by Lyn Stone
“I know what he was doing!” Michael thundered. “Captain, if you were not…incapacitated, I should call you out on the instant!”
Alex grabbed the wheels of his chair and rolled himself backward, no small task given the thickness of the carpet. “Settle your feathers, Harlowe. You know I’m no threat to—” He broke off when he looked over at Michael and saw the baron standing beside him, sagging under the inert weight of a woman Alex supposed was the baroness. She had fainted dead away.
“He is a doctor!” Amalie wailed. Alex didn’t blame her at all. He felt like wailing himself.
“They’ll have to marry now,” her father declared in a woebegone tone.
“Milord…” Alex let his words trail away, knowing it was no use. No matter that he couldn’t manage a seduction right now if his life depended upon it or that the idea had not even occurred to him. He had thoroughly compromised Miss Amalie Harlowe beyond all redemption in the eyes of her parents and her brother. He’d been squarely caught with his hands up her skirts. And, since he had never confessed his former profession to Michael, any claim of purely medical interest under those ruffles would never be believed.
Even if he sent for his license to prove it, he still had no excuse. The lady had a physician already and no reason at all to be soliciting the opinion of one who had given up the practice.
He bit the bullet he knew he was expected to bite, and looked Amalie straight in the eye. “Miss Harlowe, I was just on the point of asking you. Would you kindly do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She stared at him as if he’d grown horns. “You are mad, sir!”
Alex had to agree. “Assuredly, but I shouldn’t think that would be an impediment you would notice much around here. So, will you, then?”
She dropped her gaze to her lap, then stared pointedly at his, her thoughts so apparent and well focused on any future attempt at consummation, she might as well have spoken them aloud.
Then she raised her head, looked him straight in the eye and shrugged one dispirited shoulder. “Why not?”
Chapter Three
Amalie had cursed her foolhardiness all through dinner and well into the night. Now, this morning, she suffered from lack of sleep that could very well make today even worse.
What in the world had come over her yesterday? Usually she maintained very tight control, both of her temper and the people around her. At the moment, she felt even more helpless than she had then.
“It has surely been half an hour! Stop!” She lay on her stomach on her bed while Magda tortured her, deliberately ignoring any demand to cease. This was nothing new, however. Amalie had grown used to it and accepted it as her ongoing punishment for past sins. But she didn’t accept it silently or with good grace. Magda was used to that, too, and only dug harder into Amalie’s calf with those beefy fingers.
Yesterday, Magda had plunked her in the library after she had finished and dressed her. There was nothing to do there but spend hours on end reading books already read a dozen times each. The limit of endurance had been fully reached when Michael arrived with the Scot.
“Now I’m doomed to his company for the rest of my natural life,” she said aloud.
Magda grunted as she rolled Amalie over and began massaging the right foot. “Well, at least he will be someone different to look at, eh?”
“Um. I suppose.” And that would be a welcome change for a while, Amalie thought. “He saved Michael’s life, so they’d said, so I do owe him for that.”
“Ja. Young sir is home safe.” Magda rotated the ankle.
“There’s nothing I can do to repay him but try to be pleasant,” Amalie said, deciding she might as well try. How long that would last was anyone’s guess, but she would make the effort.
“He does not want this marriage, but he’s stuck with it now.”
“Marriage is good,” Magda commented.
“What a sad state of affairs that I welcome any change at all, good or ill, just to relieve the sameness of the days.”
“Change is good.”
Amalie ignored Magda as best she could, since she wasn’t really talking to her.
“He mentioned a son. Perhaps it would be entertaining to have a child about the place. Someone to run and fetch and to watch play, if nothing else. I’ve never really known any children other than Michael when he was small. What a little demon he was, but funny all the same.”
“You will be the mama.” She lifted the right leg, eliciting a groan.
Amalie forced the pain from her mind though her words still emerged in small puffs. “It not as if…I shall become a real mother…to the child. Or a real wife to…the father.”
“Hmph. We shall see. I like to get these hands on him!” Magda declared.
Amalie imagined she would. “No chance of that, Mags.”
The memory of his hands upon her bared legs surfaced and gave Amalie a lilting little feeling in the pit of her stomach. His touch had been meant as impersonal, she knew, as efficient and medically inquisitive as Dr. Raine’s or Magda’s. Yet it had affected her in an entirely different way.
Captain Napier was no stodgy old Londoner with more than fifty years to his credit, nor was he a great strapping woman with hands like giant claws. He was somewhere near thirty, terrifically attractive, and had wonderfully agile hands.
Also, he could make her laugh. How long had it been since her laughter had not reeked with sarcasm or self-deprecation? Lord, she’d become a regular martinet, a thoroughly unpleasant companion to one and all.
Perhaps that was the reason everyone left her alone in the library so much of the time. She must somehow work harder to get past her anger at what had happened to her. Acceptance was the key, she knew. She had to accept her fate and be gracious.
Alex dressed himself. Not the easy task he had always taken for granted before he had been wounded. Except for removing his boots, he had refused the assistance of the footman early last evening after being rolled into the bedchamber prepared for him. Thankfully the room was located on the ground floor, a vacant room meant to house a servant, of course, as all downstairs sleeping accommodations were.
Hopping on one foot, he nearly toppled before he managed to make it to the Bath chair. Maneuvering around the small front wheel and guidance lever took some doing, but he finally got into the damned thing.
He was just wondering what he would do about his boots when Michael entered. “Good morning, Alex,” he said, sounding a bit stiff.
“You’re here to talk things out.”
Michael sniffed, looking out the window, anywhere but at him. “I cannot believe you would abuse my hospitality in such a manner. I was so angry last evening, I could not bring myself to speak with you at supper.” He flopped down on the unmade bed and clasped his hands between his knees. “Is it really true you’re a doctor?”
“I was,” Alex admitted. “And I swear to you, Michael, I had no intention of giving insult to you or your sister. We had been discussing our injuries and I thought perhaps—”
Michael’s head jerked up and his eyes were bright. “Well, what? What do you think? Could she walk if she wanted?”
“I can’t say. You should speak with her physician about it. He’s coming today?”
“Yes. You still have to marry her, you know,” Michael warned him. Idly he reached down, picked up one of Alex’s Hessians and looked around for the other. “Father is adamant about it.”
“As are you, I see.”
Michael nodded emphatically and brought the pair of boots to him. “And you cannot take her off to Scotland. She must stay here.” He crouched in front of Alex and acted the valet, as he had done many times on the journey from Spain.
Alex smiled. “Michael, your outrage isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly willing to marry her.” He sat forward in the Bath chair, leaning toward his friend. “And you needn’t worry she’ll be saddled with me permanently. If she does recover and wishes to make a better match, an annulment can be quite easily obtained
. I want you or your father to call your solicitor and have papers drawn up to the effect that I require nothing in the way of a dowry. Everything hers, remains hers.”
“But that’s not how things are done.”
“This time it is. However,” he said, hoping to divert Michael to another topic, “I would ask a favor. Can you arrange transportation for me to Maidstone in a week or so?”
“To see a friend there?” Michael asked, frowning. “Is this friend a woman?”
How like Michael. He was jealous on behalf of his sister. “My mother-in-law. She is English. When her husband passed on last year, she went to live with her sister in Kent. She has the care of my son and I should like to see him.”
Michael shook his head. “I swear I thought I knew you well, Alex, but you never said a word about a wife or child in all the time I’ve known you. I believed your only relative was the old uncle in Edinburgh. And you only mentioned him the once.”
“My past is no pleasant subject.”
Michael shrugged, then scurried around behind Alex and pushed him toward the open door. “Let’s have breakfast. Father’s waiting.”
Alex wondered whether he would see Amalie this morning and what her frame of mind might be after mulling over their conundrum. She’d likely feel better once he assured her she would have a way out of the marriage whenever she wanted.
He felt a bit better about things himself, actually, after reassessing his finances. If he planned carefully, he could pay his way here at Balmsley so he wouldn’t be a burden on Amalie’s family. And he would be near enough Maidstone to visit his son now and again. It would also give him time to overcome his own injury while he decided what to do with the rest of his life.
If this Dr. Raine was of the firm opinion Amalie could walk again unassisted, then Alex meant to make it happen. She needed a firm hand and a bit of prodding to get her up and going. Leaving her to the tender mercies of a family that loved her too much would be doing her no favor. She’d remain just as she was.
Well over an hour passed as he and Michael and Lord Harlowe ate a hearty meal and retreated to the library. They discussed the newspaper reports of Wellington’s retreat from Burgos, the progress of the campaign in general, and carefully avoided any further exchanges about the coming nuptials. If banns were to be cried the following Sunday, no one mentioned it.
The doctor arrived around eleven o’clock and was immediately shown upstairs. Alex had not yet met the man, but was anxious to speak with him about Amalie. He folded the newspaper and laid it aside when he heard voices on the stairs.
Michael made the introductions when Lady Harlowe herself brought Dr. Raine into the library where they were waiting. As might be expected, Amalie’s mother cut up stiff, just as she had done the night before, after she’d recovered from her swoon. She left without even making an excuse.
“So you are the betrothed,” Raine said with a merry grin. Short, rotund and energetic described him. Laugh lines creased his entire face and a smooth bald pate reflected the light from the window. Alex put him near fifty. “I must say Miss Amalie is all atwitter about the engagement.”
“Yes, well,” Alex growled. “We are all atwitter, sir.”
Michael grabbed the back of Alex’s chair and shoved him toward the door. “This way, Doc,” he said. “We’ve a new patient for you today. Alex is also a medical man, y’know. Says those army surgeons are crack-brained know-nothings. Takes one to know one, I expect.” He laughed, chattering on incessantly, making light of the diagnosis Alex had received.
Raine followed and they were soon ensconced in the modest little chamber just off the hallway to the kitchens. “Off with you, my boy,” he ordered Michael, who left reluctantly.
“Now then,” Raine said, turning serious. “Let’s get those pantaloons off you and see what damage was done.”
“Not necessary,” Alex protested. “But I would like to speak with you about Miss Amalie since she is to be my wife.”
“No secret there anyway. She’s got the idea embedded in her mind that she can’t walk since the bones healed. Or it may be fear of pain. Does hurt, I know, getting back up on her pins. Nothing wrong with ’em now.” He tapped his head. “Mind over body but not in the good sense if you see what I mean. Now about you…”
“I’ll be fine,” Alex said. “That nurse you assigned Miss Amalie. She’s to prevent atrophying?”
“Therapeutic manipulation of the musculature often does wonders. Let’s see the leg, Captain.”
“No.”
The doctor stood there with his pudgy hands grasping his hips. “I’m waiting. Don’t think you’ll foist me off now. Curiosity and all that.”
“I will walk,” Alex said emphatically.
“We’ll see.” He helped Alex to stand and shed his pantaloons, then assisted him to the bed.
“Hmm,” Raine said as he examined the scar, then moved the leg about as he expertly palpated tendons and ligaments. He wasn’t quite so loquacious now, limiting his remarks to that same wordless sound all doctors make. Alex recalled making it himself more times than he could count. Usually when he didn’t want to say what he was thinking.
After a few pertinent questions regarding the treatment, both by the doctors and what Alex had attempted since, Raine stood away. “Well, that’s that.”
“That’s what?” He made himself ask, knowing the answer.
The doctor ran a hand over his balding pate and shook his head. “You have read all the ancient texts, I’ll wager. And while some insist positive thoughts can affect the outcome of infirmities, no amount of wishful thinking will let you flex that knee at will. It’ll buckle on you every time you put weight on it. I don’t need to tell you that.”
“I will walk,” Alex said mulishly as he grabbed his pants to dress.
“Never said you wouldn’t do that,” Raine argued. “Only that the knee won’t work. It is fair wrecked and nothing can fix it.”
Alex managed to push himself to a standing position and held on to the metal footboard. “Thank you for the opinion,” he said with no sincerity and held out his hand.
Raine shook it firmly. “Good luck to you, son.” He hesitated a second, then asked, “Where were you trained?”
“Royal College of Physicians at Edinburgh.”
“Excellent training then. War is hell, eh? May I ask why you went and why, when there is so much to be learned from battle wounds, you did not practice your art there?”
“Personal reasons.”
“You Scots are a dour lot and that’s a fact. You be good to that girl,” he said, and waited for Alex to nod. Then he was gone.
Alex glared down at his leg. He supposed he had accepted the truth somewhere inside him long before now.
He spent the better part of half an hour struggling to get his boots back on. One success at a time, he decided. He sat there on the bed in sartorial splendor until Michael came to fetch him.
Alex refused to get in the chair. “Find me two forked tree limbs, anything to serve, will you? I have got to be on my feet.” The compulsion was so great it wouldn’t be denied.
Michael rushed out, so eager to please it made Alex dizzy. He was gone for quite a while and was running when he returned. “Look!” he exclaimed, holding out a pair of crutches. “Amalie’s idea! I went to get her unused ones to make a pattern, but I think we can use these. See what she suggested? Won’t they work for now?”
Alex considered the odd-looking things. They obviously were made for a woman. The fittings for the armpits were quite small and very heavily padded with soft pink fabric. On the bottom tip of each, Michael had extended the length at least a foot by forcing on two long metal pipes.
“I dismantled the waterflow from the roof cistern,” Michael proudly informed him with a thump to one of the cylinders.
“I’m sure your father will thank you for that,” Alex said with a wry frown.
“C’mon, try ’em out!”
Tentatively, Alex took them and placed the
m just so. After a few awkward attempts at balancing, he got the hang of it. The pads were too small, the handholds too narrow and his left leg swung uselessly, slightly bent at the knee. But as he took his first real steps around that small chamber without hopping and grabbing on to the furniture, Alex felt freer than he had for months. “I must see that sister of yours and thank her,” he said with a huge grin.
“Aye, Cap’n!” Michael crowed. “Follow me!”
She was waiting in the hall beside the large curved staircase and was seated in a chair almost identical, save for size, to the one he had just abandoned, hopefully forever.
“You look patently ridiculous lunging about on those pipe-rigged contraptions, Napier,” she said before he could even greet her.
“And you look entirely too comfortable riding around in that thing,” he replied, frowning at her chair. “But not for long.”
He swung the crutches forward and heaved himself closer. Then again, and once more until he reached her side.
“From my heart, I thank you.” Bracing himself carefully, Alex leaned down, reached for her hand to kiss it. But she raised her face as he did it and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Such a sweet mouth it was, too. Eager and soft, tasting of berries and cream and…
Her chair rolled backward under his weight. Alex tumbled back and landed flat on the floor, spread-eagled and helpless as an upturned tortoise. The clang of metal pipe bouncing on marble echoed through the cavernous hall.
“Napier! Sir, are you hurt?” she cried, leaning sideways in an attempt to touch him.
He turned his head and groaned. “Ow, run fetch me a compress, quick!”
To his great surprise, she very nearly did. Elbows up and hands gripping the arms of her chair, she rose several inches from the seat before she remembered and dropped back with a groan.
Arms outstretched and flat on the floor, Alex laughed with delight. “You nearly did it!”
“Wretch!” she shouted down at him. And rolled right over his fingers.
“Ow!” he cried, this time for real, clutching his hand and curling up to a sitting position.