eyes, wished he were gone and, paradoxically, would never stop what he was doing.
If no one were at home, would he have seduced her? Or would she have urged him up the stairs and into her room again?
Dina deserved better than to be the subject of gossip.
Her own reputation hardly mattered anymore. She’d never be like the rest of society. She’d be Catriona Cameron, the woman wreathed in black or blue, an object of speculation and rumor. What did it matter if she indulged in hedonism from time to time?
She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to enfold her arms around him and lose herself in the feel of him, warm and smelling of medicine and wild, winter air. She wanted to press her lips against that spot on his temple, the place that would go to silver one day.
“How does that feel?” he asked, bursting her bubble of conjecture.
She opened her eyes and watched as his smile faded. Long moments later the twinkle in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by an expression she could only guess at. Was it hunger she saw?
They were so close she could reach out and touch him, trail her fingers through his hair. Her thumb would brush against that full lower lip, coax it into another teasing smile. Her knuckles would brush against his jaw, her palm against his cheek, feeling the hint of afternoon beard.
Her heart was so full she felt as if she wept inside. Tenderness was a dimension to passion she’d never experienced. Or perhaps what she was feeling had nothing to do with passion.
She clenched her hands into fists to keep from touching him.
He rolled up her stocking, patted her thigh, then lowered her skirt. She was the picture of propriety yet somehow could still feel his hands on her.
“Is that better?” he asked, his voice soft, low, and too seductive.
She nodded. “The pain has gone away.”
He moved back, sitting on his heels. He hesitated, as if considering something and then thought better of it. A kiss? What would she do if he reached over and tried to remove her veil?
Standing, he picked up the bottle and placed it on the mantel.
“Perhaps it would be better if you used gloves when you applied it. It stings after a while, but my hands are tougher.”
“What about the smell?” she asked. “What’s in it?”
“Camphor, I imagine,” he said. “Some herbs, perhaps some alcohol.”
Her leg was still tingling where he touched her, and she doubted it had much to do with liniment.
Take me upstairs.
He took one step toward her then halted, stopping himself before he could reach her.
She stood, and unwisely walked to him, placing her hand on his jacket, above his heart. She felt the rapid cadence of it against her palm, closed her eyes and simply drew in the moment.
Mark, standing there silent and male.
She, wanting him so desperately that it was an ache.
“Take care, Catriona,” he said, the words a benediction in a Scottish burr.
“You, too,” she said, stepping back.
He nodded, bent to grab his bag, and retrieved his coat.
It would be wiser to simply send him away, forget all that had happened between them. But, oh, how difficult that was proving to be.
He didn’t move. Neither did she. Yet the yearning was there for that kiss. A farewell kiss, perhaps. Or a preface to something more?
She watched as he left the room, feeling as bereft as if she’d lost a loved one.
He was a confusing man
in whatever role he played, footman or physician.
She wouldn’t think about him anymore. Whenever he entered her mind, she would banish him. When Dina spoke of him, she would change the subject. If she saw him again she would simply treat him as a polite stranger.
Beginning this instant, she was determined not to think about him.
A decision that might prove to be her most difficult.
Chapter 28
A week had passed since Mark had seen Catriona. A week during which he was frenetically busy, yet visited by too many moments of daydreaming.
Worse, his patients weren’t getting his best. He was distracted, his thoughts on other things. When he caught himself thinking of her, he’d pull himself back to the present.
Passion could bind two people more ably than chains.
Or was that all it was?
He recalled those times sitting at her table, feeling her annoyance and her irritation, wondering at her expression. He remembered her stinging comments and her arrogance masking fear.
What would she think of his grandfather? Of his father? That he wanted to know should have disturbed him.
“Where to now, Dr. Thorburn?”
He realized he had his hand on the door of the carriage, but he’d not given Brody any directions. He forced a smile to his face and gave his driver the next patient’s address.
This had to end. He had to figure out what to do about this situation, as quickly as possible. Either he had to banish Catriona Cameron from his memories or incorporate her into his life.
The thought of doing just that made him smile.
How dreary her prison had become in the last few days.
Catriona stood, walked to the window and parted the curtains. The afternoon was well advanced, the sun fading from the sky. Tonight would be warmer and she needed to walk.
Her leg hurt from her ankle to her thigh, a reminder that she hadn’t been exercising properly. The liniment could only do so much.
From here she could just see the corner of the square. The carriage she’d seen for days was back again, in the same place. Did it belong to a neighbor?
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. When she called out, Elspeth entered.
“Miss Cameron, the duke is back,” she said, her round face flushed with excitement.
Since only one duke had ever called on her, she assumed it was the Duke of Linster.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is he?”
Elspeth nodded. “He’d like to see you, miss. I’m to say whether or not you’re at home to him.”
She sent one more look toward the carriage at the corner before turning back to the maid.
“Tell him I’ll see him,” she said with a sigh of resignation.
“Shall I move the screen?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll see him without it.”
A few moments later, attired in her new midnight blue dress and veil, she walked into the parlor to find the Duke of Linster standing at the window, fingering one of the lace curtains.
He was tall and lean like a sapling, with silver threading through his black hair. But it was his face that betrayed his age, or his love of hedonism. Deep lines bracketed his mouth and nose, while a sunburst radiated around each eye. His lips were thin, and, with his long nose, it looked as if he was forever smelling something foul.
Today he was dressed in black and white. She knew how much expense and effort went into keeping a cravat snowy and perfectly pressed. Did he have an army of servants? What would he say if he knew that she’d once been a maid? The thought of such a revelation brought a smile to her face.
“Why have you come to see me again, Your Grace?” There, she’d dispensed with all the preliminaries. She wouldn’t call for tea. She wouldn’t thank him for calling on her. She wouldn’t, whatever she said, comment on the weather. She’d had enough of those conversations to last her a lifetime.
“You whisked me from here so quickly last time, I cannot help but believe there’s something you’re hiding from me. Is there a mystery about you, my dear?” He turned to face her, his eyes widening at her appearance.
“Are you in mourning, Catriona?”
“Perhaps I am,” she said.
“Perhaps? Do you not know?”
She moved to sit on one of the chairs. The same chair where she’d sat a few days ago and allowed Mark to pull up her skirt.
What would he say to see her now, entertaining a duke?
The fire was burning well, and she stretched out her hands toward it.
The day was another wan one, as if the city cringed beneath the icy grip of winter. At least Edeen and the children would be safe and warm. But all those other children? Were all those other mothers as stubborn and resilient?
She couldn’t save the world.
For the first time, she understood Mark’s comment. He couldn’t save them all. How did he stop from wanting to, though?
“Who do you mourn, my dear?” The duke sat beside her, extending his hand so she might put hers atop it. Instead, she clasped her hands together in her lap.
“I might have told you that I mourned myself just a short time ago,” she said. “I don’t know if I feel the same now.”
“Then why wear that ridiculous veil? Show me that beautiful face of yours. You’ve occupied a great many of my dreams, you know.”
Was he trying to be shocking? Or did being a duke give him carte blanche to say anything he wished? Yet being beautiful had allowed her to bend the rules as well, hadn’t it? She could say anything and be forgiven. Or do anything and be understood. How arrogant she’d been. How foolish.
“Come, we’re friends, are we not? Dispense with that silly thing.”
Had they ever been friends? He’d wanted her because she was beautiful and for no other reason than that. She’d wanted him for his money and his title.
How shallow both of them had been.
The difference was that she’d changed.
“Come, Catriona.”
She was becoming adept at removing her veil, and did so in less than a minute. She lay it down on the cushion beside her, looking up to meet his gaze.
She thought of James and his question. She doubted if the duke would ask if the damage to her face had been caused by dragon claws. No, the Duke of Linster would not be so kind.
“There, Duke, that’s why I wear a veil.”
His face froze in a pleasant expression, but his brown eyes turned flat and cold. His lips thinned, as if he were trying to contain words he otherwise might have said. His posture was rigid, his hand gripping the walking stick so tightly each knuckle was white.
“A little boy saw me the other day,” she said. “He didn’t seem frightened. Are you?”
“I am not frightened,” he said, gathering up his dignity like a muddy cloak. “I am merely saddened by the loss of your beauty, my dear.”
“As time goes by, I find I miss it less and less,” she said, surprising herself. “I was once Catriona, the beautiful. Now I’m simply Catriona. I don’t have to be anything but what I wish to be.”
Who was that? That was a decision she’d have to make soon enough.
“I pity you, my dear. You were once a beautiful woman.”
“I don’t want your pity, Fitzgerald.”
How strange that she’d once wanted him to offer for her. Now, she didn’t think she had the temperament to be the wife of a lecher. He would always have mistresses, and why should she have to endure that?
He was looking everywhere but at her. The curtains again seemed to fascinate him, and the top of his walking stick seemed of immense interest.
She took pity on the man and stood, leading the way to the foyer, unsurprised when he followed her without a word. He didn’t even bother to search his mind for polite words when she opened the door and stepped aside. He only nodded at her, tapped his walking stick on the floor, and donned his hat and coat.
She watched him descend the steps of the town house with a calm
that surprised her.
Good riddance, Fitzgerald.
At the base of the steps he turned and looked up at her as if to ensure that the sight of her face was real and not some delusion. How soon would he spread the word about her? Within the hour, she had no doubt. The Duke of Linster was an inveterate gossip.
She closed the door on the sight of him and retreated to the parlor. At a sound outside the door, she reached for the veil.
Artis entered the room, holding a tea tray piled high with Cook’s pastries. Aunt Dina had been more hospitable than she.
At the sight of her, Artis lowered the tray to the table.
“I’ve already seen you, miss,” the maid said. “You needn’t put the veil on for me.”
Artis went to the front window overlooking the street. “You showed him, then?”
“Yes,” she said. Where had her courage come from?
“There he goes like a dog frightened by an angry cat.”
The idea of being likened to an angry cat made her smile.
“He’s not worth it, you know. Most men aren’t.” Artis shrugged. “Oh, there are a few who might be, but not him. Not the duke.”
“Society would disagree with you,” she said. “He’s wealthy.”
Artis didn’t respond to that.
“Have a great many men fallen in love with you?” Artis asked. “Before your accident, I mean.”
She smiled again. “One or two.”
The maid turned to look at her. “No one’s ever loved me. Certainly not a duke.”
“The duke isn’t in love with me. If anyone, he’s in love with himself. Or his title.”
Artis didn’t say anything further, merely turned and picked up the tea tray.
At the door, she hesitated. “Can I ask you something else?”
She nodded.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Unbidden, Mark’s face flashed into her mind. She pushed it away. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I ever have.”
“A man would go to great lengths to punish the woman he loved. Someone who didn’t love him back.”
“Why all this talk of love, Artis?” she asked.
Artis shook her head and looked down at the tray. “Here I am, taking the tray away. Would you like some tea, miss?”
