The Lady in the Tower (4 page)

He never
backed away from a challenge. “Let me see if I have this correct. You learned
healing skills from your father, but due to your gender, you knew you’d never
have the opportunity to attend the College. So, you apprenticed with him, and
he allowed it, despite it being illegal—”

“Which is
grossly unfair!”

“—
despite
the law,
and now that he’s gone, you have been carrying out his teachings.”

Her throat
worked as she swallowed. “I help where and when I can. That’s
not
beyond the law.” She shot him a hard
look. “You may not think me a capable healer – indeed, I know what you
think of my skills in that area – but I am good at what I do.”

He spread his
hands. “I never said otherwise.”

“You say it
with every condescending look you send my way. When Albert—” Her voice
broke, but after a scant second, she said in a calmer, icy tone. “Neither you,
nor his family, would allow me a chance to complete a treatment.”

“Because it
was not your place.”

She bristled.
“
Place
? You mean because I’m female.”

“Not at all.
Granted, that would be more than enough for others, but that was not my
reason.” He hesitated, then offered softly, “You were unfit for the case
because you were his wife.” He leaned forward and placed a hand on her knee. It
was a bold move, but suddenly, he was desperate for her attention, for her to
hear
him. “No physician, man or woman, should attempt to treat someone they love.
You cannot think clearly.
No one can
.
”

“I could!” She
twisted the strap of the satchel around her hand. He wondered if she was even
aware she did it. “And I was succeeding, too, until you came in.”

“Oh?” He
leaned back and crossed his arms. “You were finding an answer to Lord
Kilkenny’s
illness?”

“Yes! I mean,
no. But I was at least
trying.
”

“I know you
were,” he said gravely. “Too hard.”

Her eyes grew
wet. “I was
only.
. . I spent so many hours looking
through my father’s texts. Perhaps I—”

“Exactly. You
were distraught.
And understandably so.
Lady
Kilkenny
, one of the horrible aspects of this profession is
that sometimes, no matter what we do, patients die. It is a hard fact of the
profession, and not a lesson one wishes to learn while tending a member of
one’s own family.” He’d merely guessed that her father had tried to shelter her
from that knowledge, and he could tell from the way her brows knit together
that he was right. She’d never been in a situation to care for a patient only
to lose them despite everything. For himself, he knew all too well. He’d lost
too many to count in Belgium.

He saw her
fighting tears and handed her his linen handkerchief. Quietly, he said, “That,
what you’re feeling now, is why one doesn’t treat family. You’re too close to
see the reality in front of you. Hope does many things, but it doesn’t cure.”

She dabbed at
her eyes with his handkerchief. “I suppose that’s a valid concern.”

“There are
other reasons, too. What if Lord
Kilkenny
had died
under your care, and there you were, your husband’s sole heir? It could have
been construed as suspicious.”

“No one who
knew us would ever think such a thing.”

She looked so
lost when she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, that he laid his hand over
hers. “Jane, you did the most important thing you could have done for your
husband: you kept him comfortable until he passed. There was nothing more to be
done.”

As if to
punctuate his words, they hit another rut in the road, hard. The carriage
jerked and bounced. Jane went stark white. It was only then he noticed the
sheen of perspiration on her forehead. “Are you ill?”

She shook her
head no, then lurched to the door. “Stop the carriage.”

“Are
you—
”

“
Stopthecarriage
!”

“Sam!” he
called, and knocked on the roof. His driver drew up sharply, the matched bays
whickering in protest. Jane was out the door before Richard could blink. He had
to follow a bit slower, the dull pain in his right calf sharpening as soon as
he stepped down. He looked about to see Jane a few paces away on the pavement,
leaning heavily against a lamppost.

With the help
of his cane, he walked as quickly as he could to her side. When he reached her,
he pressed his fingers to the smooth skin below her jaw, measuring her pulse.
She was too distracted to notice. He counted the accelerated beats, her skin
warm and soft.

Her dark brown
lashes fluttered as she clenched her eyes shut.

“Are you faint?”
he asked. “I’ve smelling salts in the—”

“No!” She
rested her forehead against the cold lamp pole, breathing deeply. “Why do men
think smelling salts the panacea for all female ills?”

“They
are
the prescribed measure.”

She made a
rude noise. “Salts usually make things worse.”

“Very well,
then. Shall I retrieve your oils? I presume you have more in your case?”

“No. Just
leave me. I’ll be fine in a moment. I-I can walk home from here.”

“Nonsense.” He
noted that she held onto the lamp pole as if she might crumple.

He frowned and
slipped an arm about her waist and turned her toward him. She murmured a
protest, but leaned against him though she kept one arm about the lamppost as
if it were an anchor.

Richard rested
his chin against her soft hair and she grasped his lapel to steady
herself
, crushing it. His valet would be horrified. “Surely
there’s something I can do,” he said.

“Just . . .
stay.”

He did. But he
didn’t like it. The physician in him wanted to aid her, while his male instinct
urged him to protect.

He thought
about arguing. After all, she clearly was in some distress. The sight of her
upset made him want to
do
something. That did not include simply
standing by her side. It wasn’t enough.

Presently,
though, as her breathing evened out, and her body lost some of its tension, he
decided that perhaps just being there could be enough.
At
least for now.

Jane
concentrated first on the icy metal of the lamppost. She’d wrapped her arm
about the wrought iron, grateful for its sturdiness and more importantly its
absolute, unequivocal stillness. Contrasting sharply to the coolness on her
left side stood the warmth of Thornton on her right. She released his lapel and
opened her hand to press her palm flat against his chest. Heat soaked through
the layers of his clothing, sparking something inside her. Awareness of him
eclipsed all thought and it was some time before she realized that, comfortable
as this was, she could hardly stay here all day.

But now she
had to remove herself from this situation and she had no idea how to do so and
keep her dignity. She couldn’t decide which was more humiliating: the fact that
she’d nearly retched all over him and his well-sprung landau, or that he’d
honed right in on her sense of guilt about Albert’s death. She’d never
considered the idea that she shouldn’t have gotten involved in the diagnosis of
family, but now that he’d explained his thoughts, she had to admit that he made
sense. Which made her feel all the worse.

Thornton
stepped even closer, his warm arm tightening about her waist and scattering her
thoughts. Everything about him—his physical presence, his heat,
his
intelligence—impinged on her senses. She wasn’t
sure she liked it, or him.

He bent
closer, his cheek nearly brushing hers. She wondered if his whiskers—

His loud sniff
broke the spell. “Have you been drinking?”

She stiffened,
her gaze flying to his. “A spot of brandy, nothing—”

“Good God, no
wonder you’re ill.”

That settled
it. She didn’t like him, after all, which was a relief. She pulled away. “Don’t
be absurd. I barely had a swallow before I left for the duchess’s.”

His expression
was fraught with disbelief.

“Oh!
You—must you perpetuate in drawing the wrong conclusions?”

“Perpetuate?
To my recollection, I’ve yet to draw any wrong conclusion, my
la—”

“I prefer
‘physician,’ thank you.” A blatant
lie
since she’d
never had much interest in titles, but he need not know that.

“Oh, I’m sure.
And what medical college did you attend again?”

She cast him a
look of pure loathing, only to realize that her hand was still splayed over his
chest. She moved away from him and claimed a mild victory when she saw how
she’d wrinkled his lapel. Let his valet steam that!
Would serve him right
.
Moving her head carefully, she looked around. They’d stopped in a narrow side
street, the buildings much closer together. “Where are we?”

He glanced
around. “Near Covent Garden I believe.”

Much farther
than she would have liked, but so be it. She relinquished her hold on the
lamppost and was relieved to feel steady on her own feet. “Excellent. A good
walk will be just the thing. Thank you for the ride, Sir Richard. I bid you
good afternoon.” She turned and walked down the sidewalk.

“Lady
Kilkenny
, you cannot walk about the streets tipsy.”

She stopped in
her tracks. “Of all the nerve!” She marched back to him, tempted to kick his
oh-so-fashionable walking stick out from under him. “I’m not tipsy.”

He lifted a
supercilious brow. “Very well. Half-tipsy.”

She poked a
finger at his very large, solid chest. “Not half.”
Poke.
“Not one-third.”
Poke.
“Not even a quarter.”

He seized her
hand, the enveloping heat a sharp contrast to the cold. “Then what other
explanation do you have to offer for your faintness? I can think of no other.”

“I suffer from
motion sickness!”

“Ah.”

Just that.
“Ah.” She wanted to smack him. Instead, she managed to grind out, “Good day,
sir,” and turned back down the street.

His cane
tap, tap
-
ed
as he followed. “Lady
Kilkenny
, please . . . I was wrong to suppose you were
drunk.”

She didn’t
answer, but marched on.

“I suppose you
want an apology.”

Or
his death.
One or the other.
Over her
shoulder, she said, “The walk will do me good.” And being away from him would
do her even better.

“Hold!” His
voice from close behind her made her jump. “You’re going the wrong direction if
you’re headed to Mayfair.”

She stopped,
heat flooding her face. Could the day get any worse? Dutifully, she turned
around. His face remained blank, a bit perhaps too blank. If he was laughing at
her, he was smart enough to hide it.

“After you.”
He motioned for her to proceed, and she did so with as much dignity as she
could muster.

As she walked
back up the street, she realized his handkerchief was still balled in her fist.
The linen had fared almost as ill as his lapel and was sadly crumpled
. Which
is how I feel right now.
She bit back a sigh and slipped the linen into her
coat pocket.

As she reached
him, Thornton gestured for his coachman to follow, and then he fell into step
with her, his black lacquer cane tapping upon the walk. Many gentlemen carried
such, but he didn’t casually twirl or flit it, as one might with an umbrella,
or as she’d seen many dandies do about Town. It was an odd affectation.
Thornton
was
many things,
but a
dandy was hardly one of them. Besides, he seemed to be leaning upon it.

Interesting.
Jane measured
his walk: Right hand clenched about cane’s head.
Slight
hesitation in forward momentum.
Right knee stiff.
Definite limp.

She stopped
walking. How could she not have seen it? But then she hadn’t seen him walk
until now for he’d already been standing when she’d entered the morning room,
and he’d left before she was finished. Afterward, he’d followed her to the
carriage, and so she’d lost another opportunity to observe him. And just now,
she’d been too concerned with her own queasy stomach and damaged pride to
notice anything else. She took a breath. “Sir Thornton, I apologize.”

He sent her a
hard glance. “For which incident?”

Oh, dear, did
he have a list? She supposed she could not fault him if he did, but all she
said was, “Your leg. If you’d said something I—”

“It’s fine.”
Small lines formed at the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t tell if they were
from pain, annoyance, or both.

“But if I’d
known, I never would have suggested—”