"Of course not. Why should I?" Wynne shot back. "This is your hospital. Barton is your patient. If you think her staying here will aid in his recovery, why ask me?"
Dermot put both hands on the desk. They'd known each other for too long. The grey eyes challenged him to tell the truth. "I can arrange to get a room for Lady Josephine at the inn down in the village."
"She should stay here," Wynne snapped. "At the Abbey. I have no objection whatsoever."
The younger man studied him for a moment longer before straightening up. When he went back to the bookcase, Wynne knew they were not done with this conversation.
"What is it, McKendry? Say what's on your mind. Say it before every book I own has been scattered hither and yon."
"Very well." Dermot ran his fingers along a shelf and glanced over his shoulder at him. "What was the nature of your relationship with Lady Josephine?"
He was breaking an unspoken rule that had existed between them for years. One did not ask about the past. Everything each man knew about the other had been offered, never solicited.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I'm impressed by her."
Wynne stared at his friend's back. "What do you mean, ‘impressed'? You only met her today. How much time did you spend in her company to form such an opinion?"
"Are you saying she is not impressive?"
"Of course she's impressive!" Wynne replied.
"So it's fine for you to think she's impressive," he said, reaching for another book, "but not for me to think it?"
"Dash it, Dermot," Wynne said, slamming his palm hard on his desk. "Leave my books alone."
The doctor faced him. "What was your connection with her? And why did you wish to remain anonymous when we wrote to her?"
Wynne didn't think all Highlanders were as mule-like as his hardheaded friend, but he was certain that Dermot wouldn't give up until he had an answer.
"If you must know, we were engaged sixteen years ago. I broke it off."
He'd said it. It was out. And now perhaps he could bring it up with Jo and say the things she should have heard back then.
"She must have been a mere lass," Dermot observed with a note of accusation.
Wynne glowered at the younger man. "Save your charming Highland tongue for her. Lady Jo and I are only a year apart in age."
Dermot abandoned his harassment of Wynne's collection of books and walked to the window, gazing out. "You look old enough to be her father."
"I wouldn't recommend standing in front of an open window if I were you."
Though he was trying to keep his voice flippant, annoyance edged under the surface of Wynne's skin.
"So you were afraid she wouldn't come if you wrote to her yourself," Dermot surmised.
"No. I didn't think she would."
"And you wanted her to come." It was not a question.
"I didn't care if she came or not," Wynne lied. "I thought it would be important to her. And to Barton."
"Any regrets?"
"Regrets about what?" Wynne asked. "About bringing her up here?"
"That . . . or about breaking off your engagement."
Dermot McKendry was his friend, a man he trusted more than his own brother. But he was pushing his luck.
Before answering, Wynne paused, asking himself why he was finding this conversation so irritating. It should make no difference to him what Dermot knew about Jo.
"Well? Any regrets?"
He stood and made his way around the desk. Seizing a misplaced volume, he slid it back into the bookcase where it belonged. "You are not a spiritual advisor. You, McKendry, are the lowest, deucedest, maggot pie of a sawbones that I ever had the misfortune to sail with."
"So you do have regrets."
"None!" Wynne thundered, slamming another book back into the case.
"And now that you two have met again," Dermot asked, undeterred, "any renewed interest in her?"
Composing himself, Wynne crossed his arms over his chest. He could see from his friend's expression that the scurvy bastard was enjoying this.
"None," Wynne retorted. A thought flashed into his brain. One he didn't want to consider. "Why are you asking? Do you plan to pursue her yourself?"
"I? Pursue Lady Josephine Pennington? Let's consider that for a moment," he replied as if it had never occurred to him. The doctor leaned against the frame of the open window.
As Wynne watched him closely, he felt coldness settle in the pit of his stomach. It was the same sensation he felt just before the grappling hooks shot out and secured an enemy vessel. It was the moment before leaping with his boarding crew across the gunwales into battle.
"She's quite attractive, even pretty in an unpretentious way." Dermot paused, as if taking stock of the rest of her attributes. "She's educated, connected, and compassionate. She's told me already that she appreciates the humane way we're approaching our work here. She's a benefactor of charitable causes. And she's rich enough to support more than a few."
Dermot, consumed with his plans for the Abbey, had never expressed any interest in marriage until now. Younger than Wynne by six years and handsome in a boyish way, he was certainly an eligible bachelor, now that he'd made his fortune and inherited the Abbey. But only a certain kind of woman would forego the comforts of a normal household to live in an asylum.
Wynne's hands fisted as he realized Jo might just be such a woman.
"What are you going to do, sweep her off her feet with your renowned wit and charm?" he asked, charging his tone with all the irony he could muster. "Lady Jo is only here for one night."
"Say what you will, my friend. I know her visit this time is brief, but I'm told many romances begin with a single glance. We can write to each other." He started toward the door. "Perhaps I'll invite her for another visit. I might even leave you here to see to things while I travel up north and visit with her while she's staying with her brother and sister-in-law."
Wynne used to like Dermot McKendry, but no more.
"But I want you to know I would never convey such intentions if I thought you had any objection to this," the scoundrel said, pausing on his way out the door. "What do you say, old man?"
Wynne was responsible for her coming to the Abbey. She'd arrived not looking for romance, nor for a husband, but to find a connection to her mother's past. These were reasons enough to tell Dermot to veer off. But he couldn't say the words.
"Do as you please," he said finally. "But remember to treat her with utmost deference. And by God, your intentions had better be honorable. Don't start down this path even one step unless you're willing to stand beside her at the church door. Understand me?"
"That's all I needed to hear." Dermot smiled and bowed before going out the door.
Wynne finished putting his books back where they belonged. Life should be as easy to keep in order, he thought. Cuffe. His plans for the two of them. He shook his head. Nothing ever went smoothly. And now he'd need to accept Jo in the fabric of his everyday life . . . while she was married to someone else.
His eyes were drawn to the open window. He should have pushed Dermot out while he had the chance.
Chapter 7
"You haven't mentioned a word about dinner, m'lady," Anna complained as she ran a brush through her mistress's hair. "Pray, was the company pleasant enough? Did they have many guests? I can't imagine these country folk entertain quite the way we do at Baronsford."
Jo smiled. After a lifetime in service, the maid's benign snobbery was due to her pride in the Pennington family. In Anna's world, the places she traveled with Jo were not necessarily deficient in hospitality or comfort, it was simply that nowhere could conceivably compare in her mind with Baronsford.
"The food was delicious and well-prepared, Anna," she told her. "And the company was quite pleasant. We were twelve in number, and although most were strangers to me, the conversations were lively and very interesting. Everyone was kind to me."
"Well, I should think they would be, m'lady," the maid huffed. "A wee place like this in the middle of nowhere? I should think they're thanking their stars to be having such fine company as you."
Jo laughed. "The Abbey is hardly a ‘wee place.' It may not be as grand as Baronsford, but I think it's lovely. Don't you?"
Anna nodded grudgingly and continued her brushing. "Well, all things considered, I suppose it's good enough, m'lady."