Page 43 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
The drollness of the comment made Ann smile. “I just need to choose someone who respects me and returns my affections.”
“Oh, in our world, it’s never as simple as that.” Her brows scrunched together, the two fine lines there deepening, and Ann remembered Urjit lifting her over the patch of rocky ground. That was truly a deep divide to jump over.
The gap between her and Errol was nothing, if the stubborn man would just forgive her for helping him.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she said. “I’m tired of being pushed and pulled. If he lives, my father will make it impossible for me to stay here and live here on my own.”
“Have you the funds for that?”
“For a simple life, yes. I have some money that my father cannot touch. If that should run out, I can seek employment. Would you help me, Mrs. MacDonal? Not financially, of course, but help me find a cottage where I can live in peace?”
Mrs. MacDonal’s slim hands enfolded hers. “I most certainly will.”
Over the nextcouple of days, Errol saw to his three patients each morning, visited Mounth Tower and then went on to the surgery where a stream of locals appeared with various ailments. He worked late, taking his dinner at the inn before returning to the castle. The duke had servants at the ready to fetch him, should the duchess go into labor, but the babe seemed to be taking his or her sweet time about leaving the womb.
It was just as well, he supposed. The stonemason had carved the nameRobillardinto his mother’s tombstone. Each day that he visited, he felt less sure about leaving Darleton to the whims of a stranger.
And Ann, it seemed, had disappeared. He hadn’t seen her anywhere; not at the castle, nor the village, nor had she stopped at the surgery. They had unfinished business, but how he was to finish it, he had no idea. He’d kissed her like a lovestruck fool, and then she’d thrown her act of charity into his face. As much as she’d wounded his pride, the memory of her pliant body under his haunted his every free moment, particularly when he was in his bed.
The senior partner had written, asking him his plans. Well, he somehow had to deal with Darleton, and he couldn’t leave until the duke’s child was born, so that gave him some time to think.
The day after that last kiss and Strachney’s accident, Errol had reluctantly escorted Rolly and Maggie to their cottage. A regular at the inn remembered Gillespie had a cousin in Glasgow, and the general belief was he must have gone there. At any rate, no one had seen him lurking about. Busby had seen to repairs on their cottage and provisions of fuel and food.
Nights had turned bitterly cold, and a few inches of snow had fallen. Christmas was but days away.
Meanwhile, Strachney’s wrath had only deepened. On the third day of his convalescence, Errol found the man sitting up in bed, having just finished the beef tea and toast Errol had ordered.
“It’s starving I am. I need some real food.”
Appetite was a sign of healing. The man’s color was also better. Errol placed a hand to his forehead. “No fever that I can discern. It appears you’ve been very lucky, Strachney, though it’s still early days.” He called over the footman on duty and told him to fetch a full breakfast for the patient.
“Very lucky,” he grumbled. “Where is my daughter?”
Ann hadn’t come round to check on her father? That seemed out of character. But after the abuse he’d heaped on her the day of the accident, no one could blame her for staying away. He certainly wouldn’t.
“Why should she visit you after the way you spoke to her?”
“You’ve driven her away. Soured her on her own father. You tell her that I want to speak with her.”
“If I see her, I will convey the message. Now let’s have a look at this wound.”
Ignoring the grumbling, he silently inspected and redressed the wound, noting it was healing nicely. Strachney would live, the beastly man, which meant he would soon resume bullying Ann to become Lady Hottentot.
“Oww.”
Errol drew in a breath. “Lie still.”
“You’ve rough hands for a surgeon.”
He gritted his teeth, silently finishing the new dressing.
“Why didn’t you let me die, hmm, Robillard? You might have done so and snatched up my daughter before I can change the will.”
He stowed his instruments, struggling to tamp down his anger. “I’m a physician—”
“You’re naught but a bonecutter—”
“A physician and surgeon, and I’d never let a patient die if I could help him. Not even such a one as you.”
