by Susan Wiggs
Blue scowled. “What?”
“Your late wife. She’s not at peace, because you won’t let her go.”
“I shouldn’t have come to see you. Each time I do, you seem compelled to counsel me in my grief. After all these years, it’s become boring.”
“Aye, grief is a tedious matter,” said Father Jock, deliberately misunderstanding. “Best to put it behind you. Some men live lives filled with many loves. Others love but once. But of course, that’s their choice.”
Blue strode away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, you do.”
It was not the first time they’d had this discussion, and Blue knew it would not be the last. He told himself not to take the bait, but the priest had a way of goading him. Lately, everyone in his life wanted to counsel him in the matter. He was damned tired of defending his decision to remain a widower.
They found no trace of Lucas. He had compounded his infractions by lying to both Blue and Father Jock. The priest seemed unperturbed, even amused. “In the matter of his punishment, I’ll let you do the honors this time.” As he headed back to his office, he turned and called across the yard. “Why the devil do you think your boy steals wine and gets into mischief? It’s a bid for attention, man.”
“It works, then,” Blue said ruefully.
He walked swiftly homeward, wondering what his son was up to this time. With Lucas, he could never be sure, and with Isabel Fish-Wooten as a temporary resident, it was anyone’s guess.
The house looked fine, though, as solid as a marble mausoleum. It was a far bigger house then he had ever needed, but it had been a wedding gift from Sancha’s family, who had spared no expense when it came to their only daughter.
He and Sancha had spent four perfect years here. Then he’d decided to serve in the army again. She insisted upon accompanying him to Fort Carrington, viewing it as a grand adventure. The adventure ended when she was gunned down in front of her tiny son’s eyes.
Blue went straight to Sancha’s room. He found the door ajar, and from the hallway, he could see Lucas sitting with Isabel Fish-Wooten.
Multiple protests leaped to his lips. She was a stranger, a lady abed, and it was hardly proper for his son to be in her presence. But he knew what Lucas’s reaction would be if he sent the boy away. It wasn’t that he feared his son’s resentment. That would be like fearing the sunrise; it was going to occur no matter what. But he was weary of Lucas’s constant defiance.
For several moments, he watched unnoticed from the doorway. His patient looked quite a bit improved. Apparently Delta had seen to tidying her up, and perhaps she’d had a nap, for she looked rested. On a table beside the bed, she and Lucas were playing a hand of poker, something he’d forbidden his son to do. To Blue’s astonishment, Lucas played with the consummate skill and assurance of a seasoned cardsharp, lacking only a cheroot and glass of whiskey to complete the picture.
But the look on Lucas’s face as he smiled and spoke with the houseguest was anything but cynical. Amazing, thought Blue with a not-altogether-pleasant jolt.
“I’ve never actually played for money before, Miss Fish-Wooten,” Lucas said, pushing a stack of coins across the green tablecloth.
“Dear boy,” she said in her oh-so-haughty accent, “a gentleman never plays for money. He plays with it.” Reaching out with a dainty hand, she lifted the stack of coppers and let them scatter.
Lucas’s dark eyes danced with enchantment. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. Remember that, and you will never feel desperate about money.”
Lucas grinned at her.
She frowned, more in confusion than disapproval. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just… You’re not like most ladies I’ve met.”
“And what are all those other ladies like?” She plucked ruefully at her hair. “I suspect they are better groomed.”
The boy blushed and shrugged his shoulders. “Most girls talk all the time—”
“I’ve been accused of doing my share of talking.”
“But you’re straightforward and matter-of-fact. You talk about things besides fashion and gossip. You’re much more interested in other people than yourself.”
Blue stood amazed for half a minute more. Who was this lively young man, so eagerly soaking in the dubious advice of an uninvited guest? The change in Lucas was dramatic. His son, who seemed to care about nothing, had finally found something to care about.
The trouble was, he’d allowed himself to be charmed by a person of shady character, despite Rory’s claim of her innocence.
He strode into the room. “I take it you’re feeling better, Miss Fish-Wooten.”
She regarded him calmly from the bed. She looked like a princess, propped against lace-edged pillows and wearing a modest, expensive-looking gown he could have sworn once belonged to Sancha.
Each time he looked at Miss Fish-Wooten, he found his gaze drawn to her uncommon eyes. Large and thickly-lashed, they resembled something out of a pre-Raphaelite portrait. A man could drown in those eyes if he wasn’t careful.
“Much better indeed,” she told him, smiling up at him from the bed.
He had such an unexpected reaction to the smile that, for a moment, words failed him. His mouth felt dry, his chest warm, as though he’d caught the fever that afflicted her.
“I’m off, then,” Lucas said suddenly, folding his fan of cards. “I’m going back to St. Mary’s. I’ve more work to do.” He bade a polite farewell to Miss Fish-Wooten.
“You told Father Jock you were needed at home,” Blue said.
A dull red flush stained Lucas’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “And he told me to return at my convenience.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” Blue promised and clenched his jaw in frustration. Why couldn’t the boy simply do as he was told?
“Yes, sir.” Stiff-backed with resentment, Lucas left the room.
For some reason, it bothered Blue that the stranger had witnessed the awkwardness between him and Lucas. And it wasn’t the first time she’d seen them like this. His troubles with his son were private, and her scrutiny intruded into tender places he preferred to keep shrouded in darkness.
“Perhaps you should go after him,” she suggested.
“He has work to do.”
“Pruning box hedge at the church. It’s not the most urgent of errands.”
He sent her a quelling look as he moved the tray full of cards aside and took out his stethoscope. “Lucas is fifteen. A bit of rebelliousness is normal at that age.” As soon as the words escaped him, Blue regretted the moment of candor. She had the oddest effect on him. He tended to blurt things out to her.
“Oh, he’s more than a bit rebellious,” she declared. “We had a long, honest talk about it. He’s deeply resentful of you and angry at the world at large.”
He glared at her as he fitted the earpieces of the stethoscope in place, then pressed the monaural to her chest. A reassuring rhythm pulsed in his ears. “Ah. So while I was out today, you obtained competence in the science of psychology.”
She sniffed. “I wouldn’t know about that, but I know plenty about the human mind and behavior.”
He felt a singular urge to laugh, but suppressed it. “Psychology is a field of study of the human mind and behavior.”
“Well, I have something the science clearly lacks.”
“What’s that?”
“Common sense, obviously.”
“And what does your common sense tell you?”
“That he’s deeply resentful of you and angry at the world at large,” she repeated with an excess of patience.
“Thank you, Dr. Freud,” he said.
“Dr. who?”
“The alienist who is doing pioneering work in the field of psychology.”
She waved a hand to indicate disinterest. “Just because you refuse to see the trouble doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Miss Fish-Wooten, whatever troubles I may
or may not have in my life are none of your affair.”
“That still doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
The stronger she got, he reflected, the more annoying she became. Perhaps he should stop feeding her.
Clearly he needed to establish some rules. That image of her, so companionably playing cards with Lucas, simply would not leave him alone. “I’d like you to limit your contact with my son,” he said.
“I’m sure you would,” she replied breezily. “He really is a fine young man. What a joy he must have been for you to raise.”
“Indeed.” It occurred to him that he was envious of her ease with Lucas, the naturalness of their rapport. He was also suspicious of it. He was not about to confess that the boy had been a trial from the moment Blue had explained that his mama was dead and gone and would not be coming back.
“So you agree, then? During your stay here, you’ll keep to yourself and not have any visits with Lucas. I shall inform him, too, of course.”
“Dr. Calhoun?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what a horse’s ass you sound like?”
“You have experience with horses’ asses?” he shot back.
She sent him a soft and lovely smile. “I do now.”
He pushed the table away, scattering playing cards. “You are here at my pleasure—”
“And you seem so very pleased with me,” she pointed out, unfazed. “All vulgar joking aside, Doctor, I believe it’s only fair to let you know that I welcome and encourage visits from Lucas. Your son is a wonderful boy. When I first saw him, I mistook him for an angel. But just because he’s wonderful doesn’t mean he’s going to stay out of trouble. He has questions he needs answered. And pretending you don’t know what those questions are is simply a display of willful ignorance.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, dear doctor, that at a heartbreakingly young age he lost his mother under mysterious and violent circumstances he doesn’t understand. And no one will talk about it with him. He was raised by a demanding perfectionist of a father who is trying to rescue the whole world while ignoring his son.”
How, he wondered, had the conversation deteriorated to this? To her unsolicited and wildly erroneous opinion of his personal affairs? If she were a man, she’d be spitting teeth from a broken jaw, Blue thought. Instead, he shielded himself from the words she’d spoken and said, “So you’ve been gossiping with the help.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I adore gossip.”
“She surely does,” said Delta, coming into the room with a tray of dressings and salves. “I bet you’re plumb worn out, aren’t you, honey?”
“Not at all,” Isabel assured her. She aimed a glare at Blue. “Nearly everyone has been so very kind. I’m getting excellent care.”
Her coloring was poor, Blue observed, revising his earlier idea that she was on the mend. “Be very still now. I need to listen to your heart.”
He concentrated on doing what he did best—being a doctor. Her heartbeat was normal, though her temperature and respiration were both elevated. Despite his brusque order, she kept trying to chatter with good-natured earnestness. He suspected she was fighting hard to get better, but her appetite was off. The hollows in her cheeks seemed more pronounced.
“How did you sleep today?” he asked her.
“Perfectly well, thank you.”
He frowned, wondering why she would lie. “I need to examine the wound,” he said to Delta.
The injury concerned him. It was suppurating and in need of further cleansing. He and Delta performed the painful procedure quickly, expecting her to weep and scream in protest. But she lay perfectly still. He could see her face in profile against the crisp white covering of the pillow. Her expression was blank, as though she’d gone away somewhere.
This self-distancing was a reaction he had observed on rare occasions. It was a way to cope with horrific pain and was generally used by those who lived with a chronic illness—or those frequently subjected to agony.
He wondered who had hurt her before.
He felt Delta watching him, but ignored her. He knew what she was thinking, anyway. This woman was trouble. Innocent or guilty, she was bad news. In naval terms, she would be known as a loose cannon, rolling uncontrolled on deck. The only thing more foolish than setting her free was keeping her close.
By the time he finished, she seemed exhausted by the ordeal and perfectly willing to indulge in a long rest. Before he could allow her to drift away, however, he had a number of questions for her.
He waited while Delta straightened the area and gathered the soiled bandages and dressings. He never came into this room. When he was first married, he had been reluctant to leave it, because this was where he and Sancha used to retreat from society, where they entered the safe haven of their love for each other, where the outside world could not intrude or interrupt. In this room—in this very bed—they had made Lucas, and in this same bed Sancha had birthed their son in a burst of pain and joy. They’d tried to have others, but had not succeeded. Maybe, thought Blue, having just the one child was part of some grand and terrible plan that was bigger than either of them. Because the only thing harder than raising Lucas without Sancha would have been raising Lucas and other children.
“Miss Fish-Wooten,” he said once Delta had departed, “I’d like to transfer you to a hospital.”
She said nothing but held him in a steady regard that made him feel vaguely foolish and defensive.
“It’s your best chance for a full recovery,” he said.
She seemed quite calm as she folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t see why you’re so keen on making me leave. Other women you’ve rescued have stayed on.”
She’d wasted no time prying into his affairs. It was true that the women here had come to him in a state of need, and stayed for the situation he could offer them. Yet the idea of keeping this particular woman in his life was uniquely unsettling. “Many more have recovered and moved on.”
“I have skills, you know. I can be useful.”
“Oh?”
“I speak French and Russian. I am a crack shot with a rifle, a pistol or a shotgun.”
“I have no need of a Russian-speaking game hunter.”
“You never know.”
“Why do you wish to stay?”
“I never said I wanted to stay. I simply asked you why you didn’t want me to.”
“I never said I didn’t want—” He stopped short of saying something he’d come to regret. “I don’t enjoy pointless debate,” he stated.
“Then you never should have rescued me in the first place.”
“God save me from this conversation,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It’s a perfectly good conversation.”
He took a deep breath, determined to wrest control back from her. “What were you doing abroad so late at night, disguised as a boy and armed to the teeth?”
“Well. It’s about time you asked me that.”
Actually, he had asked for an explanation the morning she’d stowed away in his carriage, but she seemed to have forgotten the exchange. Interesting. “Were you waiting for an invitation?”
“I was waiting for you to use your common sense.”
Damn, but she was an irksome bit of baggage. “All right. Let me allow you the opportunity to explain so I’m not tempted to turn you over to the authorities.”
“You won’t turn me over to the authorities.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“I heard you discussing the matter with Mr. McKnight. I’m too ill. I’ll sicken and die if you give me over to the police. You don’t want me to die. I’m too important to you.”
“All my patients are important.”
“Not in the way I am.”
He tried to deny the impact of those words, but she seemed somehow to sense the undercurrents between them. As was so often the case with Miss Fish-Wooten, her words took him by sur
prise. She moved him in ways he’d never felt before. He tried his best to maintain a professional distance, but he kept looking at her as a woman, not a patient. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering how her cheek would feel, cupped in the palm of his hand, or what her full, soft lips would taste like if he kissed her.
It felt like a physical effort to shake himself free of the thought. “You’re talking nonsense,” he said.
“You’re pretending you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
The hell of it was, he knew exactly what she was talking about. That unnatural electric spark of attraction hummed in the air, here of all places, in the room he’d once shared with the only woman he’d ever loved. It was obscene, he told himself. But undeniable.
He watched her carefully. There was something compelling about her face, its small angular features softened by the uncommon delicacy of her skin, and shadowed by those enormous, dark-lashed eyes. It occurred to him that the fascination he felt toward her was not only reckless but inappropriate. He had no business entertaining these feelings for her, of all women.
Though he scarcely knew her at all, he believed she was completely unsuitable. She was unacceptably young. There were those, of course, who would term him a man in his prime, vigorous and active. But he felt old. The richest part of his life was over, the cream skimmed off the top and spent with impunity. What remained was duty. To expect anything more would be sheer foolishness.
But at the moment, he must concentrate only on her recovery. “You need to rest,” he said.
She dismissed the statement with a graceful wave of her hand and looked around the room. “You have a beautiful home. I think you truly are a millionaire.”
He didn’t reply. She was probably right. Sancha’s family was descended from the original settlers of California, a long line of fiercely aristocratic hidalgos who worked the land and, over generations, amassed a fortune. As the only surviving Montgomery of her line, Sancha had come to their marriage dowered with an embarrassment of wealth. Blue did what he did best—he took care of it. He invested and ultimately managed to preserve her fortune because it was important to Sancha. Now he preserved it not for his own sake, but for Lucas.