A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal (5 page)

“I should go.”

“Yes.”

“May I come back?”

Nate’s eyes darkened. He wrapped a finger around a coil of her hair that had come loose, before letting his hand drop to readjust the top of her bodice.

She should be blushing, she knew. God knew what she looked like. Her dress was askew, her skirts rumpled, her hair escaping its pins. Yet she had never felt more beautiful. She had never felt more powerful.

“Yes,” Nate said, and that simple agreement held such wicked promise that Viola shuddered.

She slid down off the table, sweeping his books into her arms to prevent her from reaching for him again.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

N
ate wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he’d agreed to whatever he’d agreed to yesterday.

Well, he hadn’t been thinking, he supposed, at least with the part of his anatomy that usually made intelligent decisions. No, he’d been thinking with the more southerly bits of his body that had been left aching and throbbing and were demanding he finish everything he’d started with Viola Hextall. Bloody hell, he wanted her.

She was a virgin, he knew. He’d seen the astonishment and wonder and the pleasure in her face when her orgasm had gripped her and wrung her out in his arms. The fact that he’d been the one to do that for her gave him a ridiculous amount of satisfaction. He’d never had a virgin in his bed before. Before Viola Hextall, he would have told anyone who asked that he didn’t have the patience. Though that was more than likely a product of his nomadic lifestyle with the army. Sexual encounters were usually brief, and while mostly satisfying, they were wholly forgettable. Something Viola Hextall would never be.

She had asked to come back. He had said yes.

Neither of them had even bothered pretending it was for another book.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Nate made sure he found an excuse to be in his surgery, knowing Miss Yates and Miss Woodward would be retiring for the midday rest that they had fallen into the habit of taking. He felt as though he were fifteen again, sneaking into the neighbor’s orchard to steal kisses and fumble at the dress of a willing dairymaid.

It was insane. He didn’t care.

“Mr. Shaw.” Her voice came from the door of his surgery, and a tremor of anticipation tore through him.

“Lady Viola.” He turned.

She was standing just inside his surgery, her cheeks flushed beautifully and her wide, blue eyes sparkling. She was dressed in a gown he hadn’t seen before, this one much finer than the one she had on yesterday. It was blue, the exact same shade as her eyes, and the bodice skimmed almost indecently low. Her generous breasts strained at the fabric, a deep valley of shadow creating a temptation unlike anything he’d encountered. Dear God, this woman was made for touching. Made for loving and being loved.

He wrenched his gaze away from her bodice to find her watching him, a knowing smile playing about her pretty lips.

“I’ve made notes,” she said, and for one wild moment, he thought she was referring to what had happened between them on the surgery table yesterday. Holy hell, but that was an arousing thought indeed.

“Notes?”

“On the text.”

He became aware that she was holding both his anatomy books in her hands. “You’ve read them already?” he asked in disbelief.

“Of course not. Only the first sections. But I have questions.” She yanked a piece of paper from the cloth-covered book and peered at it. It was covered with a neat, slanted penmanship.

He gazed at her, a strange feeling moving through his chest. This woman really would be wasted on a duke.

“Well, by all means—” He was interrupted by the sounds of feet crashing down the nearest ladder and urgent voices in the passageway. Three sailors appeared in the door of the surgery, two supporting a third man, covered in blood and cradling his left arm against his bare chest.

“Hand’s in bad shape, Mr. Shaw,” one of the sailors offered by way of explanation.

“Put him on the table,” Nate ordered.

Viola had moved to the side, and the two sailors carefully maneuvered their wounded comrade onto the table. He sat on the edge, his eyes glazed with pain and his lips pressed bloodlessly into an agonized grimace.

Nate immediately went to the cupboards and began pulling out items with precise, quick movements. “What happened?” he asked.

“Got ’is hand caught in a block tryin’ t’ free up a jammed rope. Next thing I knew, he was screamin’ and we was pulling for all we was worth trying to get ’im unstuck.”

Nate turned to examine his patient. He was still holding his bloody hand to his chest. The man had a torso like a battering ram, with shoulders and arms to match.

“You two,” Nate said, pointing at the sailors, “go and fetch me as many buckets of seawater as you can.”

The men hastened to do his bidding, not even bothering to look back. They were either supremely confident in his ability to handle the situation or they were grateful to escape the unpleasantness that was about to ensue. Nate suspected quite strongly that it was the latter.

“And you”—he turned his attention to Viola—“I’m going to need your help.”

“Me?” Viola squeaked, her eyes wide. “But I don’t know—”

“Follow my instruction. Can you do that?”

Her mouth tightened, and a look of determination stole over her face. “Yes.”

“Good.” He pushed the man onto his back, stretching him out on the table. It wouldn’t do to have him fainting and adding a head contusion to the list of ailments. The man’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and his pasty brow was soaked in sweat.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Robbie,” the sailor gritted through his teeth.

“All right, Robbie, let’s take a look at the hand,” Nate said.

The patient extended his arm slowly, though it was clear that the motion was painful. Nate grasped the man’s forearm. The hand was a mangled mess, the last three fingers crushed beyond recognition. Across the back of his hand, the skin had torn. Blood continued to pulse from somewhere within the wound, adding to the spatters that had spread along the side of the table.

“Well, well, Robbie, you don’t do anything halfheartedly, do you?” Nate spoke easily and gently. “Now the first thing that I’m going to need to do is stop the bleeding. You’re making a terrible mess on my floor.”

Robbie tried to mutter something intelligible, but his teeth were still clenched.

“I’m going to wrap your arm with this band, and I’m going to need you to keep it steady just for a moment. It’s going to be tight, but it’s going to help. And then we’ll see what we can do to help you relax a bit.”

“Aye,” the sailor managed to gasp.

Nate reached for the leather cord on the counter and wrapped it firmly around Robbie’s arm. The bleeding became a slow seep. “Very good, Robbie. That takes care of the most pressing problem. Now let’s make you a little more comfortable.”

He turned and selected a stoppered bottle from the counter behind her, uncorking it and pouring a measured amount into a wooden cup. He mixed it with a healthy dose of rum, thinking that he would have given his soul for a wagon full of opium at Quatre Bras and Waterloo. Hell, even a wagon full of rum would have been better than what he’d had to work with.

“Drink this, please,” he instructed, motioning Viola to help Robbie raise his head.

Viola moved to Robbie’s side, supporting his head as Nate held the cup to the sailor’s lips. Robbie choked slightly, but the contents disappeared. Nate’s eyes met Viola’s over his patient.

“Keep him distracted,” he mouthed, and Viola nodded. If there was anything that would keep a wounded sailor distracted, it was the company of a beautiful woman.

“You’re from Scotland?” she asked him, moving to crouch near the table. She pushed a piece of hair that had fallen into her eyes behind her ear.

“Aye,” Robbie replied faintly. “No’ so far from Aberdeen.”

“Ah, way up there, in amongst those hairy wee beasties masquerading as cows.” Viola laughed, a musical sound. “Weel, dinna fash yerself now, man. Ye’ve got the best surgeon there is to set ye on the mend.”

Nate glanced up in startled surprise from his knives and instruments.

“Ye sound just like me ma used to,” Robbie said with a weak smile. “Ye’ve a good ear.”

“Why, thank you. I really am more than just a pretty face. Try to convince the good surgeon of it, though, aye?” She gave him a flirtatious wink, and it earned another ghost of a smile from the patient.

Nate came around to pick up the sailor’s ruined hand, and whatever color Robbie had recovered drained away.

“Me hand. Have I lost it?” he asked hoarsely.

“No, it’s all still here,” Nate told him, even as he critically examined his wound. “You won’t lose your hand, Robbie, but I don’t think there is much hope for these last three fingers. I believe their usefulness has come to an end.”

“I can live with that,” he croaked. “Just don’t take me hand. Please.”

“I won’t,” Nate assured him.

“Then do what ye need to do, Mr. Shaw.” He settled back on the table and closed his eyes in grim determination.

The two sailors who had been sent for seawater returned just then, each carrying two heavy pails sloshing water as they set them down.

“Bring one of those buckets over here,” Nate instructed.

The closest sailor did as he was told and retreated hastily to the surgery door.

Nate turned to Viola. “Soak Robbie’s hand in the seawater,” he said, rolling out a set of narrow knives tied in thick cloth. “And check his breathing.”

Viola grasped the man’s hand and submerged it in the bucket. The water instantly swirled red and pink, and the sailor groaned. Then she reached up and put one of her hands on the man’s chest, her fingers rising and falling as his chest jerked up and down in suppressed pain.

“He’s breathing awfully fast,” she hissed at Nate, a worried expression on her face.

“It should slow once the serum takes effect,” he whispered, leaning close to her ear. “But just make sure it doesn’t stop altogether.”

“Stop?” she said. “What did you give him?” Viola asked.

“Poppy extract,” he said. “It’ll help take the edge off what I’m about to do.”

As if on cue, Nate sensed a gradual relaxation of the man on the table. The deep creases in his brow smoothed, and the muscles he was holding rigid in bleak anticipation loosened.

“Take his arm out of the bucket and come give me a hand, will you?”

Viola glanced up at him. “Tell me that wasn’t a surgeon’s attempt at humor.”

He looked at her blankly before he was forced to swallow an unexpected bark of laughter. “And I’ve been accused of having a macabre sense of humor.” Dear Lord, he could fall in love with a woman like this. “You won’t faint on me, will you?”

Viola’s mouth turned down in clear displeasure. “I will not.” She sounded thoroughly insulted.

“Your dress is getting blood on it,” he pointed out.

“I didn’t much like this one anyway.” She said it without missing a beat.

“Very well.” Nate was still stifling a smile when he grasped Robbie’s hand and placed it on the table as flat he could under the circumstances, the three mangled fingers a crumpled mess of shattered bone. Smoothly, he slid a towel beneath it to keep the blood from dripping over the edge.

“I’ll take the fingers first.” He spoke quietly, ensuring Viola knew what to expect. Well, at the very least, the point in time that she should leave if this proved too much for her. “I don’t think the bones in the hand itself actually broke,” he mused out loud, turning the damaged hand palm up. “I’m going to need you to keep as still as you can, Robbie.”

“Aye,” Robbie answered. His voice sounded faintly garbled.

Without being asked to, Viola grasped Robbie’s wrist firmly in her own hands. “Do you have family still in Scotland?” she asked loudly.

She met Nate’s eyes, and he nodded his encouragement.

“Aye,” the sailor slurred. “Me sister and her husband. An’ their bairns. Six girls and another on the way.”

“Good heavens,” Viola exclaimed. “Then is your sister hoping for another girl?”

The sharp edge of Nate’s blade removed the smallest finger at the joint.

“A boy,” Robbie gasped.

“Ah. I suppose there should be a least one voice of reason in that brood. What will they name him?”

Nate’s knife removed the second finger.

“Christ,” the man groaned.

“Well, now, that’s asking a lot of a small boy, don’t you think?” Viola remarked.

Another quick flick of Nate’s blade, and the last of the crushed fingers was gone. Robbie choked on something Nate guessed was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “That was the worst of it,” Nate said. “You can let go of his wrist, my lady.”

“Are ye done then?” Robbie panted.

“Not quite. There’s a few stitches that you’ll be needing, though I’ll have to clean it first.”

“Right,” Robbie wheezed. “That willna be so bad.”

Nate reached for the bottle of rum still on the counter. Without giving his patient any warning, he simply dumped the alcohol into the open wound. Robbie jerked and let out an unearthly moan, suddenly going limp.

“What did you do that for?” Viola demanded, looking at him with horror. The sharp scent of alcohol cut through the space.

“Dr. Ambroise Paré also advocated the use of wine to cleanse a wound. I’ve applied his theory and seen remarkable success, though whisky or rum seems to work just as well.”

Viola was staring at him, her mouth a perfect O.

“At the very least, his state of insensibility will make it easier for you to cauterize and stitch his wound.”

“Me?”

“Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

“No. Yes.” She stopped. “You’d really let me do it?”

“You haven’t fainted yet.”

“I do not faint.” Her eyes flashed. “In fact—”

“Lady Viola!” The shriek came from the door, punctuated with a strangled, horrified gasp.

Viola flinched, and Nate turned to the surgery door. The two sailors that had been watching had vanished, no doubt in the face of the oncoming cyclone that was Miss Yates.

“What are you doing in
here
? With Mr.
Shaw
? And a
man
?”

Nate wondered what he was considered, if not a man.

“Lady Viola is assisting me with this wounded sailor, Miss Yates,” he said. “I requested her help.”

Viola shot him a look of gratitude.

Another bout of wheezing gasps came from the door before Miss Yates found her words again. “My lady! You can’t be in here with a naked man! It is unconscionable! You must come with me at once!”

“My patient still has his breeches on,” Nate pointed out evenly. “He’s hardly naked. Lady Viola’s assistance has been invaluable. I will require her presence for another while.”