Page 17 of It Happened in the Highlands
“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 foryouto 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 youmustknow, 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.”
