To Heal a Heart

by Anthea Lawson

  Heavens, she was starting to sound like Maggie. First, a boarding school in London, now she was converting doctors with a missionary-like zeal. She glanced up at him and her smile wilted at the harsh look on his face.

  “I am no longer a doctor, Miss Huntington.” His voice was tight. “This village needs no clinic because it has no physician. You are the last person I shall treat.”

  Caroline returned his frown. “What? You will turn away those in need? If that is your attitude, then perhaps the villagers should expand the cemetery. They will no doubt need the extra room.” It was difficult to fathom how a man with his obvious skills could retreat here and do nothing. “Why are you here on Crete, Mr. Trentham, if not to help?” She did not understand him at all.

  He laid her dress and crinoline on the bed. “There was no doctor here before I came, and there will be none after I am gone. I thank you to not rest the weight of the world on my shoulders, Miss Huntington.”

  Something in his tone, some underlying shadow, made her hold her tongue when she normally would have pursued the argument. This man carried a burden; she could feel it, though she had no idea what it possibly could be, or why he would feel compelled to carry it all the way to Crete.

  Finally he cleared his throat. “I apologize that there is no woman to help you dress. Madame Legault will not be accompanying Manolis, as we need to keep the cart as light as possible for the journey down.”

  “You mean to say you will be helping me dress?”

  “Would you prefer to wait for Manolis instead?”

  “I think not! I can do it myself.” Caroline lifted her chin. “You are an unmarried man—it’s beyond proper. Just help me to my feet, Mr. Trentham.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Please.” She looked directly into his dark blue eyes. He stared back and she could hear her own heartbeat thudding. “If I cannot, I will call for you. I promise.”

  He studied her face for a long moment, some turmoil behind his eyes, as if he was inwardly debating with himself. Finally he nodded. “You will let me know immediately if you need aid.”

  “Yes. I trust you’ll be waiting outside the door again, ready to spring to my rescue.”

  “I am not your knight errant, Miss Huntington. Call for help before collapsing this time.”

  He slipped his arm behind her. Caroline took a breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The world started spinning, but she bit her lip, determined. She was grateful to have his arm bracing her, strong and steady.

  There, she was on her feet! She gave him a weak grin.

  He did not smile back. His gaze was fixed on her, serious and intent. “Any dizziness? Can you stand alone?”

  “I’m well,” she lied.

  He carefully withdrew his support. “Then I will leave you to dress.”

  She took a steadying breath as the door closed behind him, then reached for her crinoline. It was easier to pull on this time, though the fabric bunched about her hips and would not lie straight. One-armed, there was little she could do about it—and the dress would cover it anyway. It was tricky trying to keep her balance, hampered by the bulky petticoat as she lifted first one leg then the other to step through the skirt of her russet riding habit. She had to stop and swallow furiously midway through but kept the sickness at bay—just.

  “Miss Huntington? Are you still well?”

  “Um. Yes, quite all right,” she called back. “I just need another moment or two.” She had to get her good arm through the dratted sleeve, and it was like trying to catch a fish barehanded. There. Her left arm slid through and she shrugged the dress up to her shoulder. Oh dear. Caroline drew the fabric around her other arm. There was no way it would fit through the sleeve, not in the sling, but perhaps the dress would fasten closed around it. Ah, the dratted buttons. There was no way to do them up without help.

  “Mr. Trentham?”

  He was through the door and beside her in an instant, hand at her elbow. “Good. Still on your feet, I see.”

  “I make it a habit not to collapse more than once a week. However, I do need assistance with my buttons. Would you?” She presented him with her back.

  He was silent for a long moment and she could feel a flush come to her cheeks. The dress was barely covering her, one shoulder completely bare, the thin cotton of her chemise doing not a thing to make her feel less vulnerable. It was quite immodest, but what choice did she have?

  She felt him take hold of the fabric and pull gently. Her injured arm was trapped uncomfortably against her side and she froze, anticipating pain. He stopped.

  “I need to make some alterations,” he said. “Stand still.”

  Perhaps it was the command in his voice or the absurd nature of the situation, but she trembled a little and obeyed.

  He slipped the shoulder of her dress off and Caroline clutched the neck of the bodice just as it began to slide down. “Ah…what are you doing?”

  “Fixing your dress.” He took the empty sleeve in his hands and tore, ripping it free of the bodice.

  She stared at him for a shocked moment before finding her voice. “Sir! You’ve ruined a perfectly good dress!”

  “You have ruined a perfectly good arm.” His face was stern, but she thought she glimpsed the barest light of humor in his eyes. He dropped the sleeve to the floor, then turned his gaze on her, studying her form.

  Heat scalded her face.

  “One more adjustment, I think.” His hands skimmed her side and took hold of the dress. Caroline held her breath at the sound of tearing cloth as he ripped the seam open. “That should do,” he said.

  “I would think so.” She felt quite unsteady. “You owe me a new riding habit.” Imagine, him tearing her dress to pieces while she was still in it!

  He eased her sling through the rent he had made, then turned her and drew the dress closed. “There. Not the height of fashion, but serviceable enough.” His fingers worked deftly up her back and he brushed her hair away from her nape to do up the final buttons. The touch of his hands left a fleeting warmth.

  Caroline glanced in the mirror mounted on the wardrobe door, noting the pinkness in her cheeks. “My dress looks like it has been mangled by wild beasts, and my hair…” It was a fright, cascading loose and untamed over her shoulders. She swayed.

  He slipped one arm around her waist to steady her, then guided her back to the bed. “Sit.”

  Caroline tried not to cling to him as she lowered herself, but the edges of her vision were beginning to blur.

  “I’m not certain we should attempt to move you.” His breath ruffled her hair. “You are still too weak.”

  She stiffened. “I can hardly remain here.” Not alone with him. And certainly not if she and Maggie were to make the boat to Malta.

  He studied her for a long moment, the shadows returning to his eyes. “Very well. Let’s see what I can do about your hair.”

  The right side of her head was tender, but he was gentle as he combed. She sat motionless under his touch as he plaited the strands and tied off the braid.

  “There. You look quite the thing, Miss Huntington.”

  “For a beggar’s ball, perhaps. You seem to have missed your calling as a lady’s maid.”

  “It’s good to know I have a profession to fall back on, should I ever require one.” He helped her recline against the pillows. “Conserve your strength. You’ll need it for the journey down.”

  She must have slept, for it seemed moments later that Mr. Trentham returned, though the sun was slanting through the bedroom window in the way of afternoon light.

  He offered his arm. “Manolis is here. Let’s get you to the cart.”

  Caroline rose, glad for his support as the room teetered, then righted itself. A few careful steps and she was across the bedroom threshold. The room beyond was a confused blur of rustic furniture and a brightly colored rug. All her attention was focused on the simple act of moving one foot, then the other, of keeping her balance while the floor slanted b
eneath her.

  “Oh!” She lurched forward and the world tilted crazily.

  Mr. Trentham’s arms instantly came around her, steadying her. No longer in imminent danger of falling, she closed her eyes and leaned against him, trying to absorb some of his strength.

  “Almost there,” he said. “A few more steps.”

  The cart was waiting, the back filled with bedding. He eased her in, considered for a moment, and frowned. “I’ll fetch more blankets. I want you as cushioned as possible.”

  “I am not such a fragile parcel,” she began, but he had already turned and gone. And she had to admit she did feel rather breakable.

  “There is no telling the iatros what he can and cannot do,” the cart driver said from his perch on the bench.

  “What does it mean? Iatros?”

  “Mm…one who cures others. I do not know your word for it.”

  “Doctor,” Caroline supplied. “Although it seems he does not care to be called that. I wonder why.” The more she felt returned to herself, the more curious she became about the mysterious Mr. Trentham.

  He returned, arms laden again with cushions and blankets. “There. The best we can do.” He braced the pillows around her and rolled the blankets to support her arm. “Try to keep from moving.”

  “Perhaps you could have found a better-sprung cart.”

  “This is the better-sprung cart.” He nodded at the driver.

  “I have the best cart on the entire coast,” Manolis said. “It hauls only the finest olives and fish.” He sent her a wide grin. “Hold on, little fish. We go now.” With a lurch, the cart began moving down the narrow track.

  Caroline braced her feet against the weathered backboard. Her legs would be tired by the time they arrived, but she felt secure. If only the dizziness would not rise every time they bounced over a stone.

  The driver turned to look back at her. “She is well, iatros,” he called.

  “Good. I’ll be right behind you.”

  At first it was quite bearable. The slanting sun felt warm and lazy on her limbs, and the gentle rocking of the cart lulled Caroline into a half doze. The nearby hills folded down to the sea, and Mr. Trentham rode his rangy brown horse behind the cart. He was a splendid rider, she noted, watching him guide his mount one-handed down the rough track. He did not sit his horse so much as become part of it. In her sleepy eyes the figure became a centaur, the torso of a man, the body of a horse, following along a track that skirted the cliff’s edge and the bright sea.

  A jolt roused her, the flash of pain making her cry out. They were descending steeply and the track had become much rockier. Caroline grit her teeth as the wheel jarred again.

  “How are you holding up, Miss Huntington?” Mr. Trentham had guided his mount beside the cart and was watching her intently.

  She forced a smile. “Splendidly. How much longer?”

  “Another mile.” He urged his horse forward and bent to speak to the driver. Caroline squeezed her eyes closed, concentrating on simply breathing, trying to block out the spinning sky, the roaring in her ears. The cart moved more slowly now, rocking and tilting like a boat in rough seas. The ride would never end—she was sure of it.

  The cart was rounding a curve when suddenly it canted sideways. She heard the sharp crack of wood splintering, and the world skewed. The blackness in her head turned to a sickening maelstrom and she shrieked as the bedding slid around her, carrying her in a landslide of fabric until she fetched up hard against the side of the cart. Mr. Trentham was shouting but his voice grew more and more distant until everything went blessedly quiet.

  “Miss Huntington?” His voice sounded worried.

  She opened her eyes. She was lying on the ground beside the tipped vehicle and his face hovered just above hers, mouth tight. She blinked, trying to focus on his blurred features. Velvety blackness trailed around her senses—warm and dark and comforting. Just let go, it urged. Retreat from the pain.

  “Damn it, Miss Huntington!” His hands cupped her face. “I don’t need you unconscious.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open and she dredged up the strength to speak. “Caroline. If you are going to swear at me, then call me Caroline.”

  “Good girl.” The lines bracketing his mouth eased.

  “I’m not a girl.” It was the best she could manage, but already she could feel the lovely soft darkness retreating. “Oh, but I feel sick….”

  He lifted her to her knees and supported her, while Manolis came quickly with a jug of water. Dear heavens, she was shaking so badly she could scarcely manage a sip. It would have been dreadfully humiliating had she the energy for such emotions.

  “There now.” Mr. Trentham held her gently. Below, the blue eye of the Mediterranean winked boldly under the sun. She let her head fall against his shoulder. It was enough just to breathe in his embrace. A tiny sigh escaped her.

  “Just a little farther.” Gathering her closely against him, he stood, bearing her in his arms.

  She let out a small breath, but he did not seem uncomfortable holding her so. It was not worth protesting, so she slipped her left hand around his shoulder and held on.

  Manolis had unhitched his mule from the cart and was fastening splintered pieces of wooden wheel across the animal’s back.

  “Oh,” she said. “Is that what happened—did the cart break?”

  “Yes, the wheel.” Mr. Trentham’s voice thrummed against her.

  Manolis checked the burden and nodded. “I will meet you in the village, iatros. The steps are too steep for my mule.” He gave them a wave and set off down the track.

  “Is he abandoning us?”

  “Hardly. The village lies just below, but the cart track circles all the way around. There are steps cut into the cliff, leading directly down. I’ll carry you.”

  “Carry me? The whole way?” She swallowed.

  “Never fear, Miss Huntington. I promise not to drop you into the sea. Now, hold tight.”

  She took a deep breath, hoping it would make her lighter. He strode out confidently, the slight hitch in his walk barely noticeable.

  “Better?” His breath brushed her cheek.

  “Yes.” Anything was better than being joggled about in the cart again, and there was something rather pleasant about being held in his arms.

  Caroline tried to ignore the pressure in her head and concentrate instead on the unaccustomed sensation of being carried: the splay of his hand across her ribcage, the strong arm supporting her legs, the warm breadth of the chest she lay against. He moved nimbly, navigating the uneven steps cut into the stone and obviously taking care to jolt her as little as possible. Halfway down he paused. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the water and warmed the whitewashed buildings of the village below. She glanced up into his face, noting the set of his jaw, the drop of perspiration trailing down his lean cheek.

  “We could rest….”

  “Almost there.” Though his breathing had deepened, he spoke without apparent strain. “Think of your nice, soft bed.”

  The steps widened and gentled as they entered the village. A few men greeted the doctor casually, as if he carried injured Englishwomen through the village on a regular basis.

  “Put me down. I can walk from here.” The Villa Thessalo lay just ahead, a pleasant, foursquare building with pots of riotous red geraniums gracing the entry.

  He did not comply, only went up the steps, pushed open the door, and carried her inside. The dim coolness soothed her heated face.

  “Mr. Trentham—”

  “Hush.” He tightened his hold on her and mounted the treads without faltering.

  “There you are!” Maggie hurried into the hall and flung open the door to Caroline’s rooms. She did not seem to think it odd that Mr. Trentham was carrying his patient. “The bed is just there. Let me fetch some water.”

  He lowered her and Caroline uncurled her fingers from around his neck.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, meaning it with all her heart. His attention
and concern, the absurd way he had carried her down the cliffs—it was not something she was accustomed to, but it was a great kindness.

  “The pleasure was mine.” And to her surprise, he smiled.

  The expression nearly stole her breath. Mr. Trentham’s smile was dazzling.

  It was a good thing he so rarely smiled.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alex climbed back up the cliff steps, wishing the brisk evening breeze could carry away his thoughts, sweep away the feeling of Caroline Huntington’s body printed against his. A useless hope. Nothing short of a wild souroko wind would be able to scour that sweet sensation from him—and part of him was glad.

  A wicked part of himself, one that yearned for something he could never have, that had welcomed the opportunity to touch her. She was a beauty, headstrong and spirited even in her present condition. Thank God she was out of his house. Not that he didn’t trust himself to behave as he ought—as a gentleman should—but spending time in her company was going to prove increasingly difficult.

  He would need to tend her for several weeks yet, and he was already struggling to maintain his professional façade. It felt like little more than a thin veneer over his more turbulent self. He was half tempted to let her go through with the scheme he suspected she had brewing…but no. Selfish desires aside, it could do her irreparable harm if she traveled again so soon. His mind and body would have to make their peace—at least until Miss Huntington had left the island for good.

  He untied Icarus from the thin olive tree that had sheltered the horse through the afternoon. “Good lad. We’ll get you home, and a handful of oats as thanks for waiting.”

  The horse nudged him with his wide, soft muzzle, and Alex swung up into the saddle. He had no doubt sleep would evade him even more than usual this night, chased away by the memory of Miss Huntington nestled in his arms. Body pulsing, he bent low and urged his mount into a canter.