"Don't let me stop you," he said, pointing to the bath. "I have time.
In spite of her vow, she hesitated. If he had been on the wrong side of fifty with kind eyes and a gentle smile, she knew her response would have been different. It would have helped if he had a slight paunch or spindle legs. He had none of those things.
The man who had walked into her room was straight and tall, slender-hipped with a way of moving that reminded her of a sleek black cat staking out its territory. His eyes were very nearly black, reserved and watchful as they took in everything about his surroundings. Though it seemed he had paid her scant attention, she felt as if it were otherwise.
He was still in his evening clothes which supported her first impression that an ger was simmering just below the surface of his bored and weary look. There was a tightness to his mouth that did not invite a smile and the hollows just beneath his cheekbones were pronounced.
Obviously, she thought, he had been called away from some social function to tend her and was taking little trouble to hide how he felt about the inconvenience.
There was nothing about this man that made her comfortable.
"Go on," he said more firmly, indicating the bath. "It won't do you any harm and it may even relax you."
He was the doctor. She crawled across the bed while he sat down in the wing chair on the opposite side of the room. Apparently she wasn't moving quickly enough for his purposes because he added in a weary tone, "I'm not going to join you." She moved so quickly then that she bumped the dressing screen as she slipped behind it.
She was miserably disappointed in herself. It was not like her to be skittish. She blamed it on the laudanum that Mrs. Hall had given her, the lateness of the hour, and the doctor's less-than-encouraging bedside manner. She got rid of her nightshift and found pins in a drawer in the wardrobe. Once she pinned her hair so it wouldn't get wet, she eased herself into the tub. She had just closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth, when she heard him call to her.
"I was told you wouldn't talk much," he said, "but I didn't expect complete silence."
She swallowed and tried to say something, but nothing came out.
"Suits me."
She thought it was an odd thing for him to say. She hoped he had something in that black bag of his that would give her back her voice.
She had a few things she wanted to tell him about how he dealt with his patients. She slipped lower in the tub and let the mist touch her face and throat. She remained that way for several minutes, liking the experience too much to rush it.
"Fetching," he drawled.
She was so astonished by his intrusion that she sank even lower.
He was holding a towel above her, an indication, she supposed, that it was time to get out.
"There's no reason to act like a shy maiden in front of me," he said.
"This is professional, not personal." He paused, watching her closely.
"Isn't it?"
She blinked, returned his stare, then nodded shortly. She was thoroughly humiliated that he may have sensed some personal interest on her part. It was probably the very reason he affected such remoteness.
Caught in her thoughts, she barely managed to catch the towel when he dropped it.
"Red," he said.
She couldn't imagine that she had heard him correctly.
"Hmmm?" Grimacing, she touched her throat lightly with her fingertips.
She forced herself to speak no matter the pain.
"Pardon?"
"Your hair's red. There's not much light in here. I wasn't sure.
He paused. "May I?"
She looked at his raised hand, the fingertips just inches from her ear, and nodded. His hand brushed her cheek and she knew he must be getting a sense of her temperature. He did not miss the bruises on her neck either. He touched one of them lightly and said, "You've been treated roughly this evening."
She nodded, wondering how much Mrs. Hall had been able to tell him.
"Good thing I'm here then. We'll see what we can do about that.
You're warm. Out of the bath now."
She was happy to see that he stood and turned away. She got out of the tub quickly, dried off and put on the nightshift. When she came around the screen she noted he had removed his vest and tossed it next to his evening jacket. He was looking at her bare feet.
"You'd better get back in bed. Even on the rug, the floor's cold.
Do you want me to light a fire?"
She did, but she didn't want to put him to the trouble. He seemed to sense that because he laughed softly as she crawled back into bed and pulled the comforter around her shoulders.
"Just the same," he said. "I think I'll do it."
She watched him work silently and efficiently. When he was done his hands were gray with ash. He went to the porcelain basin and washed them.
"It wouldn't do to leave fingerprints, would it?"
Her smile was tentative. She appreciated his small attempt at humor to set her at ease.
"I think you could use a drink."
She felt her smile fading, her lips parting in surprise.
"Medicinal purposes only."
She relaxed. She knew a number of physicians who swore by the efficacy of warm whiskey and lemon for a sore throat, though it was not something she had ever tried. She saw him look around, then shrug.
"Good thing I've come prepared." He crossed the room to where he had placed his black bag and retrieved a quarter-full bottle of Scotch. He turned, showing her the bottle. "Glasses?"
She had no idea where they might be. She shook her head.
"Then you'll have to tipple it right out of the bottle." He brought the bottle to the bed, sat down on the edge, and handed it to her.
"It will make you feel better, I promise."
It wasn't warm, it didn't have lemon in it, but she trusted him nonetheless. She uncapped the bottle and raised it slowly to her lips.
He gave it a nudge and she took a large swallow. He urged her again, this time challenging her with an amused look.
"That's better," he said, grinning when she made a face.
"Obviously you have no appreciation for good Scotch."
The liquor eased the tightness in her throat. "I don't drink much."
That was very close to the truth. A glass of sherry made her woozy.
Two glasses and she could barely recall drinking the first. Since she prided herself on having control she had never tested what damage could be done at three glasses.
"I don't either much."
Without much prompting, she took another swallow. Perhaps Scotch had a different effect than sherry. At least it didn't taste nearly so bad this time.
"It seems to agree with you rather quickly," he said, taking the bottle from her. He touched her cheek again with the back of his fingers.
"But then that's what it's supposed to do. You're not so flushed."
His hand slipped over her face. His knuckle touched her lips. "Show me your tongue."
She opened her mouth wide and stuck out her tongue.
"Aaaaahhh." She was surprised when he laughed.
"That wasn't quite what I had in mind but it's a very pretty tongue.
Very pink. Nice teeth, too. And you've kept your tonsils." He nudged her jaw. "You can close now. I've seen quite enough.
Another drink is definitely in order."
Expecting him to pass her the bottle, she gave a little start when he took a long pull on it himself.
He handed it to her and let her finish. "For someone who doesn't drink much, you've developed quite a taste for it."
She offered him a crooked, somewhat sleepy smile. "I think I like good Scotch," she said. She certainly would never scoff at its value for easing a sore throat. "As medicine, of course."
"Of course," he agreed dryly. He put the bottle over the side of the bed and made himself more comfortable. He leaned back against the walnut headboard and stuffed a loose pillow behind the small of his back. "Much better."
A little wary of his efforts to stretch out beside her, she moved to the far side of the bed. Her action did not go unnoticed and brought his derision. ]
"There was no need for you to move. I'm not going to attack you, but I can hardly reach you if you remain over there."
There was sense in what he was saying, she reminded herself. He had already helped ease some of her pain. He could hardly conduct an examination if he couldn't touch her. She scooted toward him.
He fluffed a pillow and put it behind her. Her knees bumped his and the strap of her nightshift slid over her left shoulder again. She tried to push it up but her movements were awkward. The liquor and laudanum were having an effect on more than just her throat.
"We're a fine pair," he said.
She frowned, looking at him oddly, not understanding.
He leaned his head back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and closed his eyes. "I can't remember when I've had a longer day," he said, sighing.
Looking at the gilded clock on the mantel, she saw it was past midnight. "New day."
"I suppose it is. And it's starting just the same way. God, I'm tired."
She had a tender heart and it went out to him. "Rest," she said softly.
"It's a nice offer, but not the reason I came here. I should see to you. You've obviously been waiting."
"I didn't mind." It was an effort to talk, but not precisely for the same reasons it had been earlier. Even to her own ears her words sounded slurred. "Mrs. Hall made me comfortable."
"This isn't much," he said.
She was as aware of the spartan conditions of the room as he, yet she said with quiet conviction, "My experience says it's better than the streets."
He opened his eyes and looked at her now. "I suppose it is."
She held his gaze for a long time before breaking away. Her own forthrightness embarrassed her.
"You're flushed again."
She realized that she was, though not for the reasons he thought, at least she hoped he would assume it was because of her illness.
She let him take the pulse in her throat.
"Your heart's racing."
She nodded.
"Why don't you drop that cover and let me have a look."
She called herself all manner of fool for hesitating when he was being nothing but matter-of-fact. She felt him nudge the blanket with the heel of his hand. She was being so stupid, she thought.
"How am I supposed to examine you if I can't see you?"
Of course he was right, yet she couldn't seem to move. Those dark eyes of his were searching hers.
He added, "You have some expectations, I assume."
She was no longer certain what she expected from him. "Not many." As if to prove her point he gave a shout of laughter .
"Oh, you have been treated poorly! That doesn't speak well for men like myself."
She supposed he was referring to physicians in general but she didn't ask for clarification. He was pushing aside the comforter.
His fingers slid along the neckline of her shift and rested lightly on the uppermost button. She put a hand over his and shook her head.
"I'll do it." It was easier to talk now but the husky quality of her voice had not improved. Again she hoped it was not mistaken for anything but a symptom of her illness.
"You're not a chatterbox."
His observation was one that had been made before. It was her experience that it bothered most people. "No," she said quietly.
"I'm not." She finished undoing the top button.
"Another," he said.
She glanced at him, not understanding.
He pointed to her hand. "Another button, please."
She undid it with fingers made clumsy by the liquor and laudanum.
She stared down at his hand as it hovered near her heart.
"That flush of yours starts about here," he said. His fingertips touched her skin just above her heartbeat. "There's nothing wrong with your heart." He opened another button of her gown. "Come closer," he said. When she didn't move immediately his hands slipped around her rib cage to urge her nearer. He laid one hand on her back near her shoulder blade.
His confident, impersonal touch relieved her but her heart was hammering and her head was muzzy.
"Take a deep breath," he said. "That's it. Hold it." His hand rubbed her back. "Let it out slowly."
She did. Her heart steadied and her breathing slowed.
"Better," he said. "There for a moment I thought you might faint."
"So did I," she said with grave honesty. "I'm a little dizzy."
He released her. "Why don't you lie down?"
It was his best suggestion, she thought. "All right." She stretched out on her side, bringing the pillow under her head.
"I don't have much success with patients," he said, touching her cheek again.
She wondered at his admission until she remembered his comment on the kind of day it had been. Perhaps he was not so arrogant after all; perhaps he had been humbled by an earlier failure. She felt as if their positions were suddenly reversed and she was being called upon to be the healer. Her smile was gentle. "I think you're doing fine," she said.
He blinked, his eyes darkening. "Why, thank you," he said. "It's good of you to encourage me."
Her smile deepened as her eyelashes lowered sleepily. It was her most heartfelt desire to be part of his profession. She decided to tell him. "I hope to do so one fine day."
"So you admit you have something to learn?"
She nodded emphatically. How could he think otherwise? She yawned widely and stretched, slipping one arm under the pillow as she turned on her side.
