by Anne Renwick
“Oh no you don’t,” she said, tugging a knot into place. “I want far more from you than that.”
Chapter Six
HER FACE GREW HOT. How on earth had she uttered such words? It wasn’t like her to be so moved by the sight of wet fabric stretched across well-formed, broad shoulders.
Dr. McCullough twisted, looking at her over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. She met his gaze, refusing to acknowledge any embarrassment as she took in the stubble of whiskers upon a square jaw, a teasing half-grin and dark eyes. His gaze flicked to her lips, and her pulse jumped, setting something fluttering deep in her belly.
Bandage. She needed to bandage his head injury. Threading her fingers through the tangles of his dark hair and tugging his mouth to hers was not an option.
Isa swallowed. It had been a long time since she’d felt such stirrings of desire. Not that she intended to act upon them. Such behavior would be entirely inappropriate. She barely knew him. She picked up a bit of lint and some flannel. “You’ll need to keep this dressing dry. Eyes forward.”
Bloody and beaten, he’d returned. By water. He might not be Finn, but he was more than a simple doctor. What else did he know about the attacks? She was at a loss as to how to proceed, but he clearly had resources at his fingertips. It remained to be seen if he would share them.
“There,” she said, tucking in the edge of the bandage. “You’re going to have a nasty lump, but your head should be fine. About your knee—”
He held up a hand. “Nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid.” He paused. “Unless you have whisky?”
Perhaps, given inevitable topics, introducing spirits into the mix wasn’t the wisest idea, but it would take the edge off his pain and perhaps loosen his lips. Uncertain, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He’d seen her bare hands and now her feet, why not her ears? Let him wonder.
Anton had left behind a half-full bottle on their boat. Fetching it from a sea chest, she splashed a finger of golden liquid into a glass and set it upon the table. As he reached for it, she placed her hand over the top, and their fingers brushed, sending a faint tremor through her body.
It was a struggle to keep her voice steady as she bargained, “Only if you let me examine your leg.”
He wanted to pry into her secrets? Let him share a few of his own first.
“It’s not a pretty sight.” He hesitated. The worry in his eyes only heightened her curiosity.
“Please.” She rolled her eyes to lighten the mood. “I’m a medical professional. I’m certain I’ve seen worse. Pull up your trousers, let me have a look.”
“Insulting my appearance without even a glance?” His eyebrows lifted, and the corner of his mouth hitched into a smile. “If a woman’s ankles can inflame desire, what might the sight of my calf do?”
Her own laugh surprised her. After months of strain and recent events, surrendering to a bit of inanity felt… marvelous. “How well you seem to know me.” She grinned, then lifted her hand from the glass and pushed a low footstool toward him. “Kneecaps are my greatest weakness.”
“Then you are quite safe. My run-in with a heavy, iron door made quite a bit of reconstruction necessary.” He tossed back the whisky in one gulp. “Very well. You were warned.”
Foot on the stool, he pulled the hem of his wet trousers above his knee. She unwound a length of linen, and her smile faded. His kneecap was… gone. She winced. Beneath a significant amount of scar tissue—still a raw pink—was a vaguely hexagonal shape, impossible to confuse with a natural patella.
“A complete knee replacement,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Experimental and—apparently—not without its flaws.”
He’d sustained quite an injury if such a device had been installed. Moreover, he must be a person of note to have benefited from such uncommon and unheard-of technology. Most surgeons would have amputated in favor of an entirely artificial limb.
She crouched beside his knee, staring as her hands fluttered. “May I?”
He nodded, and she lowered her hands gently onto his leg, palpating the unusual shape beneath the skin. With one hand on his muscular thigh and the other beneath his calf, she extended his leg. A faint grating sound emanated.
She cringed. “How badly does it hurt?”
“Despite the sound, the joint doesn’t hurt. No nerves run to it anymore. But something is loose and catching on a tendon. I’ll visit my surgeon when I return to Glasgow.”
“Glasgow—and the Glaister Institute—is far away.” Straightening, she retrieved a roll of linen from her supplies. “I’ll replace the binding, but a brace would give your knee more stability.”
“What do you know of the Glaister Institute?” Dr. McCullough still slouched in his chair, but the weary look upon his face had vanished, replaced by one of intense interest.
Much. But she didn’t wish to share the details of her dead husband’s career with him. She’d set aside old regrets—or was trying to—and carved out a new and different life. Still, when she returned to Glasgow herself, the only way forward would involve confronting her past. She’d let matters drift long enough.
“I know you work there,” she said, avoiding eye contact as she wrapped the cloth about his knee. A faint twinge of jealousy pricked at her heart. Though life had slammed door after door in her face, she’d never managed to entirely let go of her childhood dream of becoming a physician. For now, her place was here with her people, where she could make an immediate difference in their lives.
She finished binding his knee and took the chair opposite him, placing the table safely between them. It was time for deeper, more pressing questions. What kind of physician investigated the strange and unusual deaths of rural Finn? Few cared much for them, except to enjoy the usefulness of hard-to-kill sailors and fishermen.
Watching his face closely, she took a deep breath and asked. “So tell me, Dr. McCullough, why are you here, risking your knee to work as a fisherman while investigating strange tales?”
“Mention was made of a beautiful, traveling healer.” His eyes sparkled, and he leaned closer. “They neglected to mention that you were a widow.” He glanced at her lips. “Please tell me you’re not keen to remarry.”
“Stop.” She lifted a hand, palm out, willing her pulse to slow. There was no denying that the chemistry between them could easily reach a flashpoint, but she would not allow him to use it to extract information from her. “Flattery is all very well, but I believe we have a situation to discuss? What evidence arrived at the Glaister Institute to bring you to our windblown shores?”
“Very well.” His voice grew serious, clinical, and she lamented that lightheartedness must be set aside. “A piece of skin, by all appearances that of an unknown octopus species. Except microscopic analysis revealed that within the expected layers of epidermal and dermal tissues lay a carbon fiber latticework.”
“Both manmade and natural. A tentacle containing a braided and barbed wire.” She bit her lip. “You’ve no idea why someone would wish to… construct or grow such a creature?” Or target the Finn? But she kept that thought to herself.
He shook his head. “None. But I doubt it’s for good.”
Tilting her head to the side, Isa considered the man before her, setting aside her inexplicable attraction to his rough-hewn looks to analyze the facts. Intelligent and highly educated. Persistent and determined. Scarred, muscled, capable of swimming a mile in frigid water while seriously injured. “You’re more than a physician,” she said, resting an elbow upon the table and propping her chin on her fist to stare. “Far more. But what? You don’t look like a professor…”
Something approaching alarm flashed across his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by that flirtatious half-smile of his. “I do not teach or see patients. I’m currently assigned to a research laboratory where we study the byssal threads of mussels—”
Lies. No man developed such an impressi
ve physique working in a windowless laboratory. He might be attached to a research program, but she doubted very much that he spent much time devising and executing experiments.
“Spare me,” she interrupted, leaning back to cross her arms. Her voice brooked no nonsense. “What kind of scientist investigates mysterious deaths at the hands, no, tentacles of vicious attack octopuses?”
His smile widened. “Or is it octopi? I’m never quite certain.” When she lifted her eyebrows, he sighed and sobered. “I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“Well, that’s better than spinning me falsehoods,” Isa said. “I rather prefer the direct approach. Try asking me for what you want.”
Her heart gave a great thud as Dr. McCullough’s hand tightened upon the glass. He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to hers. Heat shimmered in the air between them. What would it feel like to have his hand wrapped gently about her neck, the pad of his thumb brushing the edge of her chin?
She closed her eyes, pressing a finger and thumb against her eyelids. How dare she let her mind take this beyond a harmless flirtation? She needed to focus. Men were dying. Finn men. “About the attacks,” she added far too late.
His warm hand closed about hers, and her eyes flew open, her heart nearly leaping from her chest. But his words weren’t ones of romance. Not even seduction.
“The scars between your fingers, on the tips of your ears.” His voice was cautious as he tugged her hand closer, studying the space between her fingers. “I saw the same on the dead man, on the woman attending him. A handful of others present at the wedding…”
“Syndactyly is the proper term.” Rough callouses upon his palm scraped hers as she pulled her hand away, sending a shiver across her skin. “It’s a familial trait in the area, but nothing more than a bit of extra skin between the fingers and entirely irrelevant to the attacks.”
She hoped. Two Finn fishermen did not a pattern make. There were likely Scottish fishermen who had suffered a similar fate. Aether, how awful of her to hope that was so.
He tapped a finger on the table. “Your ears?”
Hitching a shoulder, she said nothing. He had his secrets, and she had hers. It seemed they’d reached an impasse.
“Fine. Tell me about the other man,” he stated simply. “The one you were unable to save.”
Careful to include every detail, she recounted the event. Recalling the awful sound of his final breaths sent a shard of ice sliding down her spine. “He died from an apoplexy brought on by the sudden and severe loss of blood via a severed octopus tentacle that had somehow inserted into his abdomen.”
“A tentacle,” he restated. “Just one?”
“Only one. The piece that remained was some three inches in length, complete with suckers. The only reason he died in his bed was because someone tied the end with twine to stop the bleeding. I saw no evidence of wire.”
“Dare I hope you collected a sample?”
She shook her head. “The shock sent his wife into labor, and I became otherwise occupied. His body was removed and later, I have to admit, research was not at the forefront of my mind.”
“Of course not,” Dr. McCullough agreed. “Can you recall the exact location the tentacle appeared to insert?”
“Near the path of the abdominal aorta.” Closing her eyes, she tried to recall any other evidence of an attack. “He was bruised and battered, but I can’t say that any marks upon his body were specifically caused by tentacles gripping its prey.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, each contemplating implications.
Isa spoke first, voicing the obvious. “Why? To what end? Not that it matters. Whoever is orchestrating these vile attacks has to be stopped.”
“I intend to get to the bottom of this.” Regret filled his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t ask you to weigh anchor and accompany me.”
“Of course not.” She stood. Reaching for a nearby canister, Isa pulled out a tin punch card and placed it on the table before him. “I expect to return to Glasgow in the near future. If you hear about more attacks, I’d appreciate it if you contact me by skeet pigeon.”
Dr. McCullough tapped his finger on the card, studying it. As if allowing such a connection to stretch between them—even if the link was nothing more than the tenuous flight of a mechanical bird—held grave consequences. With a nod, he tucked the card into one of his many pockets, then swung his foot to the ground and stood. “I’ll take the samples and be on my way then.”
With twinges of regret, for she’d enjoyed his company, she set the glass vials upon the table. But as Dr. McCullough peeled the damp, woolen blanket from his shoulders, he swayed.
“Your head. Your leg.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back onto the chair. “You cannot go. The next ferry doesn’t leave until morning.” She opened a drawer and pulled out Anton’s old, worn dressing gown and thrust it into his arms, her stomach fluttering. “Take the hammock.” Turning away, she lifted the canvas sling from a chest and clipped its ends to bolts.
“I shouldn’t,” he objected. “The Carrs. Your reputation in the morning…”
She spun about and planted her hands on her hips. “I am a widow, Dr. McCullough. People will assume I’ve taken a lover. That is all.”
Not that she ever had. A few tentative offers had been made, but she’d been grateful to be free of matrimonial demands. Not that they’d been frequent in their last year of marriage and, since Anton’s death, not a single man had set her blood on fire. Until now.
“A lover.” An appraising gleam flared in his eyes.
This man was a dangerous temptation. Every nerve ending tingled, urging her to misbehave. Just this once.
He would be gone by morning and who would know? She would. But to have those calloused hands moving across her soft skin… all that intensity focused entirely upon their mutual pleasure. Her face flushed hot. Such thoughts. She’d leapt blindly into marriage and, although this certainly didn’t compare, such decisions ought to be made with a clear head.
Sensing weakness, he lifted an eyebrow.
Laughing, she waved a finger. “No.” Lowering her defenses and inviting a stranger into her bed was out of the question. At least tonight. “Besides, you’ll be gone at first light.” With steel in her spine, she turned and climbed into her bed, tossing a dry blanket into his hands before drawing the curtains closed. “Do try to get some sleep.”
It would be a miracle if she managed any.
Chapter Seven
IT TOOK ALEC AN an entire day to reach Glasgow. Three hours by ferry to Ullapool on the Scottish mainland, followed by a short trip to Adaroche Park, where he conscripted a sparrow class dirigible from a hunting lodge. The steward grumbled mightily, but in the end relented.
Ten minutes into the flight, Alec rather wished he’d borrowed a horse instead. Harrowing conditions were one thing—he was used to that—but poorly maintained equipment was another. Improperly housed, the bird had been exposed to wind, rain and salt for far too long and had a tendency to buck against a stiff wind before plunging into an adrenaline-inducing nose dive.
Never before had he been so happy to land on the rooftop of his family’s Glasgow home. Leaving the aircraft in the capable hands of Munro, their steam butler, he snuck down the stairs to his room where he peeled off his salt-crusted clothes, stashed the samples, and sank into a hot bath. Warm for the first time in weeks, he finally allowed a most persistent thought to occupy the forefront of his brain.
Mrs. McQuiston.
Hard with desire, he’d barely slept at all last night. Nor had she, for he’d noted the exact moment her breathing had changed, when she’d drifted away. A gentleman would have refused the hammock and departed, but he was no more the top hat-wearing sort than she was likely to hold a lace-trimmed parasol above her head, and so he’d selfishly stayed, waiting, hoping.
That she’d answered the question he hadn’t asked meant the attraction was mutual. He wanted to see her agai
n badly enough that it was almost a need. And he didn’t even know her given name.
The dull, gray gown she’d worn that day had been neatly folded and laid upon a nearby sea chest. Peeking from beneath was the fine silk of her undergarments. A corset, embroidered with swirls that brought to mind a stormy sea, was edged with a ruffled ribbon. As he’d suspected, her plain clothing concealed hidden, vibrant layers.
Lust flared again, and he took himself in his hand, recalling the deep V of her dressing gown and the glimpse of small but perfectly formed breasts as she’d bent to examine the inside of his knee.
He groaned. Time to get past this absurd longing, this wondering of what her deft fingers would feel like in place of his, fingers that managed to be elegant despite their scars.
A fist banged on the bathroom door. “Alec!”
Shit. His sister. “Go away, Cait.”
“You missed my birthday, you big dolt. You owe me. Are you decent? I’m coming in.”
“No!” he yelled, his voice rough with frustration of an altogether different kind. Why hadn’t he locked the door? Reaching for a towel, he pulled it into the water, covering his arousal. Just in the nick of time.
The door cracked. An eyeball appeared. “Aether, you’re a hairy coo! When was the last time your hair met scissors?”
He threw a bar of soap at her—and would have hit his mark had she not ducked.
“Don’t be difficult,” she said, laughing. “You’ve little time to waste. People will be arriving for the dinner party soon. The minute Munro informed Mother of your presence, she began rearranging the seating.” She gave him an evil grin. “Perfect Patsy will be in attendance.”
Miss Patricia Thompson. Daughter of his mother’s best friend. Remembering the parson’s mousetrap she’d tried to spring upon him the last time they met, he swore. “Hasn’t she married yet?”
Once, years ago as a young man home from school, Alec had made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake. He’d plucked a yellow rose from the garden and handed it to Perfect Patsy. Her pursuit of him had since been relentless, no matter the discouragement. A lesson that taught him to be very clear with women from the start that they had no future together, only the present.
