The door banged against the wall in Mr. Trentham’s wake, the noise underscoring the shocked silence that descended. Maggie turned a distressed look to Monsieur Legault, but he only shook his head. No one spoke.
Long minutes passed, and it did not seem at all certain Mr. Trentham would return. Caroline began to think the strange man had fled into the night, abandoning them.
Then, as abruptly as he had left, he returned, carrying a brown glass bottle and a spoon. After opening the cap, he wetted the tip of his finger with the medicine and tasted it, then thrust the bottle into Maggie’s hands.
“Here. If you feel it’s essential, you administer the dose.”
“But…how much would you recommend?”
“None. The outcome is upon your head.” He made for the door again, then paused and looked over his shoulder. “One spoonful.”
Maggie poured out a measure and gave it to Caroline. The bitter liquid tasted dreadful, but she was beyond caring.
“How long until it takes effect?” her friend called.
“Soon.” Mr. Trentham’s voice from the other room was strained.
Caroline listened to the sound of his pacing until it became impossible to concentrate. The room seemed to be filling up with soft white clouds, or perhaps it was her head filling up—she was not sure. Either way, it was a welcome whiteness. The pain felt muffled and very far away.
“Miss Huntington?” Mr. Trentham’s words pierced through the clouds. He had returned to stand at the bedside.
She blinked. “I…I am ready. I think.”
“Good. Mrs. Farnsworth, take hold of her arm.”
Caroline closed her eyes. There was a gentle, steady pull and someone screamed.
“Madame!” The urgency in Monsieur Legault’s voice made Caroline open her eyes, but he was not speaking to her. Both he and Mr. Trentham were kneeling on the floor, the younger man supporting Maggie.
“For pity’s sake.” Mr. Trentham lightly slapped her cheek. “Wake up, Mrs. Farnsworth. Let me remind you that you are not the injured one.”
Caroline giggled; she could not help it. The two gentlemen glanced up at her.
“I’m glad you feel no pain, Miss Huntington. Do not attempt to move your arm. I will splint it—as soon as I manage your squeamish friend.” Mr. Trentham frowned down at Maggie, who still lay unmoving in his arms. “Legault, you’ll find brandy in the cupboard beside the sink. I think Mrs. Farnsworth requires a restorative.”
The Frenchman rose. “Will she be all right?”
“She’s fine—though useless for nursing. As soon as she regains consciousness I’m sending her back to the village with you. Kindly ask if Madame Legault will come in the morning to tend to Miss Huntington’s needs. And now, sir, if you will have the courtesy not to faint, you may assist me in splinting her arm.”
~*~
Alex Trentham stood in the doorway, watching until the lantern-lit cart carrying Mrs. Farnsworth and Monsieur Legault dipped down the path and out of sight. His shirt was damp with perspiration. The night air was chill, but he did not retreat from it. There was nowhere to go. His solitude had been torn away, his peace disturbed—he had had a patient thrust upon him—it was all one great, bloody nightmare. He glanced back at his bedroom, the irrefutable evidence asleep in his bed.
Damn Miss Huntington for carelessly injuring herself. Damn Legault for his insistence. And damn his own miserable history for haunting him here, over a thousand miles from England.
He slammed the door against the darkness outside. There was nothing to be done now—except wait, observe her condition, and get her out of his house as soon as she could be moved. When she had gone he would forget, once and for all. He must never allow this to happen again.
Legault had left the brandy on the sideboard. Alex poured a glass and went to the kitchen table, which was pushed against the wall and had wooden crates stacked beneath it. He took a long drink, then removed the cloth draped over his latest project.
Bones, compliments of Legault’s archaeological dig. Large ones and small, the remains of the ancient inhabitants of this island, markers of a civilization buried for centuries. Legault dug them up and Alex pieced them together. There was much that bones could reveal to a trained eye: the age of the deceased, whether their lives had been ones of brutal labor or pampered ease.
There were distinct advantages to working with the dead. The souls had fled and there was nothing he could do to harm them. Nothing at all. Alex lifted his glass and drained it, then selected a metacarpus and held it to the light. A number at the bottom, inked in his own neat hand. Setting it aside, he made a notation in the book that lay open beside him.
“Hello?” Miss Huntington’s voice drifted from the bedchamber, soft and uncertain.
He held very still, willing her to fall back asleep. But no, he heard her stirring, and then she called again. “Is anyone there? I’m so thirsty.”
He pushed back his chair and fetched a cup, filling it. The soft light of the lamp he carried preceded him into the bedroom, illuminating his—no, he would not call her his patient. Her brown hair was loose against his pillow, her eyes wide and dreamy. The flame pricked glints of gold in her brown eyes, gilded strands of her hair.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you an orphan?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She gave no response, still clearly under the effect of the laudanum. Thank God she had suffered no ill effects from the dose. For a terrible moment he had been so afraid…but she was safe. And had shown a great deal of courage. In the morning there would be pain, but tonight her face was open and serene.
“I’ve brought water.” He set the cup down and slid one arm behind her shoulders, boosting her up. The bedcovers slipped down, revealing a silken white chemise that followed the curve of her breasts, and Alex felt a sudden leap of physical awareness.
He had not practiced the role of physician, nor seen a woman in a state of undress, in a very long while. The detachment that used to serve him so well was gone. It was impossible not to notice her feminine shape, the smooth column of her neck, the softness of her full lips as he held the glass against them. The scent of her. Despite himself he dipped his head, inhaling. Her warm weight rested against him, the softness of her hair brushing against his throat.
“Drink.” His throat felt tight.
She took a long, thirsty swallow. “Good,” she said, a single drop of water glinting on her lower lip. “How did you lose your parents?”
It was a question asked in innocence, and he felt oddly compelled to answer. “My father died years ago, and my mother…” He barely allowed himself to remember what his life had been, before. “She was alive when I left.”
She laid her head against his arm, and he let go the shreds of memory. With steady hands he helped her lie back, then pulled the covers up, restoring her modesty—though that brief contact with all that was warm and female still flared within him, not so easily obscured.
She sighed. “I suppose your mother abandoned you. Maggie says some do. I wish I had known mine.”
She seemed determined to share confidences. Alex pulled a chair over and settled himself next to the bed. It was unlikely she would recall anything of their conversation in the morning—there was no harm in it, and he could humor her until she fell asleep again. Her secrets were safe with him. And despite the disruption she had caused she was here now, and a part of him sorely missed having company—some conversation to keep back the dark night.
“What happened to her?” he asked gently, as much to escape his own thoughts as to learn hers.
“She died giving birth to me—a life for a life, I suppose.” Her expression was tinged with sorrow. “And then my father, when I was a young girl.”
“So you are truly an orphan.”
“Yes.” A delicate shiver ran through her.
He took her good hand in his, wanting her to feel less alone. “I know loss as well. The world changes forever.” His own words surprised him—he had never spoken like this.
She met his gaze and he recognized in her amber-flecked eyes an expression he had seen often in his own mirror.
“Then we understand one another, sir. That is a rare thing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” Her face was serious.
Her warm hand gripped his, and Alex felt it, a tenuous connection. It frightened him beyond words, made him want to shove his chair back and leave her, to retreat far enough to stretch that slender thread to the breaking point. But he remained where he was.
When would he ever experience this again—the chance to sit in the lamplight and hold a beautiful woman’s hand? And she was beautiful, her eyes brimming with memory, her hair falling free, her hand strong and alive and holding on.
“You should rest now,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion he did not understand.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Yes.”
A few moments later her eyelids drifted shut, but she did not release his hand, and he made no effort to free himself.
~*~
Gray light seeping from behind the linen curtains woke him—that and an ache in his leg that protested his spending the better part of the night in a chair. Miss Huntington was deeply asleep, the hand that had held his through the dark hours now curled, relaxed, against the pillow. For a long moment he gazed at her, marking the regular rise and fall of her breath, the healthy color, the serenity her face held in dreaming.
Muttering an oath, he levered himself out of the chair and walked stiffly to the front room. He should have spent the night beside the fire, wrapped in blankets, not dozing beside some woman who meant nothing to him.
He was forever outside that world of sweetness. It was his fate, and here on Crete, the birthplace of ancient myths, fate was something that could not be escaped. It could only be endured. The pain in his leg reminded him, the sharp twinge returning him to reason with every step.
Miss Huntington would be gone soon enough, and he would be glad to see her go.
The ancient bones on his table gleamed hard and white in the growing light. With quick steps he crossed the room and drew the cover over them.