The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,24
in bouts at Edinburgh. No gambit he tried, no feint he attempted, got under her guard. He was most likely going to lose.
But her blows were becoming softer, less frequent, and he could see the perspiration dotting her forehead. She’d been mostly abed since her injury. If he kept the fight going, he could probably outlast her. But she had won the match and her point.
Along with his admiration.
He put up the sword and held up his other hand. “I concede. Seldom have I had a more skilled opponent. Forgive me for interrupting a master at her work.”
She lowered her weapon as well as she dipped him a curtsey. “I will accept a rematch at any time, Doctor Bennett.”
Applause echoed from the shoreline. She bobbed a curtsey at her devoted audience as well. Then she turned to Linus.
“I assume you had some purpose for coming down the hill besides being drubbed at swordplay.”
He chuckled. “I thought to check on Ethan after this morning. Clearly, he was fine. While I’m here, I will ask Miss Pierce the elder to make you a sling to support your arm during the wedding festivities.”
“A sling!” Abigail raised her sword as if ready to take him on anew. “And how will I look accompanying Jess down the aisle with an ugly great band over my gown?”
“Ask her to make it of material that matches your gown, then,” he countered. “So long as it is lined with lamb’s wool and keeps your arm relatively immobile, I don’t care what it looks like.”
“Oh. Well.” She relaxed. “I suppose that would work. Thank you. Will I see you tonight?”
He inclined his head. “And every day until I am certain you are fully healed.”
She nodded and called to her mother and Ethan. Then she sailed past him, her mother hurrying in her wake.
“That was well done, Father,” Ethan said as he accepted the sword back from Linus. “You almost beat her.” He followed the women up to Hill Street.
Leaving Linus to return to the spa, which he suspected could never hold such enjoyment as time spent with Abigail.
Chapter Eight
He wasn’t so bad after all. Abigail smiled as she walked her mother and Ethan back to the flat. He’d stood his ground on what he believed to be the best course of action, but he’d been willing to concede defeat. A lady could admire a gentleman like that.
“I would be very grateful to learn more about swordplay from you, Miss Archer,” Ethan said as they came back into the flat. He still held one of the two swords and showed no signs of wishing to give it up.
“And I shall be very glad to tutor you,” Abigail assured him. “Perhaps we might find some other lads your age interested in joining us.”
He glanced up at her. “There are boys my age in my class with Mr. Wingate. But they all have brothers or fathers to teach them.”
Once more loneliness seemed to wrap around him like a cloak.
“My father wasn’t much of a teacher,” she said, earning her a frown from her mother. “But you saw your father. He was rather good.”
A grin popped into view, warming her. “He was, wasn’t he?” As quickly as it had come, the smile faded. “But he’s too busy.”
“He has a very demanding occupation,” her mother said, reaching out a hand to pull the sword from Abigail’s grip. “And a great responsibility.”
Ethan sighed. “I know.”
“But the days are long right now,” Abigail reminded him. “Perhaps we can convince your father to spend a little more time having fun.”
“Maybe.” The word held very little hope. He surrendered his sword to her mother.
She should open the shop, but she could not like the set to his shoulders, as if the entire world had suddenly crashed down upon them. “Suppose you show me what you’ve been drawing,” she said.
Light flared in his eyes, and he hurried to bring her his sketchbook.
The drawings were rough, but certainly better than hers at that age. She recognized a number of the buildings in Grace-by-the-Sea—the bakery, Shell Cottage, St. Andrew’s, the spa. And a few fanciful pieces with sea serpents and dragons.
“Very nice,” she said. “I can see you have a keen eye for detail. That bodes well for an architect.”
“And an artist?” he asked hopefully.
Her heart melted. She put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Certainly an artist. When you’re ready, I’d be happy to let you try your hand at something bigger in my studio.”
His eyes