Moonlight on My Mind

by Jennifer McQuiston

  As she lined her boots up carefully on the least offensive patch of floor she could find, an inhuman moan pushed its way over the edge of the table. A muffled curse and clattering from the table above suggested that whatever else Patrick Channing was doing, he now had a new problem to contend with.

  “Miss Baxter!” he barked, showing more passion in those two words than she had heard in an entire half hour’s conversation. “I require your assistance. Quick as you can.”

  Julianne sprang up as if launched from a jack-in-the-box, pushed by the urgency in his voice. She flew across the floor—and truly, it was easier to move without the bother of those heels. And then she was standing beside him and trying very, very hard not to be sick at the sight spread out on the table like a Sunday dinner gone wrong.

  The black and white dog lay prone on the table, its remaining limbs paddling slowly. Its mouth opened and closed in a grimace of pain, but it did not appear to be completely awake. There was blood everywhere—on the table, on the saw, on the man.

  A thin sheen of perspiration dotted Patrick’s forehead. “He’s showing signs of returning to consciousness. I need you to hold his muzzle down on the table, in case he comes fully awake.”

  “Me?” she squeaked, sure he must be joking.

  “Quickly, please. I don’t have time to argue.”

  A high keening sound from the dog sent her scrambling forward, no matter her misgivings. She leaned over the table and wrapped her hands around the dog’s yawning muzzle, the sight of its sharp teeth tightening the knot of terror in her stomach. “In this manner?”

  He nodded, his hands pressed over the gaping wound along the animal’s rear flank. “Aye,” he said. “Hold steady.”

  The dog thrashed its head, and her fingers slipped dangerously close to its teeth. “I . . . I can’t.”

  He lifted his eyes, and she felt his gaze like an iron brand. “You can, Miss Baxter. You must. Count to ten, if you need a distraction, but stop distracting me.”

  Julianne’s hands shook against the animal’s muzzle, but she renewed her grip. She began to count off the seconds in a firm, unwavering voice she barely recognized as her own. “One, two, three.”

  She could scarcely believe she was doing this.

  “Four, five.”

  What if the dog bit her?

  “Six, seven, eight.”

  What if the animal was mad, on top of being injured?

  “Nine, ten.”

  What if . . .

  It occurred to her the animal had stopped moving. Relief nudged the terror aside. She loosened her hold, but did not pull her hands away.

  “Pinch the skin between his front toes, if you please.”

  Julianne looked up. Patrick was threading a needle now—when had she started to think of him as Patrick, instead of a more appropriate form of address? Probably somewhere around the time she had started to shed her clothing. “You want me to pinch him?” she asked, confused. “He’s just gone off to sleep again!”

  “It will test his reaction to pain, Miss Baxter. A good, sharp pinch. Use your nails. I want to be sure he’s unconscious before I begin to suture the wound.”

  Though it went against her very nature to do something to purposefully hurt an animal, his voice brooked no argument, and Julianne reached a hand through the blood-matted fur and dug her nail into the skin between two of the dog’s toes.

  When the animal remained utterly still, Patrick murmured, “Good girl. Is he breathing?”

  Julianne’s knees trembled. There was no mistaking who the praise was directed toward, given that the dog was unmistakably male. She placed her palm against the animal’s muzzle and felt its steady respirations. “Yes.”

  “I should be only a few minutes more. Hold steady, in case I need you to do it again.”

  As he began the process of applying the needle to the dog’s skin, Julianne’s emotions shifted from panicked compliance to unsteady wonder. He worked in silence, one sure pass of the needle after another. She had never seen a man do such a thing before, and the sight shocked her for its masculinity rather than its domesticity. With every push of the needle through the animal’s skin, she could see the flex of muscle along the edge of his rolled-up sleeve. It was hard to believe she had once danced in those arms, flirtations and innuendo passing between them as they loped around the edge of a ballroom.

  “I think we’re in the clear now, barring internal injuries.”

  Julianne’s gaze jerked up from the sight of his arms, her spine tingling with unwelcome awareness. The sight of Patrick Channing in shirtsleeves, covered in blood, stirred an unfortunate return to the same memory that had plagued her these past few months. His brother’s death was a nightmare she was destined to relive, it seemed. The indisputable method of murder had been gunshot, fired from a distance. All were in agreement on this point. Any usual manner of killer would have slipped quietly away, his hands still clean. In point of fact, she was quite sure she had seen a man running away from—not toward—the scene of the crime.

  But if Patrick had indeed shot his brother in a cold, calculated fashion, why had he been covered in blood while standing there in his father’s study?

  Julianne forced herself to step away from the table and its bright, coppery smell of blood. She opened the stove’s door and stirred the embers there, the need to be useful an unexpected pain. If only she hadn’t said anything that fateful day . . .

  She had come to Scotland determined to convince him to return to England and at least attempt to save his younger sisters, who—through no fault of their own—were facing utter ruin. And in doing so, she hoped to assuage in some small degree the guilt that still trailed her for her role in all of this. But the sight of all that blood rattled the bars of her memory, and the doubts that had chased her here firmed into something regrettably real.

  Seeing Patrick Channing now, his hands laboring to save a dog whose worth was so little not even its owner had claimed it from the street, she could see he was a man who valued life.

  And that meant she had made a grave, grave error.

  Chapter 3

  Patrick tied off the last knot in shadowed darkness, a testament to the day’s steady march toward evening. As usual, he felt relieved. One never knew which direction surgery might go—not that the concern had ever kept him from trying.

  He had every confidence the animal would live now, barring putrefaction of the wound. He should put some thought into locating the dog’s owner and see if he could press him for a few shillings. Not that he regretted the extravagance of treating the dog, but money for supplies was a constant struggle. He considered whether he ought to ask Miss Baxter to pay for the materials he had just expended. After all, it was her coach that had caused the dog’s injuries, and Patrick knew Mr. Jeffers, the coachman, struggled to put food on his own family’s table. And for all the fact her shoes had gone missing and some of those red curls had abandoned their moorings, she radiated money the way his cookstove radiated heat.

  But he abandoned that idea almost as quickly as it sprang free. He did not want to be beholden to this woman.

  Patrick removed the glass globe from the lamp and struck a match to light it before turning to face her. She was sitting on the floor, her feet tucked under her and Gemmy’s head on her lap. Now that the immediate frenzy of surgery was past, he could turn his mind to what her presence here meant. Nothing good—that much was obvious.

  Still, there was some relief in having the decision so firmly taken out of his hands. He was tired of skirting the demands of his moral compass. He missed his family, and the fresh, rolling hills of Yorkshire. The leaves had probably started to turn, and autumn had always been his favorite time of year to spend in the country. He missed his little sisters, Mary and Eleanor, and their bright, cheerful faces. Missed the stables where he had spent so much of his time.

  Missed his brother, Eric, although there was no help for that.

  Miss Baxter’s discovery of his whereabouts was unfort
unate, but it was not going to send the noose over his neck in the next five minutes. They had time enough for a conversation, before he decided what to do with her.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, breaking the long-fingered silence.

  She drew an unsteady breath, and the motion drew his eye to the fine, high shape of her bosom. He was reminded, in that moment, of his former life, and his father’s expectations for him. Miss Baxter’s unwelcome appearance here did more than stir uncomfortable memories of dances and country house parties and the life he had once resented.

  She reminded him of the brother he had lost, and the unfortunate argument that had preceded Eric’s death.

  “I am fine.” Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Does the dog still live?”

  “Aye.” He moved on to light a tin lantern on the other side of the room, and then settled it on the edge of the nearby countertop. “I appreciate your assistance.” And he did. She had surprised him today, with her help in surgery. She was not precisely the empty-headed flirt with a flair for drama and a penchant for mischief he had believed her to be.

  No, today she had proven herself a levelheaded flirt. A more dangerous beast, entirely.

  “I did too little to warrant any measure of thanks.” Her words were deceiving, making her seem the complete opposite of the vivacious young woman who had stirred up brotherly jealousies at Summersby. She’d been trouble even before she’d kissed him in the foyer and then offered herself as the sole witness to his brother’s murder. He ought to pull her to her feet and send her packing.

  Instead, he slumped down on the floor beside her.

  Gemmy squirmed a few inches toward him and nudged Patrick’s hand with an insistent nose. He ruffled the dog’s fur. After the stressful circumstances of the past hour, it was soothing to touch an animal whose life didn’t literally rest in his hands.

  “I had heard a rumor you were serving as Moraig’s veterinarian.” Her voice wavered. “But I wasn’t sure I believed it. However did you learn to do all this?”

  Patrick kept his gaze trained on his dog. No doubt she was as horrified by this aspect of his life as the other. Only this part of his life he had chosen. The other parts had been wrenched out of his control.

  “What did you think I was up to these past few years, given my absence in Town? I was studying. In Italy.”

  Her pert nose wrinkled. “My father simply said you were traveling on the continent. Lazing away your days, spending money, if the rumors are to be believed.”

  Patrick rubbed the silken fur of Gemmy’s ear, weighing the possible implications of confessing the details of his time in Italy to a woman incapable of a single guarded moment. His desire to confess something won out over his need for silence.

  “I spent four years studying at the veterinary college in Turin. My father indulged my studies as a curiosity, but would not permit me to set up a practice. He considered it a hobby to pass the time, little more.”

  “So you are formally trained?”

  “Yes.” He shifted uneasily, surprised by the lack of censure in her voice. “Although it doesn’t take much skill to amputate a leg. A bit of brute strength and a strong stomach are the only requisite traits. The town needed someone to doctor their animals, and I needed them.”

  “What did you need from Moraig?” Her voice softened to a whisper.

  Patrick fanned his fingers over Gemmy’s reassuring coat. It did not escape his notice that Miss Baxter’s fingers swirled in similar circles mere inches from his own.

  Damned lucky dog.

  “Companionship.” He shrugged. “I’ve friends from my days at Cambridge who live here, and they’ve been good enough to not ask questions. Moraig offered some degree of anonymity, I suppose, while my father works to deflect the questions. No one has thought to look for me here, and there is very little news that makes it here from London. It’s a simple life. Adequate.” He did not add that his life, though lonely, was something he no longer took for granted.

  He exhaled forcibly. Might as well address the next question head-on, given that he needed to know whom to strangle. “How did you learn of my whereabouts, Miss Baxter?”

  “I heard your name in passing when I was on holiday in Brighton this summer. Someone you know—Mr. Cameron?”

  A curious mixture of relief and irritation settled in. Miss Baxter’s discovery, then, could be laid at the feet of one of his best friends. He could not fault the man. Patrick had given David Cameron no cause—or request—for secrecy. “Cameron’s one of those school chums from Cambridge. Serves as Moraig’s magistrate at the present.”

  She inclined her head. “I must presume he is either a disreputable sort of magistrate, or else you have not told the good citizens of Moraig about your past circumstances.” Her eyes glowed nickel-bright in the lamp’s flicker. “I don’t blame you for hiding here, Patrick. No one would.”

  He should have been too exhausted to respond to the low velvet scrawl of her voice. After all, this was Julianne Baxter. The girl flirted as easily as she breathed. But damned if she wasn’t lowering her lashes in a manner that instantly inflamed his prurient interests, despite the grave nature of this discussion. “I’m not hiding, Miss Baxter. I’ve a life here, a purpose. I am not just playacting a role.” He did not add that finding something useful to do with his hands had been the only thing that kept him sane following his brother’s death.

  “I can quite see that. What you did for that dog was nothing short of miraculous.” Far from putting him at ease, the quick smile she offered stirred unfortunate memories. His understanding of this woman was shaped by history. She had once gifted him with such a smile, just after he had kissed her. And then she had turned around and tossed a similar smile in his brother’s direction not two minutes later.

  At the time, Eric had been the one ready to marry, and Julianne had been an eligible young woman looking to make an advantageous match. But he was the heir now, unless his father’s efforts to dissuade his detractors failed. Her lashes were being lowered in his direction. And that meant Miss Baxter either had a tremendously fickle heart or a very mercenary spirit.

  “I am sorry,” she told him. “For all of it. Not that it helps you now.”

  Patrick’s fingers tightened on Gemmy’s fur, and his pulse bounded to hear her ill-timed words. The girl thought a simple apology, a mere “sorry,” could fix what she had done? “You accused me of murder,” he pointed out.

  “I didn’t accuse you, exactly. I merely related what I had seen.” She hesitated. “I have thought about that day many times since, and I regret the pain I have caused your family. If I could do it again, I would choose not to speak against you.”

  The delicate tremor in her voice goaded him to belief. Perhaps the chit was sorry. She certainly sounded contrite. But “sorry” would not help either of them if she was called to provide testimony under oath.

  “Do you think you would have a choice?” He dragged a hand through his hair, trying to reconcile her apparent naïveté with the sharp mind he knew to clack along behind those persuasive green eyes. “You could be compelled to testify, Miss Baxter. You’d have no choice in the matter at all if you were called as a witness. And all it will take would be one word from you to place a noose around my neck.”

  Even in the dim light, he could see the pallor that descended over her. “I am not at all sure that is true. After all, the events of eleven months ago are somewhat in doubt—”

  “Perhaps in your mind.” He gave a short laugh that echoed like a gunshot over the room’s exposed rafters and made him wince as the sound circled back ’round. He stared up at the ceiling. Aside from the danger she presented at the point of testimony, what did it matter if she thought he had murdered his brother? After all, he considered her a liar whose primary lot in life was to generate and propagate rumors.

  Perhaps they were a good match.

  He gained his feet, summoning Gemmy with a snap of his fingers. The terrier lurched to obey, but cast a longing l
ook back at Miss Baxter. Patrick understood how the dog felt. But neither of them was going to spend any time in this woman’s lap, no matter the temptation of her petite, silk-wrapped curves. The girl was like hives: popping up when least expected, impossible to shake off. Removing her from his house—and preferably from his life—was the first priority of business.

  “We need to fetch your things from the posting station and get you to the Blue Gander where you can take a room. You cannot stay here tonight or tongues will wag. Moraig may be small and isolated, but rumors have a way of spreading here just as fast as they do in London.”

  “Oh. I suppose you are right.” She shifted her feet from under her, and he had to force himself to avert his eyes from the shock of her pale ivory stockings. “I confess, I had not given any thought to where I might stay.”

  Patrick offered Miss Baxter his hand and pulled her to standing, determinedly ignoring how small and alive her palm felt against his own. He released her the moment she was steady. “It occurs to me that you scarcely give much thought to anything of importance before throwing yourself into the fray, Miss Baxter. But given that the hour grows late, and I still need to feed my bloody lamb, perhaps you ought to tell me why you are here.”

  Julianne glanced down from the distraction of Patrick Channing’s lamp-lit scowl.

  Far from finding refuge in the moiré silk of her skirts, her gaze snagged on the grubby fabric. She felt like a different woman than when she had put this dress on this morning. Then, she had been thinking of nothing more than the pressing need to find this man and tell him the news he must hear. She’d hoped that in the process of finding him, she might find some measure of peace for her role in all of it.