Never Less Than A Lady

by Mary J. Putney

  That sounded better than a knife. The ostler arrived with the baggage then, so she thanked him and knelt to dig through the saddlebags. She had just located Randall’s shaving kit when Mrs. Ferguson entered with a tray of supplies, followed by a maid with a canister of steaming water. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey, along with large and small knives and plenty of bandages. Do you need anything else, Mrs. Randall?”

  Julia glanced up. “This should do. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Ferguson looked at Randall uneasily. “Do you need my help?”

  “We’ll manage,” Randall said hoarsely. “My Lady Julia is most competent.”

  Looking relieved, Mrs. Ferguson and the maid escaped. Julia saturated a cloth with whiskey and wiped down the razor and knife blades.

  His gaze locked on the bottle. “A waste of good whiskey.”

  “My apologies.” She propped him up with a couple of pillows, added a dose of laudanum to a glass of whiskey, and handed it over.

  He swallowed half the glass in one gulp. “You could probably use a good swig yourself,” he said, “but maybe it’s better if you don’t.”

  “I’ll indulge gratefully after you’re sorted out.” She examined his thigh inch by inch, pressing gently on the hard muscles to find the still harder pieces of buried metal. Much easier to think of him as a patient than as a man. “You certainly have a lively assortment of scars.”

  “The surgeon who cut out most of the pieces told me that my battered hide set his personal record.” Randall drank again, this time more slowly. His fingers whitened on the glass when she touched the area around the wound.

  When she finished her examination, she said, “Besides the big piece that’s bleeding so nastily, there’s another piece above your knee. It hasn’t broken the skin, but it feels loose. Active.”

  “So that’s what’s been hurting like bloody hell,” he muttered. “Excuse my language. Will you cut that out, too?”

  She wiped damp hands on her skirt. “I’d like to. From what I know of shrapnel, there are probably other pieces that have become immobilized and won’t cause problems, but this one is trouble waiting to happen.”

  “And likely sooner than later.” He exhaled roughly. “You’ve had cutting experience?”

  “With no proper surgeon in Hartley, I was the one who removed buckshot, pieces of wood, and any other foreign objects that became imbedded in human flesh. Usually male flesh.” She folded a clean linen rag and used the hot water to wash the blood from his thigh. “Men are much more injury prone. If it’s any comfort, I’ve never accidentally removed anything a man wanted to keep.”

  He smiled crookedly. “A great comfort.”

  His color was better, whether it from banter, whiskey, or because he was finally lying down rather than on horseback. “This is going to hurt,” she warned. “Do you think you can keep still? I can ask Mrs. Ferguson for a male servant to hold you down.”

  He grimaced. “I doubt you’ll do anything that will hurt much worse than the way my leg feels already. Just give me the whiskey bottle.”

  “Be careful,” she said as she complied. “The combination of ardent spirits and laudanum can be dangerous.”

  “I’m hard to kill.” He swallowed a mouthful. “In middling amounts, the whiskey and opium put a pleasant distance between my mind and your knife.”

  Feeling qualms, she said, “It’s not too late to send for a proper surgeon.”

  He shook his head. “Proceed, my dear wife. I trust you at least as much as the sawbones who hacked me about on the Peninsula.”

  She smiled unevenly, pleased at the trust but unnerved by the responsibility. “Not your wife yet, and after I get through cutting, you might want to cry off.”

  He laughed, his eyes lightening. “In Scottish terms, we’re already married, Julia. We have presented ourselves as husband and wife before two witnesses.”

  “Married?” Her voice squeaked. She hadn’t been quite ready. Still…“Perhaps it’s just as well. With no proper ceremony, I didn’t have to promise to obey you.”

  “Now I’m the one who is not surprised,” he murmured. “I shall make a note of that. No obedience expected.”

  Ignoring his comment, she prepared for the surgery, placing folded cloths near to hand so she could blot the blood, and packing rolled towels on both sides of his thigh to steady it. His razor and the smaller of Mrs. Ferguson’s knives were the sharpest, so she cleaned them with whiskey again. As she prepared to start cutting, he said, “Talk to me.”

  She paused. “About what?”

  “Anything. How did you learn surgery?”

  “I found the subject interesting. As a child, I would sneak off to the village surgeon’s house to watch what he was doing. He’s the one who taught me to use spirits to clean instruments.” She blotted the blood from the jutting shrapnel and prepared to cut. “I would have studied surgery if females were allowed. But midwifery is equally fascinating, and it’s a woman’s trade.”

  She continued talking as she worked. She’d learned the first rule of surgery early: quickness. The faster she worked, the sooner the procedure would be over, the less blood would be lost, and the better the patient would fare.

  She found that shrapnel was more difficult than buckshot because the piece was larger, irregular in shape, and all jagged edges. Wishing she had forceps, she cut around the ugly lump of metal. “This must have been working its way out for a while. If it were close to the surface originally, your army sawbones would have had it then.”

  “I’ve felt it gnawing through my leg for months. Damnation!” He flinched as she got her blade under the shrapnel and popped the fragment from the muscle, but he managed to hold his thigh reasonably still.

  She blotted the raw wound clean, poured on whiskey and blotted again, then dressed it with honey. He asked, “Honey?”

  “I learned that from Mrs. Bancroft. Wounds are much less apt to fester if it’s used.” She tied the bandage around his thigh. “That’s done. Are you still willing to have me remove the other piece?”

  “Might as well.” He took a deep swallow of whiskey. “Cut on, Lady Macbeth.”

  “She didn’t wield the knife herself. I wonder if she resented having to give the job to her husband? My governess made me memorize speeches from all Shakespeare’s plays. I still remember them, too. ‘Give me the daggers!’ That was Lady Macbeth. She was definitely a frustrated surgeon.” Julia recited other speeches she’d learned so many years ago, which left most of her attention free to concentrate on her surgery.

  This incision was more difficult because it wasn’t as obviously needed, and she had to use the razor to cut unbroken skin. Reminding herself that she would save Randall—her husband? really?—pain later, she cut around the shrapnel. It was smaller than the first piece, but situated near vital tendons and ligaments. Praying she would do no harm, she loosened and removed the wicked piece of metal.

  Thanking God she didn’t seem to have done irrevocable damage, she dressed the wound and set her knives precisely on the tray. Then she folded onto the wooden chair by the bed. She felt dizzy and exhausted and for some reason, on the verge of tears.

  “Have a drink.” Randall offered her the whiskey bottle.

  She accepted the bottle and tilted her head back for a serious swig. Her swallow was followed by a fit of coughing. “Dear Lord,” she gasped when she could speak again. “This could fell an ox!”

  He chuckled. “That’s rather the point.”

  She swallowed a smaller amount and handed him the bottle, then got to her feet, swaying a little. “It’s getting dark. I’ll ask Mrs. Ferguson for a lamp.”

  “Find yourself some food as well. And please pull out the chamber pot.”

  She frowned. “Are you in good enough condition to use it?”

  “Well enough. Then I intend to sleep the clock around.” Randall smiled at her with surprising sweetness. “Thank you, my indomitable lady. You are…quite amazing.”

  A little flustered, she f
led the room and headed to the kitchen. Given the way he’d rescued her, she was glad that finally she could do something for him.

  Her husband?

  She followed the scent of food to the kitchen at the back of the house, where Mrs. Ferguson presided over two scullery maids. “You look rolled up,” the older woman said briskly. “How is your husband?”

  “Resting now. He’ll do.” Julia managed a smile.

  “Naturally he wouldn’t admit anything was wrong until he collapsed. Men!” The landlady snorted. “Sit you down, lass, and have something to eat before you collapse, too. Cutting shrapnel out of a husband looks right tiring.”

  Julia considered. “Not so bad as attending a two-day labor, but bad enough.”

  “You’re a midwife?” Mrs. Ferguson needed no encouragement to talk about her own confinements and the fine, healthy bairns she had produced.

  Julia was happy to sit quietly and let the talk flow around her while the landlady provided her with thick cock-a-leekie soup, fresh bread, cheese, and a pot of tea. By the time she finished eating, it was full dark. Mrs. Ferguson sent her back to the room with a lamp and the promise to arrange carriage hire for the day after tomorrow. Randall would have to rest for a day whether he wanted to or not.

  Her brand new husband was dead to the world when she entered their room. He’d obviously managed to get up safely, for he was now sprawled under the covers. He looked…peaceful. She realized she’d never seen him without an undercurrent of pain in his expression.

  Wryly she thought that she’d agreed to marry, not share a bed. But since she didn’t want to sleep on the hard, cold floor, she didn’t have much choice tonight.

  Glad her shabby brown riding habit scarcely showed the blood stains, she stripped down to her shift. It was a relief to be out of her stays and stockings. Even her head was relieved when she let down her hair.

  If presenting themselves as married before witnesses meant that today was their wedding day, she supposed this was their wedding night. She winced as she remembered her first night with Branford. This wedding night was as different as humanly possible, and thank God for that.

  She checked Randall’s temperature and the bandages. No sign of fever. No further bleeding, either. As she’d told Mrs. Ferguson, he’d do.

  After turning the lamp down to a faint glow, she slid under the covers on Randall’s left, keeping as far away as possible. She was too tired even to feel alarmed at sharing a bed with a large male. Luckily, he was practically in a coma.

  Even without touching, she was aware of the warmth of his body. As she closed her eyes, she had to admit that warmth was pleasant. Very pleasant.

  Randall drifted to awareness slowly. His head suggested a little too much drink and his right leg ached, but the pain was no longer acute. His internal clock said it was around four in the morning, so he’d had a good night’s sleep already. Not that he felt inclined to move. Not with a warm, soft female cuddled against his left side.

  The fact that Julia hadn’t chosen to sleep on the floor gave him hope for their evolving relationship. She fit under his arm nicely. Her own arm was draped around his waist. He wondered which of them had moved during the night. Both of them, perhaps, since they seemed to have met in the middle.

  Enough moonlight came in the window to illuminate her face. She looked like a sleeping angel with dark hair flowing softly over her shift-clad shoulders. He felt a stirring of emotions. Awe. Gratitude. Tenderness.

  Neither of them would feel properly married until they had a real wedding in Edinburgh. Yet here they were, sharing a bed. Part of each other’s lives.

  He was startled by another stirring that was purely physical. Thinking back, he realized that desire had been muted to almost nothing since he was wounded at Albuera. That muting had been mental as well as physical. Now, finally, the black cloud that had engulfed his life was beginning to dissipate.

  Gently he stroked Julia’s back. He’d wanted her since first seeing her. That desire had been rooted in mind and emotions. Now it was strengthened by unabashed lust. Desire would complicate their situation greatly. Yet he couldn’t be sorry.

  He wasn’t sorry at all.

  Julia woke slowly, feeling peaceful and…safe. She floated in a contented haze until she realized that she was pressed against Randall’s side, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her.

  She stiffened, wanting to withdraw, until his deep voice said, “No need to run off. Even if I forgot my promise to leave you alone, I’m not in any condition to assault you.” He rolled his head on the pillow so their gazes met. “Unless you hate being held?”

  “Actually, no.” She relaxed again. “I quite like being cuddled up on a cool morning.”

  “Of which Scotland has an abundance.”

  “Hartley had its share.” And her bed had been much less cozy. Her cat did her best to bring warmth, but Whiskers was only little.

  “I think this is one of the main reasons people get married,” Randall said reflectively. “For touch. For warmth and closeness. Passion is all very well, but it’s brief. Affectionate touching can be done much more often.”

  She tilted her head up to study his face, surprised. “I didn’t know you were a romantic.”

  He laughed. “I’m not. This kind of closeness is more of an animal pleasure, like kittens or puppies piling together.”

  Branford had never touched her with that kind of pleasure in mind. He was more interested in pain. Tensing, she changed the subject. “Have you had mistresses who gave you the taste for puppyish pleasures?”

  “I think it came from my mother,” he said thoughtfully. “She loved hugging. I hadn’t realized it before, but you remind me of her a little. Not so much looks or personality, but there’s a warmth of the spirit that you have in common.”

  She knew from her patients that many long-term marriages had little physical intimacy. If Randall could be content with an affectionate mothering female rather than a passionate wife, they might suit very well.

  “My mother also loved to hug. Not very duchesslike.” Which might be why Julia also loved this warm, undemanding embrace. She had spent many years without enough touching. “I would like to lie this way for the next week.”

  “So would I,” he said with regret. “But we need to be up and on our way.”

  “We won’t have a carriage until tomorrow.” She burrowed deeper under his arm. “So resign yourself to a day of eating and sleeping.”

  He laughed, the rumbling in his chest reminding her of a purring cat. “Outmaneuvered, I see. Very well then, today we rest. We should be safe enough here.”

  As Julia dozed off again, her body molded to his, she decided that if this was Randall’s idea of marriage, she liked it very well.

  Chapter 10

  Julia gazed out the window as their carriage rolled from the King’s Arms’ yard and swung north toward Edinburgh. “After so many quiet years in Hartley, now I feel like I’m in constant motion. Yet it’s been only three days since I was abducted.”

  “Three very eventful days,” Randall reminded her. “But yesterday was peaceful.”

  Blessedly so. Randall had proved himself an undemanding husband by sleeping most of the day, surfacing twice to eat voraciously before returning to his slumbers. But his body had its own wisdom. When she’d checked the dressing on his thigh late the previous afternoon, the surgical wounds were halfway to being healed.

  “You’re a very satisfactory patient,” she observed. “This morning you’re so hale and hardy you barely need that twisted old cane Mrs. Ferguson provided. I can tell myself that I’m a masterful healer.”

  He laughed. “You are. I’ve been chopped by experts, and not only do you measure up well against them, but you’re much better looking.”

  She looked away, uncomfortable with the compliment. “A gallant lie, Major.”

  “Truth, Lady Julia. You’ve been practicing invisibility so long that you’ve forgotten what an attractive woman you are.”
<
br />   She kept her gaze on the dramatic Scottish hills, torn between pleasure that he thought her attractive, and extreme uneasiness.

  His warm hand enfolded hers. “You really are lovely, Julia,” he said quietly. “Once, before you married, you must have known that, and surely you enjoyed being admired. That’s natural. Though you had reason to forget during the years since, reclaiming your life means accepting all that you are. And that includes lovely.”

  She smiled crookedly. “I can’t manage that yet. Let me work on accepting the idea that I’m passable.”

  “Very well, my lady.” His voice was warm with humor. “You look quite passable today. Such a very passable complexion. Pray remove your bonnet so I can admire your passable chestnut hair.”

  Laughing, she was able to look at him as she took off her bonnet. She had once found his austere, chiseled features intimidating, but no longer. “I can’t believe how very agreeable you are, Major. You were so prickly when we first met.”

  “You’re right, it’s most unlike me to be agreeable,” he said solemnly. “For your sake, I hope I don’t revert to my usual surly self.”

  Though his expression was sober, humor lurked in his eyes. No longer was pain shadowed in his face. “Ever since we met, you’ve had metal bits slicing out of your body. That would explain a fair amount of surliness.”

  He sighed. “I’m hoping that you got the last of shifting shrapnel. Though my leg aches, for the first time in over a year, there’s no acute pain.”

  “My blades stand ready if needed to cure your bad temper again.”

  His brows arched. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  “A threat,” she said sweetly.

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” He turned thoughtful. “I think it also helps that once I stopped resisting you, I became much more relaxed. For many years, my life had been about pain and war. With you, I can now imagine a life beyond that.”

  “The life of a country midwife is about as far from war as can be imagined,” she agreed, understanding better why he was drawn to her. “Now that we’ve moved beyond our old lives, what lies ahead? Not being the intrepid sort, I’m glad not to follow the drum, but where will we live? You said you have a small estate?”