Page 5 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
James followed her inside the cottage, ducking his head beneath the low lintel. Mrs Bridges led him down the short hallway to the kitchen, where the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs. Every available surface seemed to hold something; jars of preserved petals, bottles of cloudy tinctures, and pots of beeswax salve with herbs pressed into their lids. Overhead, bundles of dried lavender and thyme hung from the beams like garlands, adding to the cozy chaos.
“Take a seat,” Mrs Bridges instructed, shooing away a snoozing tabby cat. “I didn’t catch your name, Mr—?”
“Thorne,” James supplied, “Captain James Thorne.”
“And it’s not dyspepsia or trouble saying no to seconds that you’re here for,” she stated, eying his flat stomach with a hint of mischief.
“It’s not,” James agreed, ridiculously flattered by her comment. “I require something to help me sleep. An old shoulder injury has been keeping me up.”
“I don’t keep laudanum here, captain,” Mrs Bridges narrowed her eyes.
“That’s precisely the stuff I want to avoid,” James assured her. “Just something gentle to help me sleep through the pain.”
Mrs Bridges remained silent for a moment, as she assessed him top-to-toe with her bright blue eyes.
“I reckon we should try treat the pain first, if that’s what’s keeping you awake,” she finally said, then—rather startlingly—added, “If you’d like to remove your coat and shirt, so I can have a proper look.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary—” James began, but she waved his protests away with an impatient hand.
“I have tended to the wounds and injuries of half the village, captain,” Mrs Bridges said firmly, “And delivered the other half of them into this world. I can guarantee you that there’s nothing under there I haven’t seen before. Now, off with your coat.”
Unable to argue, James removed his coat, tugged free his cravat, and lifted his shirt overhead so Mrs Bridges could examine his old wound. She poked and prodded at it with cool fingers, while James explained its origin.
“A cannon ball hit near my position,” he recounted cheerfully, “Most of the shrapnel from the blast ended up in there. Might have healed better if I’d had time to tend it, but we were attacked again on our way back to port.”
“Is the pain worse, since the leaves turned?” Mrs Bridges asked briskly, unimpressed by his war tales. James supposed that as she had delivered half of Plumpton village, she’d witnessed far worse than a mere skirmish at sea.
“It is,” James agreed. “My whole shoulder feels tight and stiff, especially on colder days.”
“You need a salve of St John’s Wort,” she decided, as she took a step back. “That should help with any nerve pain. We’ll add comfrey to loosen the tissue and some rosemary to encourage the blood flow.”
“That sounds the ticket,” James said, standing from his seat to reach for his shirt.
He had just grasped the garment in his hand, when the door of the kitchen burst open, and Miss Gardiner hurried inside.
“You’ll never guess the day I’ve had, Grandmother,” Miss Gardiner sighed, her hands rising to her chin to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.
She froze, her mouth a perfect “o” of surprise, as she sighted James standing shirtless beside her grandmother.
“This is Captain Thorne, Flora,” Mrs Bridges introduced him, nonplussed, “Give him a moment to dress, he’s got no shirt on.”
CHAPTER THREE
FLORA HAD ALWAYSadmired her grandmother’s willingness to help anyone, but at that very moment, she wondered why on earth her grandmother had helped Captain Thorne remove his shirt in her kitchen.
“Forgive me,” she squeaked, averting her eyes. “I’ll just wait outside.”
She backed from the kitchen, her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. Despite her hastily muttered apology, she could not help but sneak another glance at the captain’s torso before she pulled the door closed behind her.
She hadn’t seen many shirtless men in her life—unless one counted the field labourers during harvest, which she didn’t. They were usually too far off to be seen properly and obscured by dirt and dust. Nor did the time she’d stumbled upon Mr Marrowbone bathing in the Churn count, as it was a memory she tried very hard to forget.
And, she thought with another blush, Mr Marrowbone’s physique was not at all comparable to Captain Thorne’s. Not even a little.
Captain Thorne looked something like a Greek statue come to life. A very broad-shouldered Greek statue, she thought, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.
“We’re decent.”
Her grandmother’s voice floated through the closed door, causing Flora to roll her eyes. There was very little decent aboutthe entire scenario her grandmother had created, she thought mutinously.
