Night Storm (28 page)

“Did I not tell you to seek out your physician at the first sign of infection?”

“I don’t know that the wound is infected.”

“But you do know it’s not healing right, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he gritted out.

“Have you visited your regular physician yet?”

He began unbuttoning his multicaped greatcoat. “My physician wouldn’t have looked kindly at me seeking someone else’s help.”

“Someone else—or a female apothecary-surgeon?” Anger burned down her throat.

“Doesn’t matter. Had I been brave enough to confess my transgression, I would have proudly told him you had patched me up.” Cameron’s deft fingers continued their downward progress on his row of buttons. “I would never hide such a fact. What you accomplished should be celebrated, not hidden.”

Emotion clogged her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

“You’ll need to tell him at some point. If you’re attacked again in the future, keeping such details from your physician could place your life in jeopardy.”

The coat opened. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“He cannot be that scary.”

“Easy for you to say. You have not met him. Dr. Graham is as unique and contrary as you are.” He shrugged out of his coat, grimacing when it came time to maneuver his injured arm.

Charlotte bit the inside of her lip.
Stay put. Ignore the urge to help him
. She said the words over and over, finally turning back to her jars of herbs. Focusing on the important task brought clarity back to her senses, and her pulse slowed enough for her to hear her own thoughts.

“Would you prefer that I stand, sit, or lie down?”

“Sit, please. I’ll be there in a moment.”

She wound up taking much more than a moment. What had she done wrong during the treatment process that he now fought an infection? The knowledge that she’d somehow failed to protect him from a longer, more painful recovery disturbed her in a profound way.

If it had been anyone else, she would feel regret and even some guilt. But not this gut-caving, heart-slicing sense of failure. That reaction was reserved for Cameron, evidently.

The reminder that her feelings still ran deep for him didn’t sit well. She took another thirty seconds to get her emotions under control. By the time she faced him again, she had regained most of her unflappable composure.

Until her gaze landed on his bare chest. Chiseled, lean muscles rippled along the length of his torso. The flickering lamplight cast a golden blanket over every inch of his flesh, making him appear godlike. Not in a heavenly, ethereal way, but in a dangerous, powerful way.

“What are you staring at, Charley?” he asked in a low, hypnotizing voice. “My poor wound?”

His mocking question snapped her attention to his shoulder. Her stomach dropped with blinding speed to flail between her immobile feet.

“Cameron, what have you done?” No longer frozen in place, her feet flew across the short distance. She pulled a blue wooden stool up to the bed, so that she was eye level with what looked like an infection well beyond the initial stage. “Why is this not bandaged?”

“It’s a little hard to wrap my shoulder with one hand.”

“Have you no one to help?”

He seemed to consider her question for an unusually long time. “No one who could do a worthwhile job of it. Trig could never stand still long enough.”

“Trig?”

“A young man not much older than Felix. He assists me with things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Set your mind at ease, Charley. The boy will never come to harm under my care.”

She leaned closer, pressing her fingers gently to the outside of his stitches. The area was bright red and hard and warm to the touch. She examined the exit wound and was thankful to see the infection had not made it that far yet. “That’s not something you can promise. No one can.”

A muscle in his jaw flicked. “Would you believe me if I said he’s safer with me than on the streets where I found him?”

She met his gaze briefly. “You saved him from the streets?”

He nodded.

“Another offer? What did Trig do to earn your trust?”

“Charley, I warned you not to make much of my—”

“How, Cameron?” she interrupted.

Turning his face toward the far wall, he said, “I saw him instructing a small band of boys much younger than him on the art of pickpocketing.”

“You admire him for teaching a group of impressionable young boys how to be thieves?”

“The subject matter wasn’t what caught my attention.” His eyes narrowed, as if he gazed at a distant memory. “Trig cared about them. Cared about their survival. Unlike many living off the streets, Trig didn’t seek to profit off the children. He simply wanted to give them their best chance at success.”

Charlotte hoped she would one day meet this Trig. He sounded very much like the young Cameron she used to know. How many people had Cameron saved? How many more would he watch over? Pride fluttered in her chest like a runaway butterfly. Pride in Cameron, God help her.

She lifted a hand and rested it against his forehead, cheek, neck. Warm. Too warm.

“Well?” he asked when she said nothing.

“An infection has set in, and your body is fighting the invasion, causing a fever.” Pushing off the stool, she crossed over to her worktable, where she’d left the herb jars. Her hands shook, and she couldn’t even out her breathing.

“What potion are you concocting?”

She squeezed her eyes closed. How could he be so nonchalant about his current condition? Did he even understand the danger he’d placed himself in? Could still be in if she didn’t find the right combination. Even if he did realize his folly, he would never admit to such. Admission danced far too closely to weakness—at least in his mind, in most men’s minds.

“You played a very dangerous game, Cameron. How long would you have let this go on? How long would you have continued to place your life in jeopardy?”

“Are you bothered by the notion?”

“Of course.”

“Try harder, Charley.”

“For what?”

“Sincerity. You didn’t quite grasp the right tone if you want me to believe you.”

Facing him, she pressed the palm of her hand against the surface of her worktable. Stability. “I have no wish to see you suffer physically, because of my inadequacy as an apothecary-surgeon.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I suppose there are other ways of making a man suffer.”

God forgive her, but she wanted him to know the agonizing turmoil, the crushing desolation, the soul-searing anger when one realizes with full clarity that one has lost the love of one’s life. Then to have that love stroll back in years later without an apology or explanation—only expectation.

“If someone was inclined to make the effort.”

His amusement shattered, bits and pieces of it fell away as full comprehension of her message registered.

“What am I doing here, Charley?”

A very good question. She was not an impulsive person. On important matters, she acted only after careful consideration of the benefits and consequences. So, why had she invited him inside when all she’d wanted to do was escape?

She glanced at his angry wound, the sculpted perfection of his chest, and the full contours of his mouth, and discovered, to her dismay, that the answer was not a simple one. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he swiped it away.

“To finish what I started, of course.”

# # #

To finish what I started.

Although Adair knew Charley referred to his stab wound and not his heart, he couldn’t stop the ache slicing through him.

She stood her ground with him in a way few had. His pinpoint focus on putting his needs first had led others to call him ruthless, ambitious, and profit-driven. Adair didn’t mind the labels. He had a simple philosophy—those who could pay, did so handsomely. Those who couldn’t, paid him with a favor of his choosing.

Unlike the rest, Charley’s opinion mattered. Now, instead of guilt, he experienced an overwhelming urge to break down every one of the defenses she’d erected in his absence. He wanted to tangle with her until they were inextricably interwoven. One. Inseparable. Forever united.

The guilt would no doubt come later. Maybe.

Placing her infection-killing concoction on a tray, Charley returned to his side, setting the tray near his hip. The contents trembled the slightest bit. She handed him a glass and a bottle of whisky, indicating he should help himself.

She perched on the stool and studied his shoulder. For the first time, he saw indecision war with her impenetrable confidence.

“Is there a problem?”

She sent him a disgusted look.

“Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

“Not necessarily a problem,” she said. “The severity of your infection balances on the cusp of two treatment options.”

“And those are?”

“The first option is for me to apply this paste over the stitches. You’ll be required to reapply it two to three times a day.” Her eyes narrowed, and she began to gnaw on her inner cheek.

“I’m not going to like the second option, am I?”

“I suspect neither of us will.” She drew in a deep breath and cleared her expression. With clinical detachment, she explained, “The second approach is to remove the stitches so I can make sure no pus has formed in the wound. If it has, I’ll drain the pus and apply the paste.”

“Will you stitch me up again?”

“No, that might leave a larger scar.”

“I’m not concerned about a scar.”

“Regardless, it will be imperative for you to keep the area clean, dry, and covered at all times.”

Adair eyed the red, swelling flesh around the stitches. “What does your experience recommend we do?”

She met his gaze.

“Number two, right?” he said when she seemed oddly reluctant to say the words.

“Although removing the stitches will be the more difficult course, I believe it is the most prudent in this situation.”

“Prudent,” he mused. “Tell me, Charley, have you ever been imprudent?”

“Once.”

“Only once?” His lips twitched. “Did you enjoy the novelty?”

“Not in the least.”

Her tone remained calm, neutral. But Adair sensed her anger, all the same. It iced the edges of each of her words, obliterating the small—very small—truce they had been enjoying. At least,
he
had been enjoying their banter.

“Proceed with option two.” Adair focused his attention on the far wall, and waited.

“There will be pain while I remove the thread.”

“I assumed as much.”

“More than last time.”

“Understood.” Despite his outward calm, Adair’s pulse spiked with each of her well-intended warnings.

“Have the spirits taken effect?”

Peering down into her beautiful eyes, he saw the worry she tried hard to hide. Something warm and primal mixed with the whisky in his stomach. “It must be.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m about to collect on my part of our deal. Don’t forget—you promised your full participation.” He captured her mouth, moving over her soft lips and taking in her sharp gasp. He didn’t stop, didn’t give her time to come to her senses.

He lifted a hand to cradle one side of her face, tilting her head to the right for a better angle. He savored every inch of her forbidden mouth. Years of need and regret spiraled into the warm cavern their mouths created.

When her tongue met his, he forgot all about his wound, her anger, their deal, and the murder investigation. All he wanted was…more. More of her passion, more of Charley, more time.

But he knew Charley would soon snap out of her sensual haze, and the barrier would rise between them once again. And he knew that even while he would mourn the loss of her mouth against his, he would comprehend her withdrawal was the right decision.

The small hand melding with the flesh of his bared chest grew rigid and her moist, compliant lips became less eager, reluctant. He gentled his assault, pressing slow kisses along her jaw, cheek, the corner of her mouth. Finally, he kissed her forehead, lingering long enough for her to understand that his rash act meant far more than a drunken mistake.

He wanted her to grasp how much he’d missed her.

“I’m ready now,” he whispered.

She swallowed hard and, when she eased back, he noted the small quiver in her chin. Then she lifted her eyes up to his. Eyes that had haunted his dreams. Soulful eyes that looked at him with an emptiness that would have buckled his knees had he been standing.

“Do not mistake that kiss for anything other than me honoring my side of our bargain.” Her voice dripped with conviction. “What we had once is no more. You saw to that and now there’s no going back.”

All the warmth flooding his veins a moment ago chilled until his blood pumped sluggishly, laboriously. The urge to argue with her was strong. So strong. Their connection remained as potent today as it had been when she was eighteen and he twenty. Given the power behind that kiss, their connection might be even more potent now.

Arguing with her would serve no purpose other than to make them both miserable and angry. It wouldn’t change his situation. He had worked hard to accumulate enough wealth to raise a family. He’d accomplished his goal, but at a price.

A price that would keep him from wooing Charley in a manner she deserved. Because she was right. There was no going back. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if there
was
a way to go forward…

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he drew hard on the amber contents before setting it aside.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

Chapter Twelve

Charlotte hesitated only a moment longer before she picked up her instruments from the tray. Despite Cameron’s assurances, the next few minutes would not be pleasant for him. Or her.

She would hurt him. A condition many would think she should be pleased about after his shabby treatment of her. But she would find no pleasure in the pain she was about to cause him.

To take both of their minds off the arduous process of sliding thread through swollen, irritated skin, she asked, “Do you believe Lady Winthrop was having an affair with the theater manager?”