The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,1
lap. “Here. Do what you can. I’ll delay him a few moments.” She hurried out.
Abigail shook her head. She couldn’t raise her right arm, and she could hardly dress her hair one-handed. She set the brush on the table beside the bed, then scooped up the pins and let them slide down next to it. As the rattle subsided, she cocked her head and listened.
Through the door her mother had closed behind her came voices, three of them. She couldn’t make out words, only pitches and tones. One of the higher, excited ones belonged to her mother, but the other? A lady visitor, perhaps, though why she would sound so reluctant was beyond Abigail. And that deeper one…
She stiffened a moment before the door opened. Doctor Linus Bennett walked in, black leather medical bag in one hand. Not that she would admit it to anyone who asked, but the ladies at the spa must be in alt at the very sight of him. Warm brown hair waved back from a brow that spoke of intelligence. Grey eyes appeared to look upon the world with wisdom and compassion. The firm line of those pink lips promised no complaint. His color and physique attested to good health.
“Miss Archer,” he said. “How are we today?”
“I have no idea how you are,” Abigail told him. “But I’m ready to get out of this bed.”
His brows rose ever so slightly, but he gave no other response to her testy comment. He came around the bed to her side and set his bag on the table, sending a few pins to the hardwood floor with a tinkle.
“No pain?” he asked, beginning to unwind her bandage.
Though his gaze was on his work, Abigail felt her cheeks heating. Where was her mother? Always before she had remained in the room while Doctor Bennett examined Abigail. It was bad enough that he must visit her in her bedchamber, with her in her nightgown, the sleeve cut away to make room for the bandage. In a moment, the bare skin of her arm would be in view.
He’d seen it two nights ago, of course, when he’d first attended her, and the other morning as well. But this time, alone with him, seemed too intimate.
Then the wound came into view, an ugly slash against her fair skin, red, raw, the gap closed with white stitches as good as her mother’s embroidery. Abigail swallowed.
“The sutures are holding together nicely,” he said, studying the wound. “No sign of an inflammation.” His gaze met hers, and breathing became difficult. He frowned and laid a hand on her forehead, the touch cool and commanding.
“No sign of a fever, though your color is higher than I’d like. How much laudanum have you used?”
“None,” Abigail said, pressing her back against the wood of the walnut headboard to remove herself from his distracting touch. “I’m fine.”
As if he didn’t believe her, he went to locate the bottle on the bureau, held it up, and peered at the liquid sloshing about inside.
“Do not bother prescribing more,” she warned him. “I won’t take it. It makes me nauseous.”
He set down the bottle and came back to her. “Have you been eating?”
“Broth and toast, as you apparently dictated,” Abigail told him. “I could do with something more substantial.”
“Gruel, then,” he said, taking a fresh bandage from his bag.
Abigail stared at him. “Gruel? What of mutton, sir? At least plaice.”
“Tomorrow, if you have no more nausea,” he said, beginning to cover the wound anew.
“I only have nausea if I take the needless medicine you ordered. I cannot stay in this bed. I have a business to tend to, the magistrate will need assistance locating those French spies, and I must help Jesslyn Chance prepare for her wedding.”
His head was bowed enough she could only see the crown. The strands of brown looked far softer than his demands.
“I am assured Miss Chance can manage,” he said. “Everyone has gone out of their way to praise her skills and organization. And as for your business, the visitors to the spa will simply have to shop elsewhere for the next fortnight.”
Abigail jerked away, and the bandage slipped out of his grip. “A fortnight! You cannot expect me to lie here so long. I demand you let me up, immediately.”
~~~
Linus Bennett had to clench his teeth a moment before responding. He’d dealt with difficult patients in the past, in Edinburgh, where he’d attended school, and Mayfair, where he’d had his last practice. But even his nine-year-old