Page 106 of Tremaine's True Love
He let the darkness take him, because if anybody could restore him to adequate health, it was Nita Haddonfield. Though—alas for true love—that admission rather shot the other boot off of Tremaine’s objections to her medical calling.
* * *
Tremaine St. Michael had been lucky. Edward’s shot had apparently hit a rock and scraped a deep furrow in the victim’s flesh, though the bullet had spent most of its force before striking Tremaine.
The scar would be substantial, and the blood loss had been as well, but if infection didn’t set in, the patient would recover.
Nita was a ferocious opponent of infection. No ammunition, not Cook’s hoard of white sugar, not her stores of honey, not George’s last bottle of what he called “winter whisky,” was too precious to spare in the fight against infection.
“I’ve seen an infected toenail carry a man off,” Nita said, speaking around a lump of fear that was her constant affliction of late. “It wasn’t a peaceful death either. Not for the patient, not for his family.”
“And not for you,” Nicholas replied. He’d accosted Nita outside Tremaine’s room, and all Nita wanted was to get back to her patient’s side.
“Nicholas, if you lecture me now on the inappropriateness of my medical endeavors, I will kick you where it hurts.” Though Nita was too tired and heartsick to kick anybody very hard, and in fairness, Nicholas himself had shown her that maneuver when she’d turned twelve.
“What if we have a civil discussion?” Nick countered, taking the tea tray from Nita and setting it on the sideboard across the corridor. “What if you allow the head of your family and your dearest, sweetest brother a moment of your time? St. Michael won’t be dancing down the lane anytime soon, Nita, and you haven’t shown up at a meal for three days.”
“You are my nosiest and most bothersome brother.” Nick was also the largest, strongest Haddonfield, and when he settled his arms around Nita, she could do nothing but accept his embrace.
“How is the patient?” he asked.
Nicholas always smelled good, though since his marriage, his scent bore an undernote of lily of the valley. Leah’s influence, no doubt.
“Resting quietly.” Nita gave Nick the medical euphemism for “as well as can be expected,” but it was also the truth. Tremaine seemed to realize that rest was an ally, or perhaps years of racketing about in pursuit of trade had worn him out in ways that didn’t show.
Nick steered Nita to a window seat at the end of the corridor. The chill of a winter afternoon rolled off the glass at her back, while Nick wedged his warmth against her side.
“What does resting quietly mean, Nita?”
“It means, so far, infection hasn’t set in, though a bullet wound can fester slowly, depending on its depth and where it strikes. If the bone is shattered, then significant damage is done to the surrounding tissue, and—”
Nick kissed her forehead. “Have a care for my luncheon, Sister. Will St. Michael come right?”
“I don’t know.” The fear was in Nita’s belly too, like a wasting disease. Mostly, the fear was in her heart. “Ineverknow. I think the patient is fading, and then for no reason, they’re up and about, begging for a strong cup of tea and wishing me to perdition. I think surely, surely, another patient is mending well, and they slip away in the middle of a morning.”
Nick’s arm settled around Nita’s shoulders, a comforting weight. “Shall I ask Fairly to have a look at him?”
Nick was asking, not ordering, demanding, fussing, or complaining. He’d charged into the kitchen as Nita had examined the wound to Tremaine’s leg, turned white as new-fallen snow, and abruptly quit the room. Since then, he’d been quiet, his expression considering rather than put-upon.
And Nick had made an excellent suggestion.
David, Viscount Fairly, was a neighbor who lived two hours’ ride across the shire. Fairly was also a physician trained in Scotland, where the best and most forward-thinking practices were taught. Nobody had dared suggest consulting with Horton—Nita would soundly kick any who mentionedthatname—but Fairly was a different resource entirely.
“A fine notion,” Nita said, the fear easing marginally. “Please have the viscount pay a call. I know he doesn’t practice, but we’ve had a few discussions, and he doesn’t reject my ideas simply because of my gender.”
“A man of sense, is our David. I am a man of sense too.”
Nick was a man of heart. “Whatever you’re about to say, Nicholas, just say it. I’m too tired to shout at you and too worried to indulge in verbal fisticuffs.”
“Glad to know it, because my countess has gone several rounds with me lately, and I did not emerge victorious. Here is what I need to say: I am proud of you, Nita Haddonfield, for the convictions you put ahead of your own comfort and convenience, for your courage, for your ferocious appetite for knowledge. St. Michael will soon be back on his mettle, hatching schemes regarding my sheep and speaking in that execrable poetic dialect for the amusement of all. His good health is exclusively your accomplishment.”
“The good Lord alone—” Nita said, trying to rise. Nick gently pulled her back to his side. “The good Lord and my dear sister. You think I strut about here, dandling my heir and plaguing my sisters, but I’ve also done some listening and some nosing about the village. Horton is a disgrace, and nobody uses him if they can help it. They all turn to you, the wealthy, the poor, the hopeless, and you never turn them down. Do you know what we call this behavior?”
“Stupid,” Nita said. “You’ve called it dangerous, mutton-headed, headstrong—”
Nick had shouted those words and more at her, and while Nita needed to return to Tremaine’s side, Nick would not let her go until he’d said his fraternal piece.
“All very true,” Nick said, “but it’s alsohonorable, Bernita mine. To look after those who can’t look after themselves, to attend to duty rather than convenience. You have reminded me of what honor requires, and I’m grateful.”
