“What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Luke?” the man asked, closing the door behind him. He reminded Catherine of an angel, with a halo of blond curls around his head. His eyes, as blue as the sky, widened. “What have we here?”
“A bit of a mishap,” Claybourne said as he rose from the chair.
The man set his black bag on the table and took the chair Claybourne had vacated. “Who have we here?”
“You don’t need to know,” Claybourne said.
The man smiled. “I treat far too many to remember all their names. I’m William Graves.”
“You’re a physician?” Catherine asked.
“Quite right.” He placed his hand beneath hers with extreme gentleness, but she didn’t grow warm, her breath didn’t catch, and she didn’t feel in danger of swooning.
“I’m Catherine,” she felt compelled to say.
“Are you one of his rescued lambs?” he asked as he studied her wound.
“No, she is not,” Claybourne snapped. He dragged a chair over and sat beside her. “You’re not here for gossip. How badly is she hurt?”
“It’s rather nasty, but it could have been worse.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I want to stitch it up. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll heal better, more quickly.”
He seemed to be asking for her permission, so she nodded.
“Very good.” He pressed a cloth to her palm. “Hold this in place while I prepare things. Luke, go fetch some whiskey.”
He took objects out of his bag and laid them out on the table. Then making himself quite at home, he began moving around the kitchen, setting a kettle of water on the stove.
“You shouldn’t bother with tea,” Catherine said. “I really don’t think I could drink it.”
He smiled at her. “You’ll be drinking the whiskey. The water is so I can keep things clean. I’ve noticed that those I treat in squalor tend to die of infection more so than those I treat in tidy houses.”
Claybourne walked back in, holding a bottle and a glass filled to the brim. “Here, drink this.”
Taking a sip of the bitter brew, she grimaced.
“All of it,” he ordered.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“The more you drink, the better it tastes.”
She took another sip. It didn’t taste any better.
“It’s not tea, gulp it,” he ordered impatiently.
“Don’t be tart with me. I saved your life.”
Setting the bottle on the table, he sat again in the chair beside her. “Yes, you did.”
He trailed his fingers tenderly along her cheek. It was all she could do not to turn her lips into his palm. She moved her head beyond his reach and concentrated on taking several gulps of the whiskey. It did seem the more she drank, the better it tasted. She was becoming light-headed, which made her want to curl up in Claybourne’s lap and sleep, safe and secure.
Dr. Graves came to stand in front of her, took her wounded hand, and placed it on the table. “Close your eyes and think about something else.”
She closed her eyes and started to think about—
She took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes flew open as liquid fire poured over her palm. “Oh, dear God, what was that?”
“The whiskey,” Dr. Graves said.
“You poured—”
“I think it kills germs. Try to relax. You’re going to feel a stab—”
“Catherine?”
A warm hand cradled her cheek, turned her head. She gazed into eyes so silver, so filled with concern. “Think about something else,” Claybourne ordered.
She shook her head, trying. To her mortification, she flinched and released a tiny squeak when she felt something sharp being jabbed into her flesh.
Claybourne leaned near and then his mouth was blanketing hers, skillfully plying her lips apart. Oh, the fool, did he not fear that she might bite down—
He tasted of the whiskey that he’d ordered her to drink, and she wondered if he’d needed some to fortify himself for what she was about to endure. She didn’t know if it was his whiskey mingling with hers or his mouth plundering hers that was such a distraction, but she was suddenly only vaguely aware of something happening with her palm and incredibly aware of the taste, feel, and tangy scent of Claybourne. His hands were rough in her hair. She heard a hairpin drop to the floor. She was surprised they didn’t all tumble out.
Deepening the kiss, he swirled his tongue over hers, and she thought if she were standing that her knees would have been too weak to support her. She knew she should pull back, should slap him with her one good hand, but he was so incredibly delicious. And while she knew it wasn’t desire for her that prompted his actions, but simply desire to distract her, still she was grateful for the moment, grateful to have one more opportunity to experience his kiss. She’d been haunted ever since he’d kissed her in the library. The kiss hadn’t been nearly long enough then, and she knew that no matter when this kiss ended, it wouldn’t be long enough either.