His hands looked steady enough, but she supposed he was right. “Then tomorrow morning, first thing? I’ll give you one hundred twenty-five pounds.” Reaching through the side slit in her dress to the pocket she wore slung around her waist, Sally pulled out the pouch of gold and handed it to him.
Kinlock whistled softly at the weight of the bag. “You’re a determined little thing, aren’t you? However, I have patients to see tomorrow morning. Afternoon is the best I can do, and I won’t make any promises about the precise hour. Take it or leave it.” He tossed the bag back to her.
Stung by the dismissive phrase “little thing,” Sally said tartly, “I’ve always heard surgeons are a crude, profane lot. So good to know that rumor spoke true in this case.”
Instead of being insulted, Kinlock gave a crack of laughter, his expression lightening for the first time. “You forgot to mention abrasive, insensitive, and uncultured. That’s why surgeons are called mister instead of doctor—we’re a low lot, lass, and mind you remember that.” He corked his whiskey and set the bottle back on his desk. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Sally Lancaster.”
“Aye, ye look like a Sally.” His Scots accent was thickening rapidly, probably because of the whiskey. “Write down your brother’s direction, and I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. Probably not early.”
While Sally wrote the address, Kinlock crossed his arms on the desk, laid his head on them, and promptly fell asleep. She carefully tilted the slip of paper against his whiskey bottle, sure it would be found in that position.
Before leaving, she studied the slumbering figure with bemusement. What the devil did a Sally look like? A mad Scot indeed, abrasive, insensitive, and all the rest. But for the first time in weeks, she felt a whisper of hope that David might have a future.
Lady Jocelyn threw her quill across the desk in exasperation, leaving a scattering of ink blots on her account book. Isis raised a contemptuous nose at her lack of self-control. All afternoon she’d tried to attend to correspondence and monthly accounts, but she was unable to concentrate for thinking of the man lying upstairs in the blue room.
She rested her chin on her palm and thought how ridiculous it was to be so shy about visiting him. After all, she was his hostess. Lord, his wife! His prickly sister had gone out and not returned and had reportedly turned down the offer of a bedchamber, for which Jocelyn was thankful. At least the wretched female wasn’t entirely lacking in sense. If they had to meet daily over the breakfast table, there would be murder done.
“You’re quite right, Isis. Since I’m not getting any work done anyhow, I might as well check that the major is comfortable.” Or alive, for that matter. Jocelyn pushed herself away from the desk. “Do you think he’d like some flowers?” The cat yawned luxuriously. “So pleased you agree with me. I’ll go cut some in the garden.”
After gathering and arranging an armful of cream and yellow roses, with some greens for contrast, Jocelyn took the vase of flowers up to the blue room. She knocked lightly on the door, entering when there was no response. The major appeared to be asleep, so she set the flowers on the table by the bed, then turned to study him.
In repose, his face reminded her of a carved medieval knight resting on a marble tomb in the village church at Charlton. Gaunt, noble, remote. His pallor was intensified by a dark shadow of beard. Moved by some impulse of tenderness, she reached out to touch his cheek, feeling the rasp of bristles beneath her fingers.
Disconcertingly, his eyes opened. “Good day, Lady Jocelyn.”
Hastily she dropped her hand, her fingers tingling. “Good day. Have you been well taken care of?”
“Very. It was kind of you to invite me here.”
With that pleasure in his eyes, she could not have disabused him of the idea, even if Sally Lancaster hadn’t warned her. Still, innate honesty compelled her to say, “Most of the credit belongs to your sister. It was she who thought of asking your doctor if it was safe to move you.”
“Doubtless Ramsey said that it really didn’t matter one way or the other.” His gaze circled the room with its high molded ceiling and silk-clad walls. “Your house is an infinitely pleasanter place to die than the hospital.”
She pulled a chair up to his bedside and sat so that their faces were nearly level. “How can you be so calm, to speak of your death as if it were a change in the weather?”
He gave the impression of shrugging, though he scarcely moved. “When you’ve spent enough time soldiering, death is like a change in the weather. I’ve been on borrowed time for years. I never really expected to make old bones.”
“Your experience goes far beyond my understanding,” she said quietly.
“We are all products of our experience. Mine just happens to be rather melodramatic,” he said absently, for most of his attention was on Lady Jocelyn. With the afternoon sun sculpting her perfect features, she was exquisite. Her eyes, a delicate golden brown with green flecks, entranced him, and he found he was a little less resigned to dying than before.
With a pang, he realized that he would have liked to meet and court this lady when he was well and whole. But even then, his circumstances would never have made him a suitable mate for a woman of her station.
There was a glimmer of tears on her cheeks. He found that by concentrating all his strength, he could lift his hand and brush them away, his fingertips lingering on the rose-petal softness of her skin. “Don’t weep for me, my lady. If you remember me at all, I would rather you did with a smile.”
“I will not forget you, David—I can promise that.” The tears didn’t entirely disappear, but she did smile, raising her hand to cover his. “It’s so strange to think that three days ago we had never met. Now, there is a … a unique connection between us. I had thought a marriage of convenience was just a matter of words spoken and papers signed, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
“It has been for me.” Too tired to hold his arm up any longer, he let it rest on the bed. Her hand followed, fingers twining his. There was an intimacy in her clasp that warmed his heart. He wished he had had the strength to touch the shining hair, to see if it felt as silky as it looked. That would be high romance, given that no other part of his body was capable of responding. “I am only sorry to be disturbing your peace.”
“Perhaps it’s time my peace was disturbed. Too much tranquillity can’t be good for the soul.” She stood, releasing his hand, to his regret.
Her sweet musical voice took on a businesslike note. “Is Hugh Morgan acceptable to you as a servant? If not, I’ll find another.”
“Perfectly acceptable. I don’t mean to be a demanding guest, or to overstay my welcome.”
She bit her lip. “If there is anything you wish, you have only to ask. Do you object to my visiting you?”
Amused that she could imagine such a thing, he asked, “Why should I object?”
“The impropriety …”
He laughed at the absurdity of that. After a startled moment, she joined in. “That was silly of me, wasn’t it? There can be no impropriety between husband and wife.”
“Your reputation is quite safe. Even if we weren’t married, I’m in no condition to compromise you.” He grinned. “More’s the pity.”
Jocelyn looked uncertain, then smiled and leaned forward to brush a gossamer kiss on his lips before she turned to leave the room. He admired the grace of her walk and the way the sun burnished her chestnut hair to a shade of red that was more provocative than respectable. Did that color hint of a temper concealed beneath her cool, flawless facade? A delightfully intriguing thought. She was not only a lady, but a woman. One he might have loved.
It