The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

by Gina Danna

  “Bradley,” he started as he slowly climbed into the tub, using the servant’s arm to steady himself. “I’ll tell you what I do need, once I’m dressed for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need paper and a writing instrument.” He sank into the hot water, letting the heat loosen the muscles that were stiff. The warm water felt miraculous on his injured foot. He sat, relishing in the concept of a true bath and then, when Bradley poured a bucketful of hot water to reheat what was here, it made him want to purr. It’d been months since he’d had a good soaking bath.

  The bath also revealed one thing he knew for sure. While he wasn’t ready to travel on his own yet, he could get better clothes. And that thought alone lifted his spirit immensely.

  Ada sat at the table, running her fingertips on the tabletop, her anger simmering. She’d refreshed herself and come to the dining room after hearing the doorway to her patient’s room shut. He was next door to her. Will had probably arranged that, keeping patient close to doctor. Katie was a good maid and only slightly raised her brow when it hit her where she was taking Ada. The room had a door that adjoined the rooms. It was closed and locked, the key on Ada’s side, but it was noticeable. Especially since the man on the other side now proclaimed they were cousins.

  She’d been to this house many times as a child. When they pulled up the drive, it’d taken her breath away because she’d forgotten how huge it was and so ornate. Will’s father was rich, making his fortune off lumber. As a child, she’d never paid much attention to the grandness, but now, it made her squirm. Her family was well-to-do, but never this wealthy. Of course, her father was a doctor, and not much money was made by physicians, a fact she’d learned all too well when she started her practice. The Union Army paid less for a nurse. She’d spent so long, living among the soldiers and spending any available funds for their care, she was poorer now.

  Reaching for her wine glass, she saw the worn fray of her cuff and bit her bottom lip. The dress and its accessories were over two years old. She swallowed hard. Two weeks she had to survive through and it appeared she’d have to see about her wardrobe with funds she would be reluctant to spend.

  “Apologies for my tardiness.”

  She glanced up and found her patient in the doorway. He stood, leaning heavily on the dark wooden cane, but looking cleaner and more debonair than earlier. The whiskers of earlier were gone, as well as the plaid shirt and dirty brown pants. Now, he’d donned a white shirt and cravat, his dark blue waistcoat and cleaner, more pristine black trousers. He came to supper in his shirtsleeves, but she’d not fault him for it. The fact that he made it down the staircase in his condition spoke volumes.

  “Apologies accepted. You made it down here with ease, it appears. How do you feel?”

  He snorted as he ambled to the table. “Outside of exhausted, my hunger drove me. As to the appendage.” He collapsed in the chair. “It is a touch sore, but better than I expected, though the snail-pace I keep is rather discouraging.”

  She laughed. “The fact that you make it at all at this point is amazing.”

  A servant appeared, pouring Francois some wine and then setting their plates down. The silence between them during this drove her a bit mad, but there seemed no point in alerting the staff any more than necessary that one of their guests was a Southerner.

  When the servant left, Ada leaned forward and whispered, “I appreciate you holding your accent, considering.”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t aware I was doing so, though my ability to not be confined will probably help me keep it at bay as much as I can.”

  The southern drawl was light but the roll of his r’s, like the French, did catch her attention.

  “Well,” she started, her voice back to her normal level. “We are guests here, so please act accordingly.”

  He chewed on a bite, gazing at the walls, before he asked, “I assume you and the residents here are good friends? Or are you, by chance, engaged to this ‘Master’ Leonard?”

  She nearly choked. “Engaged? Heavens no. I’ve known Will all his life, or a very long time. We went to medical school together.”

  “Ah, the doctor in the field. I saw you two cavorting.” He sipped the wine. “That man is quite smitten with you.”

  “Smitten? No. We are just good friends. Now, he may favor me, as I did help him through school. Some of the subjects were a bit dense in the text and such.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “You should be pleased I know him. He argued for my skills to help you and your comrades, as Dr. Waxler holds little value of the captured men. Will convinced him to let me tend to you.”

  “I shall make it part of my agenda to thank him.”

  “No! I mean,” she squirmed. She’d said too much. Searching to veer him off the topic, she did her best to switch topics. “As we are here and I have no other duties, we shall commence with a plan to get you more mobile.”

  He stared at her. “Exactly what I’d hoped for.”

  She grinned. Thrilled to get him off Will, Ada continued dinner, formulating in her mind their time at Sweet Briar. They had so little time, and Will had promised to find a solution to this man’s future, she felt the least she could do was to make it so he could stand at his execution for being a secesh and owning slaves…

  The rest of dinner ran smoothly, Francois decided. He’d gotten her to smile, which was a big accomplishment. The woman spent most of her time buried in patients, including him, and the concentration mixed with frustration made her so severe, he feared she’d develop wrinkles before she turned gray. Not that he knew her age, but he’d guess in her early twenties. So once the conversation switched from that other doctor, one she seemed most determined to protect, which escaped him, he made the subjects a little more light hearted, like where she was from. When she answered Pennsylvania, he was lost. When he came north, it was New York. Rest of the North was uninteresting to him.

  As they slowly ambled back to the stairs after dinner, he hated to admit it even to himself, but his damn foot hurt. It was an inner vice that tightened every time he tried to put his heel down. At this rate, he’d never walk the same again.

  “Your ankle hurts?”

  He stopped and gave her a look. “Yes, I believe I’ve pushed it too hard today.”

  Her lips tightened as she tapped her chin with a finger, deep in thought.

  “We shall wrap it for sleep and tomorrow, try to find easier exercise for it. If you want to walk, again, that is.”

  He snorted. “Yes ma’am, I sure enough do.”

  She let out a disgusted sigh and that irked him, for anytime he talked and his southern accent drawled significantly, she tightened up. And that irritated him, for he knew she was dwelling on his status of being a Southern slave-owner. If there was one thing that he’d break her from it would be condemning him for his way of life.

  “Well, come along.” She started again and headed right for his room.

  That, plus the sway of her hips, got his mind off the pain. One thing he did know was he didn’t need a working ankle to make love…

  She opened the door and went right to the washstand. She propped the window up, wedging a book to keep it open, making him cringe. He hated the cold wraps, despite they worked well on swelling.

  “Sit here, please,” she patted the mattress.

  Every nerve inside him came alive. Fire ignited in his lower stomach, making his member twitch. It took every ounce of energy he had to refocus. It was quite clear she was in her medical persona and any hope of a good toss was not on her agenda. Putting the cane aside, he sat.

  She frowned. “Really, Private, let’s get those fancy clothes off you before you wrinkle them beyond repair.”

  “It’s Corporal,” he corrected. “And I like your bold tongue.”

  Her chin snapped back. “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed with a tone of disgust. “Never mind.” He began to unbutton the trousers, but the mere suggestion had made him slightly ha
rd. It wasn’t easy getting out of them, unable to stand on one foot steady, and it grew more cumbersome since every moment his manhood begged to be at attention. The worst part was when she went to help, taking off his mangled boot and pulled at the cuff downward. Her actions were more methodical, like a male doctor would be, and that he found irksome. He’d never been blatantly ignored, no, actually treated indifferently, as if he was a piece of furniture, which ran a spike into his gut, killing his erection instantly.

  Still bent before him, her head tilted downward, concentrating on his ankle, she lifted the foot and examined the limb.

  “Interesting. It’s not hot, nor is it very swollen. Does it hurt if I do this?” She turned the ball of his foot to one side.

  A streak of pain shot up his ankle, mixed with his burning desire and anger, he bit out, “Yes.”

  “And this?” She twisted it the other way.

  He bit his inner lip. To be so thrown aside still hurt somewhere deep, perhaps close to his heart, or his groin, the emotion refusing to settle. It made him realize that his foot wasn’t throbbing that way. “Not as bad,” he gritted out.

  She hummed as she reached for the chilled cloth and placed it on his ankle.

  “Ouch! That’s cold!”

  “Of course, it is. It’s cold outside. Now, be a good boy and let it work its magic.”

  “I have other magic I’d rather see happen,” he snapped, as the biting cold seared his skin, before he realized what he’d said. “Magic like all this be gone, and I’m home with a good leg.”

  On that, Ada laughed, her grin lighting up her face. Damn, she’s beautiful! That is, when she wasn’t torturing him so.

  “You and every other soldier I’ve treated have had the same dream. It’s my goal to see you able to do so.” She pulled the now warming linen off his ankle and stood, returning it to the washstand.

  “I suggest you sleep and tomorrow, we’ll start seeing if we can’t get you walking straight yet.” She turned to walk toward the door.

  Francois stood, a move driven by the power of her smile, he almost forgot his injury, until his heel lowered to the floor. He grinded his teeth, trying to drown the squelch in his throat before it escaped but it didn’t matter. She whipped around.

  “Whatever are you doing? I said good night.”

  Fisting his hands at his sides in an attempt to gain his strength, he muttered, “Go to sleep isn’t a good night.” He hobbled over to her, looking like a rogue—or more like a shambles in his drawers—as he took her arm. “The least I could do is walk you to the door.”

  She giggled again. “Now turning gallant on me? Please, I do not want you putting your progress back by such foolery.”

  “I’m fine,” he promised.

  They were at his door.

  “Perhaps it would be wiser to let me out without my guardian in his drawers. I’d hate to have the maids tattle, or worse.”

  He’d like her to be the ‘worse’ but he nodded. Leaning on the doorknob, he opened it.

  “Good night, my lady.”

  She gave him an odd look. Was it his Southern French drawl by chance? He couldn’t guess as she paused before him. She was so close to him, and her smile had coaxed his body to harden again, so the feral need seemed to consume him when it came to her, an emotion he wasn’t sure what to do with. Yet, it told his soul what to do and in response, he bent to give her a kiss.

  She must’ve seen it coming, for she quickly turned her head so his lips touched her cheek.

  “We are not acting husband and wife here,” she reminded him.

  “No, we are cousins,” he replied.

  She didn’t bite. “We don’t kiss, as cousins.”

  They hadn’t really kissed anyway, he thought. “Awe, but we might be kissin’ cousins.” He gave her a wink and attempted to woo her with a smile.

  He caught the twitch in her jaw and the widening of her eyes—both subtle moves but he saw them. But they were not how he hoped.

  “Here in the North,” she shot back sharply. “We are not. Good night, sir.”

  Chapter 21

  “Thank God! We have a country at last, to live for, to pray for, and if need be, to die for!”

  —Former US Congressman Lucius Quintus Lamar of Mississippi, on the formation of the Confederate States of America, 1861

  Francois couldn’t decide if she was a miracle worker or just a smiling torturer.

  “Don’t stop. You need to actually use it all the way or you’ll soon be unable to walk.”

  He counted his breath, clamping his jaws shut. This was the start of the third day of this treatment and the agony building in every step, though he feared her prediction and that was what drove him.

  After that attempt to get her to kiss him, he wasn’t sure why he wanted her lips near his. She had set up a new torture here in the library. She’d looked so pleased, he recalled, putting two stuffed quilts on the floor, over the Oriental rug. Having him sit in the chair, she had him remove the now shoddy boots he’d been wearing and then she rubbed the injured foot, slowly loosening the tension that had built as he hobbled. A stress-point reached up into his calf and thigh the longer he walked, even with the cane.

  She smiled at him as she massaged the sole of his foot. “We need to work this foot in an attempt to get it working again.”

  The kneading started to untangle his stiffness. “I could just sit here all day with you doing that.”

  She glanced up at him. There was ice in those eyes at his remark. “Yes, well, you might have had a chance with one of the slaves you held, but not with me.” Abruptly, she stopped her hands and slowly stood. “Actually, what I need you to do is stand up and follow.”

  Her tone had returned to doctor on that last statement. Inwardly, he sighed. She’d be a tough one to handle if things were different but he’d never jumped to her conclusion when he thought he was complimenting her on her ministrations. He swore he’d never understand women.

  Grabbing his cane, he hobbled behind her, still favoring the injured foot, but stopped at the edge of the flooring.

  “I’m to walk on this soft blanket? With a cane?”

  She laughed. It was an honest laugh and it sounded like a siren’s call to him, luring his full attention. The sparkle in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks made her look so alive and no longer the bleak nurse he’d met in Virginia.

  “No, no,” she murmured, trying to regain a straight face, an attempt he hoped she’d fail at. “My thoughts were, you put your damaged foot on the cushions but keep the other on the hard floor. Start with the cane on the hard floor, so your whole weight isn’t on the other, not until you get the feel of this.”

  He raised his brow.

  And so, it began. Now, he could stand and manage without the cane. But two days of working the stiff foot on the cushion had been hard. Painful. It had exhausted him.

  “So, I think you’ve made great progress,” she decided from the sideline. “Today, let’s try it without the blankets.”

  “With that surface, perhaps you’d like to be my support,” he prompted. The arch of his foot and ankle remained sore and that was with him leaning on the cane.

  Her gaze narrowed. “You need to bend that foot as you walk. Heel to toe. The cushion gave you a leeway from that. Now, you need to do it. Look, I’ll give you my hand at first, but the exercise is to make that foot work, otherwise, you’ll be lame all your life.”

  He growled but took her hand. Setting his heel down on the hardwood, the muscles in his foot stretched and he clenched his teeth. Her suggesting he’d be no better than a lame horse—and he knew the future there wasn’t good—drove him to push harder. As he took a step forward, he clenched his teeth when the foot bent. The muscles screamed it was too much, but he forced himself to ignore it. He’d be damned if he was shot dead due to lameness!

  After five steps, she slipped her hand out of his grasp, leaving him freestanding. The freedom was uplifting, and he rejoiced, though it was still with trep
idation that he took another step. Again, his foot was in agony. He gritted his teeth.

  “How are we doing?”

  Francois closed his eyes, French cusswords streaming through his mind, but he answered, “Good, I think. It still hard.”

  “And it will for a bit, I’d imagine. That wound was damaging and their abuse of you added more to it.” She stepped closer, almost within grabbing distance, he thought. “That initially hit five or so weeks ago. The body takes time to heal.”

  He nodded, his tongue lost for fear he’d issue an epitaph of swear words at her. Five steps later, he was at the end of the rug and struggled to turn around, losing his balance and in a frantic motion to try to stop his falling, he reached for her right as she came closer to help. Yet despite his desperate attempt to not fall, he stumbled, dragging her down with him in a thud on the floor.

  Ada should have seen this coming. All hope that her experiment on retraining his injured foot came to a crashing halt, literally, as he turned to retrace his steps but lost his balance and tumbled forward, with her in his path. In a desperate attempt to stop his fall, and hers as well, she grabbed his arms but his hands grasped hers instead. She lost her footing as he tilted her backward and then tumbled to the floor, with him halfway across her, crumbling her crinoline dress. The contact with the floor with this man on top of her took her breath away and she gulped, blinking furiously.

  From that awkward position, they looked into each other’s eyes. In that split second of time, she didn’t see a patient, or a prisoner of war, but a man. Handsome, alluring and dangerous, the type that made her blood race through her veins, a tingle that she couldn’t control. She should scream or struggle to push him away but a voice inside begged for him to hold her closer.

  “Oh, ma chère, I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, releasing her hands and trying to steady himself.