Page 65 of The Major's Mistake
“I’m sorry. I had no right to ask you. Besides, surely Dr. Reynolds must know what he is doing. I mean, there’s many who believe that drawing a cup or two of blood from a patient is effective in fighting off an inflammation.”
Her head jerked up. “Dr. Reynolds means to bleed him! Why, that’s all wrong! I have never known the practice to be of the least good—indeed, I believe it only does harm.”
Sykes gave a pained grimace. “In that case, I shall do my best to prevent it.”
She bit her lip.
“I daresay the guv won’t let the allow it either, that is, if he’s strong enough to argue.” Sykes hoped he wasn’t doing it a bit too brown. Seeing the look of distress that crossed Miranda’s face, he felt a momentary prick of guilt at taking liberties with the truth, but then quickly pushed such feelings aside with the reminder that he was only acting for the higher good.
Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he held out his horny palm for her preparations. “Thank you for your trouble, ma’am.”
Instead of handing over the medicines she shoved them into the pocket of her gown. “Please have Angus saddle the filly while I fetch my cloak, Mr. Sykes.”
The valet ducked his head to hide his smile. “Yes, ma’am!”
Nothing seemedto be of the least interest this afternoon, Julian noted with some dismay. Not history. Not poetry. Not even the Bard was able to keep his attention from straying. By the time he reached the end of even the simplest sentence, the beginning had already eluded him. The elegant printed words stared back at him, as incomprehensible as his own inability to concentrate.
No doubt it was the sheer boredom of confinement that was driving him to distraction. He should be feeling a sense ofsatisfaction, for he had accomplished what he had set out to do. The ringleader was dead, and with the information supplied by the man’s terrified underlings, Lord Atwater was well on the way to tracking down the mastermind of the recent troubles.
Yet somehow, things did not feel entirely resolved.
With a snort of frustration, he tossed aside the leatherbound volume and stared at the stream of sunlight flooding in through the tall, mullioned windows of his bedchamber. It looked to be a lovely day. He couldn’t help but wonder what Miranda doing. Was she out with Justin, gathering herbs for her healing arts? Or was she perhaps taking him for a ride, the breeze ruffling their hair as they cantered through the fields.
The devil take it, he missed her!He missed the way her eyes turned a shade greener when she laughed, the way her voice could drop to a smoky timbre, the way her lips crooked into a smile. And he missed his son. He wished to be out there as well, wherever they were, sharing the warmth of their laughter.
Teeth set against the stab of pain, Julian gingerly flexed his leg. Sykes was right. The improvement was noticeable and the discomfort was lessening with each day. Throwing back the covers, he swung his feet to the ground, cautiously testing the weakened limb. It still hurt like the devil, but the leg would bear his weight.
And there was something else. Missing was the sensation of a knife twisting inside his flesh every time he moved, something he had come to accept would be inexorably part of him for the rest of his days. His valet had told him of what Miranda had done that night, of how she had refused to stitch him up until she had patiently picked out every twisted shard of metal she could find in his ravaged leg. He hardly dared allow himself to hope it would make a difference, but the feeling was ... different.
Good Lord, he might truly be able to hoist his son in the air without an awkward stumble. He might offer to carry Miranda’sbasket without fear of falling on his rump. He might even waltz with a lady in his arms without feeling like half a man.
Emboldened, he tried a step.
Only his hand’s firm grip on one of the carved posts of his imposing bed saved him from ending in a heap on the floor. With a rueful grimace, he eased himself back onto the soft mattress. It would be a difficult task, almost like being a babe again learning its first steps, but he would start right away. As soon as Sykes returned.
Bloody hell.Where was the fellow? thought Julian. He had been gone a devil of a long time. No doubt he had been invited to stay and chat with his aunt—and Miranda.
Somehow the notion only served to increase his irritation at being confined to bed.
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, Julian hastily rearranged the sheets and sank back against the pillows with some relief, finding that even so paltry a physical effort had taxed his strength. But at least the return of his valet promised a welcome respite from tedious tomes and chafing silence. A game of chess might serve as a distraction, provided he spotted Sykes a rook and a knight. And perhaps he might even convince the man to allow a thick slab of beefsteak to be sent up instead of that cursed boiled fowl, and a good claret instead of sugared tea.
It was time he set himself to making a full recovery.
Sixteen
The door opened.
“Bloody well time you got your arse back here,” muttered Julian. A bit of verbal sparring usually served to punch away his flat spirits. When there was not the usual sharp retort, he slowly opened his eyes.
“Miranda!”
She swallowed hard in evident embarrassment. “Mr. Sykes told me … that is, he would have had me believe your condition was in danger of becoming very grave, else I should never have thought to … intrude on your privacy.”
Behind her, the valet gave a strangled cough.
“You certainly do not seem in danger of sticking your spoon into the wall just yet, but from what Mr. Sykes tells me, it appears that Dr. Reynolds has a number of foolish notions, which of course is not surprising, given how set in their ways the medical profession is,” she continued in a rush. “They are never able to admit they may be wrong, while in my experience there are any number of local remedies that have proven to be effective in treating injuries such as yours.”
She knew she was gabbling on like a Bedlamite, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Just as she couldn’t seem to force her eyesaway from a spot below his neck where the unbuttoned top of his nightshirt was exposing a hint of the dark ringlets on his broad chest. To her dismay, she felt her face begin to flame. “Now, since Mr. Sykes seems to believe that certain of my salves are of some help, and since he seems to have little faith in the physician either, I?—”
