Page 11 of Her Tempting Traitor
Perhaps it was the sudden feeling of weight from the velvet pouch containing the ancient lace. Perhaps it was because the gift felt so relevant—had she not dedicated her life to healing? Perhaps it was the way the old woman seemed so…certain. Perhaps it was the fact that the sun decided that moment to go behind a cloud, leaving the room darker and colder.
Either way, she suddenly wasn’t quite so keen on mocking the surprising gift the woman had granted her.
The power to heal anything.
“Well!” Suddenly Lady Mistree smacked her hands on the arms of her chair and began to lever herself out of it. Bull jumped to her assistance. “Someone fetch that slacker, Jones. I need to be on my way.”
As she clutched Bull’s arm, she sent Hunter a glare. “Andyou, young man, will come see me very soon. I have a rock you will like.”
She shuffled for the door, and Hunter and Gabby exchanged glances.
A rock?Hunter mouthed to her, and Gabby had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at her brother’s incredulous expression.
As the door shut behind her, she allowed her giggles to escape. “A rock is better than some old lace,” she hissed, crumpling the black velvet pouch in her hands and putting it immediately from her mind. “Magic talisman,” she snorted. “I have studied healing with the best animal doctors in the world, and she thinks I need a piece of dirty lace to heal someone?”
Shaking her head, she pushed herself to her feet. “Get your papers, my dear Doctor Butcombe. We have real work to do.”
CHAPTER 3
Cassian looked up from his sketch pad, only to frown at the distant scene. “Damn,” he muttered, craning his neck to the side to change his view.
Why did the bloody thing have to go and lie downrightin front of the gravel path he’d been sketching?
Muttering a curse under his breath, he gripped the notepad and his pencil in his right hand, then used his left to leverage himself up out of the chair which had been placed near the back window of the salon. The views of the back lawn were unparalleled, even in rainy weather—and Inverlochy hadplentyof that—and the light was always good for sketching. The back left corner of the garden had been designed in a layout Cassian appreciated, all symmetry and angles, and he’d decided to use it as inspiration for the garden his own home would someday have.
Except now he couldn’t see the details, thanks to the huge gray arse in the way.
Glancing at his cane, propped against the table beside him, Cassian decided to chance foregoing it. He’d need both hands free, after all.
Exhaling slowly through his nose, he took a cautious step to the left. When his prosthetic foot held—Of course it held, ye dobber! It’s strong. Ye’re the one who is full of creaking doubts!—he stepped again, then again, until he stood in front of one of the windows nearer the corner.
But from this angle, hestillcouldn’t see the row of birch trees half-finished in his sketchbook.
Leaning his shoulder against the window frame, Cassian lifted his sketch pad in his free hand and frowned at the enormous elephant blocking his view.
With a sigh he shook his head, flipped the page, and began almost unconsciously to sketch the sleeping animal. His pencil captured the curve of her back, the flick of her tail, the way her trunk lifted weakly and her ear twitched.
It wasn’t brilliant, but it was something to do at least.
Christ, when had he been reduced to this? He was used to doing vital work, to being relevant to his country…and now he was sketching fooking elephants like an elderly spinster? What was next, watercolors? Knitting? Giving a shite about the discontinuation of a particular embroidery thread?
To be fair, the kind of spinsters who make sketches of fooking elephants are likely no’ the kind to participate in color coordinated embroidery. They’re more likely to be cackling wildly at jokes about third—sorry,fifthlegs.
His left leg ached. It always ached, but that just meant Cassian had to push himself harder. He couldn’t regrowthe blasted—heh—foot, but hewouldgrow strong enough, certain enough, not to need the damn cane. Each day hewasgrowing steadier—two weeks ago he wouldn’t have risked this long of a walk without the bloody thing, and look at him now!
Still, he propped his hip against the frame as well and took some of the weight off his aching left leg.
Sketching sleeping animals and worrying about falling over. Christ, he was a toddler again.
Aye, his new life sucked donkey ballocks.
Be grateful. Simonsen, Avers, and Rudinsky would be grateful to be in yer place and face yer problems.
Cassian’s eyes lifted to the damp, quiet beauty of the garden and allowed his head toclunkagainst the frame as well.
Fook.
There were some days he managed to go a full hour without thinking of his men, without the crushing guilt making his shoulders sag and stomach cramp. They were dead because ofhim, and he deserved every bit of pain and boredom he was living now…that, and then some.
