Wild Irish Girl

by C. B. Halverson

  We ducked into a coach with Lord Weston and Christine close behind. Christine was slurring and shaking her head back and forth. Someone must have drugged her. Even with all the wine, she would never act this way. I made to tell Lord Weston, but the words caught in my throat, the effort far too much.

  Saeed took off my mask and made a low sound in the back of his throat, pressing his silk scarf to my temple. I closed my eyes, the pain threatening to drag me under.

  “Is she all right?” Lord Weston cried.

  “I told you the Gathering was no place for ladies!” The sultan’s low baritone resonated in my ear, and through the fog of my split head, I realized he had just spoken in perfect King’s English.

  “She’s going to need stitches,” he said.

  “We’ll take them back to my apartments,” Lord Weston replied, rapping on the roof and calling out instructions to the driver.

  “Who…?” I whispered, my throat dry and scratchy.

  “Shh…” the sultan whispered. But not the sultan. Who was this man? Before I could puzzle it out, a wave of darkness swept over me.

  When I opened my eyes again, I lay upon a strange bed, propped up by several pillows. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a clock chimed. My gaze focused on the sultan stooped over the side table, pulling instruments out of a large black doctor’s bag. He had rolled up his sleeves, and his dark hair shrouded his face. He turned to me, a large needle in his hand.

  “You have a small gash on your forehead,” he said. “It will require stitches.

  I shrank away, shaking my head. “Who are you?”

  He paused and then looked down at his medicine bag, his eyes drifting to the needle he held between his thumb and forefinger. He let out a long sigh. “I am a doctor.”

  “So you say.” The events of the past two days rushed through my mind. Dancing with the sultan, kissing him in the hermitage. The Gathering. Oh god, the Gathering. What had I done? This man had participated in an elaborate charade with that rake Lord Weston, and I had fallen for it utterly. My skin prickled, my cheeks hot. I tried to move, but a wave of dizziness passed over me.

  “The cut will become inflamed,” he said.

  “I don’t want you touching me,” I hissed, pressing my hand to my bandaged head.

  I was such a fool. Arismia wasn’t even a real place. Somewhere in my heart I had known that, but I ignored every sign. I wanted the handsome sultan to desire me, to take hold of me and do terrible things to my body. Memories of my sick fantasy made my stomach churn, and hot tears pressed at my eyelids.

  A sultan? Honestly, Audrey…

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his brown eyes red-rimmed, the lines of his face drawn and haggard. “Please.”

  I blinked, my dry lips parting. “Why did you do it?”

  He paused and then shook his head. “I suppose for the same reason you dress up like an Irish princess.”

  I looked away, my breath hitching in my throat.

  “They would never allow a mere doctor into Warren’s.”

  “Nor a shabby novelist,” I snapped.

  He reached out and took hold of my arm, and I wrenched away from his grasp.

  “Miss Byrnes, please.” He leaned forward. “I never meant for things to go as far as they did.”

  A wave of hot rage surged through my limbs. Things had certainly gone far enough.

  “You think because I dress up like that, because I dance and sing for all those people, that I have no feelings?” I asked.

  His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the blanket, emitting a long, shuddering breath.

  “You think I’m just some doll?” I shouted. “Some toy you can play with and cast aside?”

  “No.”

  “You think I would do those, those things with anyone? I trusted you!”

  He nodded.

  My chest tightened, and I sat up higher, crossing my arms and holding tight to my elbows. “You are a liar. A libertine. A rake. You’re a...a…you’re a liar!” I spat, language failing me.

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I deserve any insult you can throw at my person, Miss Byrnes. I have betrayed you in the gravest manner, and my heart is heavy with a shame no words can describe.”

  He tore off the beard with one violent snap and cast it into the fire. It popped with an explosion of sparks before smoldering out into ash. His eyes returned to mine, and I sucked in my breath with the intensity of his gaze. He had a firm jaw and high cheekbones, and his lips were set in a grim line.

  “I should never have touched you, but please…” He breathed. “Let me see to your wound. I cannot let you leave until I am sure you are all right.”

  I closed my eyes, the pounding in my forehead clouding my thoughts. I would need to see a doctor, but going to a stranger could cause even more scandal. I didn’t know what the consequenceswould be from the events at the Gathering, but I knew I couldn’t afford more rumors.

  “Very well,” I said.

  He stood up, dunking his hands in a basin of soapy water and scrubbing them until they were covered in a thick lather. He dunked them again and wiped them with a bright white towel. Then he submerged his hands into another basin. He raised them, and the smell of chemicals burned my nostrils.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  He flung his fingers violently, the potion flicking off his hands. “It’s an antiseptic.”

  “A what?”

  He took hold of the suture needle and dipped it in the solution. “It will keep your wound from becoming puss-filled.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “Infection is disgusting, yes.”

  “Infec-what?”

  He took hold of the needle and a slip of silk thread.

  “This is going to be painful, Miss Byrnes.”

  “I’m already in pain.” From the ache emanating from my temple…the tight, scratchy feeling in my throat. I wanted to leave. I couldn’t even look at this strange man. This doctor.

  He settled on the edge of the bed and bowed over me. “I will try to be quick.”

  His hands hovered close to my face, and I studied the lines crisscrossing his palms, the calluses on his fingertips. I should have recognized a working man’s hands. Lord knows I had ample opportunity. I shivered, remembering every place those hands had been.

  “Are you cold?” he whispered.

  “No.”

  He reached out to touch the gash on my forehead, and the needle came into view. His hand was gentle, but firm, automatic and impersonal.

  “You must stay still,” he said. “The first prick is the worst.”

  “My mother gave me the same advice about men.”

  The doctor’s lips twitched. “She must have been quite knowledgeable.”

  “She was honest,” I said in an accusatory tone, but then I softened, brushing the hair from my eyes. There was no use raking the man through the coals. I stared up at his deep brown eyes. “And yes, she was knowledgeable. She was revolutionary in that way.”

  “She certainly raised a remarkable woman.”

  “She would never have approved of my choices.” I laughed beneath my breath. “Mother thought novel writing was for vapid women with too much time on their hands.”

  “Then perhaps she wasn’t quite the revolutionary as you recall.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How does she like The Chieftain’s Daughter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because she’s dead.”

  The doctor stilled, the suture needle shaking between his fingers. “Will you take a deep breath with me?”

  I leaned back. “Are you really a doctor?”

  He nodded, and the quiver of his hand ceased. “I graduated from Cambridge. I am a member of the College of Physicians. You are free to check the registrar if you have concerns.”

  “I have many concerns about you,” I said. “For instance, how many glasses of wine have you had?”

  �
�Miss Byrnes, the hour grows late.”

  I lowered my gaze. “Of course.”

  He leaned closer to me, his breath brushing against my cheek. “Take a deep breath with me.”

  I stared up at him, and his eyes locked on mine. Heat pooled between my legs, a warm glow spreading up through my abdomen and to my chest. He knew. He knew the power he had over my body. Not as the sultan, but as a man. A beautiful man with needs and desires as eternal and enduring as the book of Genesis. In the beginning. The heavens and the earth. Adam and Eve. Beneath the costumes and the masquerade, our blood sang to each other, the need to be one overpowering us, crushing us in the quiet room. It was ancient. Primal, even. We both knew it, and the knowledge made me sick inside.

  “Breathe with me,” he pleaded.

  “Yes.”

  He inhaled, and I inhaled with him, the air filling my lungs, steadying my racing heartbeat. We breathed again together, our chests rising and falling in unison.

  White hot pain shot through my head.

  “Jaysus!”

  “You need to hold still,” he scolded.

  “That hurts!”

  “I know it hurts.”

  “How many stitches did you say?”

  He squinted. “Three?”

  My head pounded, but over that, was the sharp pang of the suture needle stabbing into me again.

  “Ouch!”

  The doctor didn’t falter, his hands moving in a delicate dance, his fingers nimble for being so large.

  “Where’s Lady Elliot?” I said, remembering my friend with a twist of panic. With the revelation of the “sultan,” I had forgotten about her.

  “She’s resting,” he said, his breath warm against my cheek. “I’ve examined her, and she should be fine. Someone gave her a sedative, but it will wear off.”

  “Those bastards,” I hissed. “Who would do such a thing?”

  He tore into my skin again, and I sucked in my breath.

  “The Gathering is a cesspool of humanity,” he said. “You had no business there.”

  “Don’t you dare presume to dictate to me where I should or should not go.” My skin prickled, heat rising in my face. “You seemed to have no moral reservations about entering that ‘cesspool of humanity,’ yourself. Do you frequent these orgies often?”

  He didn’t answer, but pierced my skin once more. I winced, taking in a sharp inhale through my teeth.

  “Besides,” I continued. “I was there to look after Lady Elliot. And I failed in that respect, clearly.”

  “You strike me as someone who is forever looking after everyone.” He brought the suture needle past my line of vision, the silk thread glinting in the firelight. “But I wonder if there is anyone looking after you.”

  My tongue lay like dead weight in my mouth, and the muscles in my shoulders tightened, sending a sharp ache up my neck. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Like you did at the Gathering?”

  “I’ve been supporting my father and my sister since I was sixteen years old,” I said in a low voice. “If you’re fancying yourself my knight in shining armor, I assure you I am not a damsel in distress.”

  “I do not fancy myself your knight.” He pulled the silk thread taut, jabbing into me again. “I do not fancy myself your anything, unfortunately.”

  “Good.”

  He breathed out a long sigh, his breath fanning across my shoulder, tickling my skin. He cut off the thread, and took hold of my chin, studying me in the firelight.

  “You will need to keep the stitches clean with a gentle washcloth and soap,” he said. “You shall know they’ll be ready to take out when they start to itch.”

  He turned my face to meet his gaze, and heat flooded my cheeks, my breasts tingling and hot beneath my bodice. The silence in the bedchamber, the proximity of our bodies, the press of his thigh against mine filled me with tension, and I lifted my hand to touch his face. In the last moment, I clenched my fist, shaking my head.

  “What is your name?” I stared into the fire, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  “I am Dr. Joseph Moorland,” he said. “At your service.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Moorland.”

  “You may call on me to take out the stitches.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Will you ask Lord Weston if we could borrow his carriage home?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  He rose from the bed, the clinking of his surgical instruments making me wince as he packed up his medicine bag. When he finished, he lingered by the bed, but I refused to meet his gaze. I didn’t know what would happen if I did. I wanted so badly to be angry with him, but my body responded to his nearness, the massive wall of muscled flesh towering over me. One glance, and I would beg him to touch me again. That could not happen. Not in this life, nor the next.

  “Miss Byrnes,” he whispered.

  “Yes.” I gritted my teeth, my gaze remaining on the coals in the hearth.

  “What I have done is unforgivable, and if I could take back my actions, I would. But...” His voice faltered, and out of the corner of my eye, I spied him white-knuckling the handle of his bag, the muscles straining in his hand. “You were not a plaything to me. Not a doll. I do not expect you to believe me, but I do see you for who you are. A strong, capable, brilliant woman. I hope one day you find someone who truly deserves you. He will be a lucky man, indeed.”

  He turned and fled the room, and I startled when the door slammed behind him. Overwhelmed with the events of the evening and the rush of emotions flooding through me, I gave away to them, allowing myself to sob for ten seconds. Ten seconds was all I ever gave myself to feel whatever I needed to feel. There were too many responsibilities, too many people depending on me to remain strong.

  Ten seconds, Audrey.

  When the footman arrived to see us home, I stood alone in the middle of the room, my heart a stone, my face a blank mask of calm.

  Chapter 6

  Audrey

  I scratched through the last sentence I wrote with an exasperated sigh. My characters never had any problems whispering to me their deepest, darkest desires, but for some reason a great wall had fallen between my thoughts and the page. I had to keep going, keep writing. Christine had said I wasn’t so much an author as a scribe, always scribbling, scribbling. One word and then another and then another until I emerged out of the fog of storytelling with some semblance of a novel. But that day my thoughts wandered out the window, watching the people come and go on Grosvenor Street as they scrambled to flee the growing dark clouds on the horizon. Visions of Dr. Moorland haunted me, and I caught myself beginning a sentence and forgetting how to end it. It had been a week since I saw him, and my stitches itched like the devil. So many times I had started a letter to him asking for his attendance, only to crumple it. The maid could take out my stitches, blast it all.

  I startled as Christine burst into the room, a note clenched in her hand.

  “Oh, Audrey, darling! You will never believe it!”

  I set down my quill, biting the scream rising in my throat. I had a deadline with my publisher to finish my latest novel by the end of the month, and Christine, while so dear to me, would not help the circumstances.

  Christine hopped onto my desk, and I shifted my papers aside. She waved the note in my face.

  “It’s a letter from the marchioness, Lady Isabelle Aberthorne!” She cleared her throat and began again, her voice floating up an octave. “We kindly request the pleasure of your company and that of the wild Irish princess, Roisin, for a small party at Aberthorne Manor.”

  A dull ache began behind my eyes, and I rubbed my temples. “Is that good?”

  “Good?” She swiped my shoulder with the note. “You goose, the Aberthornes are only the most powerful family in England. And I hear their parties are quite the fashionable affairs. Aberthorne is just a short drive from London. We leave tomorrow.” Christine gasped, clutchi
ng at her heart. “Oh, dear. That’s not enough time. We will need to stop at Clarkson’s for new bonnets. Do you think it will be a walking party? There are some lovely monastic ruins nearby…”

  Christine prattled on, but my gaze returned to the unfinished scene on my desk, the paper trembling against the air whipping through the room. I breathed in the smell of rain, the breeze a little warm for March. The thought of playing Roisin for the Aberthornes filled me with heavy dread, and Dr. Moorland’s words echoed in my mind.

  I do see you for who you are…

  What lonely company I had found myself in since coming to London. While The Chieftain’s Daughter had sold out of its first printing, it meant I had spent every night this week singing, dancing, playing the harp, and pretending to be some feral Irish princess. I had spied Lord Weston at several of these occasions, but Dr. Moorland was never in attendance. It wouldn’t have been proper given his station. When Christine inquired about the sultan, Weston flashed me a knowing look before waving her concerns away. I longed to inquire about him in private, but I kept silent. Whatever had happened between us was done and could be no more. I had to focus on writing this new book, or if my father’s recent debts were any indication, on finding a very rich husband.

  “Audrey, are you even listening to me?” Christine scolded.

  I turned to her flashing a wide smile. “Yes, new bonnets. You’re quite right.”

  Chapter 7

  Joseph

  Lord Harold Aberthorne dabbed at his mouth, a single biscuit crumb settling on his navy coat.

  “And this inoculation program will reduce the spread of smallpox across the lower populations, you say?” he frowned, staring down at me from beneath deeply hooded brows.

  “Yes, Lord Aberthorne.” I leaned forward in my chair. I had spent almost an hour explaining the theory of infection and the virtues of inoculation. A headache pressed against my temples, and I sweated beneath my cravat. I had no idea how I was going to explain the prevention of disease to a man who still believed it was transmitted by tiny spirits, but I had to try.