Chapter Seven
Emmy scowled into the small looking glass nailed to her chamber wall, her lips a flawless shade of red, her brows arched to perfection—and a rogue curl dangling front and center on her forehead. Stifling a growl, she eased out one more hairpin from the chignon at the back, praying the silly thing wouldn’t fall down her neck, then skewered the curl and stabbed it into the puff of hair on top. Oh, to be a princess and command a lady’s maid.
“Miss Nelson?” Knuckles rapped on her door. “Are you ready?”
With a final tap on the pin and a whispered, “Behave!” she whirled from the mirror. “Coming.”
She lifted the latch, and her heart skipped a beat. Lamplight brushed over Dr. Clark in a golden glow. Did she not know him to be a man, she’d wonder at his supernatural appearance. His hair was slicked back. His jaw, clean shaven. An indigo frock coat contrasted richly with his white shirt, all tailored to ride the long lines of his body. Her glance slid to lighter blue trousers and Hessians that shone with a polish. She tried to catch her breath, but it eluded her, like a milkweed pod blown open, scattering seeds into a thousand directions.
“I fear I shall have my hands full tonight,” his deep voice murmured.
She angled her face to his, looking for a clue. Full of what? Had her hair fallen again? His shiny eyes gave no hint.
“Whatever do you mean, sir?”
“Once we walk out that door, I may have to stave off an entire battalion to defend your honor, for I guarantee”—he winked—“you will turn the head of every officer.”
“La, sir!” She swatted his arm. He was a charmer, she’d give him that. “How you exaggerate.”
He laughed and retreated a step.
Then, shaking his head, his smile faded. His gaze smoldered. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”
Heat burned a trail to her belly. She swallowed, trying hard to remember Daniel’s face, but all she could see were the green eyes of the man in front of her, the strong cut of his forehead, his cheeks. Oh, she’d loved Daniel, but that was long ago, and truthfully … she searched memories, shaking them out like a laundered sheet. No, she’d never felt the kind of sweet ache that gripped her when the doctor’s gaze wrapped around her and held her in place.
She swallowed, coaxing out a voice that wouldn’t crack. “We ought be going. I’ve made us late enough as is.”
But he didn’t move. He stood there, fumbling his hand inside his dress coat. “Wait. I’ve brought you something.”
He held out a small box, nested atop his palm. A young lad offering flowers to his girl couldn’t have been more proud.
Emmy bit her lip. Why had she not thought to get him something? “I … I have no gift for you.”
He pressed the box toward her, so that she had no choice but to take it. “Ah, ah, ah. Doctor’s orders.”
It was a poor jest, nevertheless a dear one. She lifted the lid and gasped. “Oh!”
Inside, a silk flower brooch, no larger than her thumb, lay on white satin bedding. She pulled it out and examined the tiny rose, one way then another, letting the light set fire to the deep red.
“How lovely.” She peered up at him with a smile. “Thank you.”
“May I pin it on for you?”
She handed it over, and his fingers brushed against hers, gentle as a fairy’s kiss. He stepped closer, so near she inhaled his scent of sandalwood and masculinity. For a moment, she wobbled on her feet, dizzy from the heat of his body.
“There. All done.” But his stance contradicted his words, for he didn’t step back, nor did his hand lower. His fingers trailed upward from her collar, slowly, as if asking for permission, then slid across her cheek and rested just behind her ear. His eyes flashed with questions, promises … desire.
“James?” she whispered.
He dipped his head, and his lips skimmed over hers like a summer breeze. Closing her eyes, she leaned into his embrace, his arms as strong as a beam that could carry her world. Her heart pounded hard in her ears. This—this—was where she wanted to be, wanted to live.
For always.
“Emmy.” He breathed her name against her mouth, her jaw, her neck.
She shivered—and pressed closer.
With a gasp, the doctor stumbled back a step. The world stopped. Air and life and hope hovered somewhere overhead, beyond reach. Only the rattle of the night air against her window anchored her to the real world.
He drew his hand across his mouth, and it shook—as did his voice. “I am so sorry.”
“Are you?” Despite what Aunt would have to say, a wicked half smile tingled on the very lips that had just been so finely kissed, and Emmy lifted her chin. “I am not so sure I am.”
Miss Emmaline Nelson would be the death of him. Carve it on his gravestone, killed by a woman—a beautiful bit of a woman, all fire and passion. And that is exactly what he loved most about her, the unreserved way she gave herself to that which she cared about.
Beads of perspiration lined up like little soldiers at the nape of his neck. One broke rank and trickled down his spine as he stared at her, her eyes full of the knowledge of what lay in his heart. One fingertip ran across her lower lip. Was she remembering?
Or lamenting?
Ah, yes, but such a kiss. One he wouldn’t mind repeating—and one that never should’ve happened in the first place. Working with her from now on would be awkward at best.
He exhaled a shaky breath. “You are right, Miss Nelson.”
Her brows shot up, and a delightful curl fell down to meet them. “I am?”
“Yes.” He pivoted and held out his arm, eager for a face full of cold night air. “We ought to be going.”
The short walk to the colonel’s quarters cooled his feverish skin, so much that he shook beneath his greatcoat.
She shot him a sideways glance. “You tremble as if you have the chills. Are you well?”
He kicked at some snow with the tip of his boot. “Need I remind you I am born and bred a Boston man? I am not used to such a severe climate.”
“Well, I think it suits you.”
He frowned. “Why?”
She blinked up at him. “Is your temperament not as extreme?”
The pixie! He grinned in full as he led her up the stairs to the colonel’s door. “I fear you’re coming to know me too well.”
The colonel’s wife rushed over to them as they entered the foyer. “There you are! And about time too. We are just going in to dinner.”
Beyond her, the last blue tail of an officer’s jacket disappeared through a door.
“My apologies, Mrs. Crooks.” He spoke as he helped Emmy—Miss Nelson, out of her coat. Giving himself a mental thrashing for his lapse, he removed his coat as well, handing both off to the servant standing nearby. It would not do to think of Emmy too intimately, or her Christian name would fall unguarded from his lips.
Miss Nelson stepped nearer the colonel’s wife, mischief in the tap of her shoes. “The doctor was working overtime.”
The woman’s hands fluttered to her chest. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Very serious, I’m afraid.” Laughter danced a jig in Emmy’s gaze as she looked at him.
Blast the woman, and hang the effort of ever thinking of her as anything other than Emmy—his Emmy. He tugged at his collar. Gads, but it was hot in here.
“Oh dear! It’s going to be a very long winter, I suppose.” Mrs. Crooks ushered them to the dining-room door.
Besides the empty chair reserved for the colonel’s wife at the foot of the table, only two other seats remained. A servant held out Emmy’s seat. James sat opposite, a lieutenant’s wife at his right—one very large with child—and a major to his left—one with a sizable interest in Emmy, judging by the way his gaze traveled over her.
The man leaned forward, ogling her as if she were the appetizer now being served. “Major Darnwood at your service, madam. I’ve only recently arrived. And you are?”
Emmy answe
red with a small smile—one that did not reach her eyes. “Miss Nelson, Dr. Clark’s assistant.”
“Oh, miss, is it?” He leaned back, elbowing James. “Your assistant, eh? Wonder if I could get her to assist me.”
Anger curled his hand into a fist, yet he flexed it and rested his palm on the man’s shoulder. “Did you know, Major, that if I apply a little pressure to your carotid artery, which is just a twitch away from my index finger, you’ll land in your soup before the next spoonful reaches your mouth?”
The man glowered and shifted in his seat, putting as much space between them as politely possible.
A smirk lifted James’s lips, but the victory didn’t last long. The lieutenant next to Emmy closed in on her, serving her a slice of roast goose and a whisper, his shoulder brushing flush against hers. Her jaw tightened, and scarlet spread across her cheeks.
James bristled. Enough was quite enough.
He pushed back his chair and stood. Throbbing pounded in his temples. The world tipped. He reached out a hand to grasp the table’s edge. Why were there suddenly two colonels sitting where there should be only one?
“My apologies, sir, for interrupting this festivity.” His voice rasped, and the duo-colonels melded into one.
No, this could not be happening. Not to him.
He quickly slugged back some wine from his goblet before continuing. “Miss Nelson and I must return to the ward.”
“Such a sorry business, Doctor.” Mrs. Crooks shook her head. “But your commitment to the men is admirable.”
“Indeed. Well then, you are excused.” The colonel and all the men stood as Emmy rose. “Happy Christmas to you both.”
Emmy’s steps clipped next to his, but she held her tongue until they cleared the foyer. “I was enjoying that dinner, despite the few rogues in attendance. You’re taking this guardianship thing too far. What is wrong with you?”
Shoring his shoulder against the wall, he shuddered. Heat poured off him in waves.
And his next words barely made it past the raw flesh in his throat. “I am ill.”
Chapter Eight
Emmy shoved aside her plate of cold beans on the dispensary counter, having managed only a few more bites of leftover dinner. Her appetite was gone, taking with it the remnants of her optimism. How much longer could James hold on?
The front door opened on a whoosh of cold air. Major Clem entered with a tug at his hat, a dusting of snow stark against his blue overcoat. “Afternoon, Miss Nelson. On my way to file a report with the colonel and thought I’d check in on the doctor. How’s he doing?”
The question slapped her hard. She’d been trying all day not to answer it, to ignore the symptoms, the way his life was packing its bags for a long, long journey—one from which he wouldn’t return.
“Not good.” The words tasted like milk gone bad, sour and rancid.
“Sorry to hear that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sending a sprinkling of white falling from his coat. “But if anyone can pull him through, it’d be you.”
She snorted, and though vulgar, it could not be helped. “Your confidence, while appreciated, is misplaced, Major. I fear I’ve done all I can.”
His boots thudded on the wooden planks. He stopped in front of her like a bulwark, immovable and stony. “I don’t know much about medicine and such, but here’s what I’ve learned of war. Find out where your enemy is then strike hard as you can, and for God’s sake, keep on moving. To stop is to die.”
She wanted to grasp on to the strength he offered, but her hope hung as lifeless as her limp hands at her sides. A simple “Thank you” was the best she could manage.
“I trust you’re taking great care of the doctor, but give a thought to yourself as well.” He nodded at her half-eaten beans before he wheeled about and strode from the dispensary, out into January’s brittle arms.
The last light of day colored the room in a lifeless pallor. She shivered and lit the oil lamp. Taking the major’s words to heart, she once again hauled out the fat medical book she’d taken from James’s shelf. It flopped open from the crease she’d made in the binding, having pored over the same section one too many times.
Rubbing her heavy eyes, she tried to focus on the words. Ink blurred into fuzzy lines. No need though, really, for she could recite the diagnosis and procedures in this chapter without error. The measles had hit James hard, and his body had fought valiantly. But once pneumonia set in, what little strength he’d rallied bled out in rib-breaking coughs that produced nothing other than thick green mucus and weakness.
She slammed the book shut, the noise of it a satisfying thwack. This wasn’t fair. None of it. She’d tried it all. Papa’s treatments. Medical journal advice. Textbook treatises on the proper care of lung inflammations. She’d tended patients like this before, but none of them drained her of every possible cure—or wrenched her heart in quite the same way.
Fatigue pressed in on her, sagging her shoulders. Despite the major’s admonition, she considered giving up. Simply march right into James’s chambers, lie down by his side, and close her eyes to life along with him.
Wretched hacking hurtled out from his room down the corridor. She jerked up her head, listening with her whole body. This was new. Gurgly. Choking.
Ugly.
She raced from the dispensary and flew into his chamber. “James!”
He writhed on the bed, chest heaving—and a small trickle of blood leaked out the side of his blue lips. Sweat darkened the chest and armpits of his nightshirt. The doctor who’d saved so many lives now fought for his own.
Snatching a cloth from a basin on the stand, she knelt next to him. “Shh. Be at peace, love,” she cooed as she wiped his face. “Be at peace.”
He stilled.
So did she. Not that she hadn’t known the truth for weeks now, but speaking the words aloud made it real. She loved him—the man who at any moment might stop breathing altogether.
Tears burned down her cheeks and hit her lips, tasting like loss. She brushed back his hair, wishing, praying his green eyes would open, that he’d berate her manner of healing … and tell her what to do.
“Don’t leave me. Do not!” Her cry circled the room, but James neither woke nor stirred.
Defeated, she rested her cheek against his chest, now fluttering with quick breaths. At least the thrashing had stopped. “Oh God.” Her voice soaked into his nightshirt along with her tears. “Please don’t take him, not yet. Not now. Show me what to do.”
All the anguish of the past three weeks closed her eyes. How long she lay there, she couldn’t say, long enough, though, that when she lifted her head, darkness crept into the room from every corner.
James’s breaths still wheezed on the inhale, rattled around, and gurgled back out. Nothing had changed. Nothing.
Or had it?
She shot to her feet, listening beyond his labored breathing. In the distance, a steady beat pounded on the night air. Drums.
Of course! Why had she not thought of this before?
Darting from the room, she raced to her chamber and grabbed her woolen cloak then snatched the lantern off the counter. She flung open the dispensary door as easily as she flung aside any care for her own safety or caution. What did it matter anymore?
She took off at a run toward the gate, already shut for the night. She might have exhausted every resource known to white man, but Makawee was a master of the “old medicine.”
Scorching heat. Frigid cold. James swam from one extreme to the other, all the while gasping for breath beneath the dark waters of pain. He’d give anything to emerge from this ocean of hurt—even his own life.
Occasionally blessed relief allowed him to float … a gentle touch on his brow or water pressed against his lips. But those were not enough to pull him out of the deeps.
And so he sank.
Until the whisper came. No, something stronger. He strained to listen. A mourning dove cooed. The haunting sound reached out like a rope, tethering him to a faraway e
dge of land.
“Be at peace, love. Be at peace.”
He clung to those words, holding fast when his chest burned and his ribs crashed and air was nearly a memory.
Peace.
Love.
His eyes shot open. Maybe not. Hard to tell. So he stared, waiting for shapes to form out of the darkness. Was God’s face the next thing he would see?
He blinked. Slowly, his gaze traced silhouettes. Color, though muted, seeped in and spread. Smoky sweetness wafted overhead, altogether foreign and pleasing.
“James?” Fabric swished. Troubled blue eyes bent near to his. “James!”
Ahh, dear one. His heart beat loud in his ears. Could Emmy hear it too?
He struggled to lift his hand, wipe the single tear marring her sweet cheek, erase the fear shadowing the hollows beneath her eyes.
But it took all he had in him to simply open his mouth. “Emmy.”
The effort cost more than he could spare. Blackness covered him like a blanket pulled over his head.
When his eyes opened again, morning light streamed in, kissing the top of Emmy’s blond hair. She sat in a chair next to his bed, her face bowed over the pages of a book.
“Em—” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Emmy?”
The book hit the floor.
“James?” She slid from the chair and knelt, face-to-face. “Stay with me this time.”
“I’d … like … to.” He inhaled strength, or was it her trembling smile that bolstered him so? “Water? So thirsty.”
She retrieved a mug from the nightstand then propped him up with her arm behind his shoulders. More liquid than not trickled down his chin, but it was enough to simply have her embrace sustain him—so satisfying that he drifted away once again.
Next time he woke, the room was empty, save for the ticking of the New Haven clock he’d brought with him from Cambridge. The last light of day peeked into his chamber window—but which day? How long had he lain on this bed?
He pushed himself up, propping the pillow behind his back. The room spun, but his lungs didn’t burn, nor did he feel the need to hack until his ribs fractured.
Ladies of Intrigue Page 13