Page 43 of A Most Unsuitable Lover
In addition to his broken arm, that shoulder was badly dislocated and the cut inflicted by the rock on the side of his head ran jaggedly from his left temple back through his hairline.
Though her brother’s care absorbed Ian’s attention, Ian must have seen the color drain from her face because he still did his best to reassure her. “Even superficial headwounds bleed profusely.” He moved to the hearth where a pot bubbled away with water and dropped his metal instruments into it.
Quickly, her brother’s clothing was cut from his body until he was bare from the waist up to reveal the lean length of his torso. Ian proceeded to scrub his hands with hot water and the clean-scented cake of soap he carried in his medical bag. He moved around the room with grace and poise, deftly instructing two strong footmen to help him set Ethan’s shoulder with brute force.
The loud pop that followed made Juliette nauseous, but she refused to leave even when she felt the burn of Ian’s eyes upon her. She knew he hadn’t liked it when she’d refused to abandon her post before the procedure. Though Ian had given her an out, suggesting she wash up and he would retrieve her when he was done, she’d refused and he had allowed her to remain where she was. More than her brother, Ethan was her twin. She hurt when he did. And if the worst happened…she would lose a part of herself as integral as an eye or a limb. She wouldn’t know how to function without Ethan, so she simply had to stay.
Ian proceeded to clean Ethan’s head wound after setting and splinting the arm and fashioning a sling. She watched in morbid fascination as Ian, using a sterilized needle and silk thread, closed the gash in her brother’s temple with stitches so fine they would put many young ladies to shame. A poultice was then applied, followed by a bandage wound around his head. Ian murmured to her as he worked, telling her that he hadn’t felt any cracks in the skull, so her brother’s recovery depended upon whether or not there was swelling of the brain. The next day or two would be integral. Though she and Ian didn’t touch or speak with one another much, they worked together to oversee Ethan’s transfer from the kitchens to his private rooms and the changing of his clothing as he was settled into his bed.
“I have something I can give him for pain, but we must refrain from drugging him too much,” Ian said softly, evenly when they were alone with Ethan’s still form. He looked so young, so pale nestled among the pillows and deep blue coverlet. “We need him to regain consciousness, not sleep more deeply.”
Juliette smoothed Ethan’s freshly washed blue-black hair back until she encountered the stark whiteness of the bandage Ian had so skillfully wound around his head.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from emotion and disuse. “Thank you, Ian.”
A heavy silence stretched out between them until Ian finally spoke once more. “His lordship likely won’t care for it, but I can stay on until he wakes—”
“Stay.” Juliette tempered her next words when she realized how abrupt her outburst had sounded. “Please, stay.” She met his eyes and her entire body began to ache from fatigue and the onslaught of emotions that had been churning within her throughout that day. “I would not want anyone else treating him.”
She noticed a twitch of a muscle in Ian’s jaw before he inclined his head and replied, “As you wish.” He then excused himself to tidy the mess in the kitchens and clean his utensils, leaving Juliette to turn back to her brother and clasp his hand in both of hers.
Chapter Nineteen
Two Months Later
The Fall air was crisp and clear as Ian walked through the streets of Edinburough toward the comfortable home he’d purchased for his mother the year before. It wasn’t an enormous house, but it was sturdy and sound, and she never again had to worry about a fickle landlord.
Ever a woman who wanted to stay busy, Margaret McCullom continued to bake for local households, selling her sweets and meat pies to the maids and cooks she’d come to know throughout her years of service. She’d taken the money she earned and used it to turn the four walls Ian had purchased for her into a home. At least once each week, she would stand in that home and turn in circles, marveling at the fact that her son had provided so well for her—how lucky she was that he loved her as he did. And it brought tears to her eyes every single time. Nothing gave her as much joy, however, as having her son home with her.
Ian had never disclosed his reason for the visit from London, nor how long he planned to stay, only walked through the door, kissed her on the cheek, and stole a morsel from her chopping board like when he’d been a wee lad. He’d promptly unpacked his things in the spare bedroom without a word. Margaret had been considering letting out one of those rooms to a young lady in town so she wouldn’t have to walk so far to work before sunrise, but that could wait until Ian returned to London; he was never able to stay for very long.
In the weeks since his arrival, Ian had remained steadfastly evasive to all her questions. He’d always been a boy of few words—she liked to say he saved them for when they really counted—but it was irksome to a mother who knew when some. Regardless of the reason behind it, she was pleased to have him home; she loved showing him off as her pride and joy.
Each time someone came to pick up an order of her baking, she would make a big show of explaining how her son, the physician, was in town and loved a particular treat, and she’d introduce him as such to anyone who would listen.
One time, she’d commented to him that perhaps he’d like to settle down soon—maybe move back to Edinburough to be near to her when bairns came. He’d only given her a sidelong look and picked up his book.
That day, as Ian was walking the winding city streets of New Town, there was a knock at the door. At first, Margaret was confused—there weren’t any scheduled pick-ups the rest of the day. She set aside her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and answered the door to find a very beautiful, very exhausted-looking young woman. Her thick, blue-black hair was pulled back beneath a fashionable raspberry-pink hat affixed with gold-tipped pins. She wore a matching traveling gown fitted to her arms with impeccable tailoring, a modest neckline trimmed in pink lace, and thick velvet skirts falling in graceful panels. Her eyes were wide, and remarkably dark and intelligent.
“Aye?”
“Is this the McCullom residence?” the woman asked, not bothering to mask the hopeful note to her voice.Sasannach. And a wealthy one by the looks of her clothing. Margaret had worked in enough households and served enough nobility to know quality when she saw it.
“Aye.” She gripped the door a little tighter, wondering at this woman’s intentions, especially when she hesitated before her next question.
“Are you Mrs. McCullom? Mother to Dr. Ian McCullom?”
She nodded in reply, curious if this woman was a patient of his and how she’d come to find their home, but the young woman’s face lit up in delight, turning her beautiful face incandescent.
“I am so very pleased to meet you! I am a friend of Ian—Dr. McCullom. Is he in?”
Margaret frowned. “Nay. He’s out and, knowing him, he won’t return for several hours. He’s a very busy mon.” The Englishwoman was immediately crestfallen and Margaret was suddenly overcome by the urge to comfort her. Something about the candor in her eyes, she supposed. She was unable to turn the girl away. “Ye sound like you’ve traveled a long way. Would ye like to come in and set awhile? Eat a bite?” She stepped to the side and the woman thanked her graciously as she entered the home that smelled warmly of herbs and buttery shortbread.
∞∞∞
Ian stomped up the front steps of his mother’s home more exhausted from his errands than if he’d set two legs, sewn a dozen lacerations, treated a handful of croupy dowagers, and assisted in the birth of three babes. What he wouldn’t have given for those days…
Instead, he’d spent his time scouting for a new office space and sending messages to his solicitor in London to begin the process of liquidating his London practice. It had been a rather depressing, fruitless day.
