“Well, soon enough we shall be out from under her reign and on our way to Egypt.” She headed towards the door.
“Your words to God’s ear, miss.”
Amelia hurried down the corridor, and none too soon, for the thud of a knocker pounded against the front door the moment her slippers landed on the main floor.
“I will answer it, Betsey,” she called over her shoulder, lest the woman break her own leg barreling down the stairs to give Mr. Lambert a jaundiced eye and some stern words about returning her mistress home in one piece.
The second she opened the door, she froze. She’d seen Mr. Lambert countless times over the past month and a half, but this fine man? The doctor’s usual shaggy hair was tamed back and he’d shorn his beard, revealing an even stronger jawline than she imagined. He wore a deep blue dress uniform with shiny brass buttons, the cut of which accentuated his shoulders and tapered down to a trim waist. The fabric smelled faintly of the sea, of briny fresh air and exotic lands, reminding her he was a traveler, a kindred spirit who silently and irresistibly drew her in.
Sweet mercy. Why was she so hot? She clenched her hands to keep from fanning her face.
His gaze brushed over her from head to toe, the green in his eyes flaring. “You are quite stunning, Miss Balfour.”
“As are you, sir.”
La! Had she really just said that aloud? She sucked in a breath, wishing to God she could suck in the brazen words as well. What a shameless flirt he must think her.
She tucked her chin. “Forgive me, Doctor. I am not usually so forward.”
A knowing grin spread across his face. “Are you not?”
Valid point. She grinned as well. “I am afraid you’ve come to know me better than most.”
“Yet not nearly as well as I’d like to.”
He stood so close the warmth of his breath feathered against her brow. Or was it the naked honesty of his words that shot fire through her veins? No, it was the uniform. It had to be the uniform. No man had a right to look that dashing.
“I…uh…” Finally breaking eye contact, Mr. Lambert glanced over his shoulder. “I took the liberty of hiring a coach, which offers a bit more room than Mr. Peckwood’s gig. And I thought you might appreciate having a driver—a chaperone, of sorts.” Offering his arm, he turned slightly. “Shall we?”
Yes. Fleeing outside was a brilliant idea. She could use some air and lots of it. But feeling the hard muscle of his arm flex beneath the fabric as he led her to the carriage didn’t do a thing to relieve the tightness of her stays. If she didn’t do something to distract her mind, she’d swoon right here for all of Clifton to see—or at least Mrs. Ophidian, whose pale face peered out the first-floor window, watching their every move.
She focused on the carriage, now just steps away, and willed her thoughts to dwell on something other than the press of Mr. Lambert’s shoulder against hers. “Will you speak tonight also, Doctor?”
“No. I am an ornament, merely there to lend Mr. Peckwood credence.” He peered down at her. “You are not nervous, are you? I shouldn’t think more than a few words would be expected from you.”
“No, I am not usually given to jitters.” So why the trembling in her knees as he guided her into the carriage? His leg brushed against hers as he sank onto the opposite seat, a jolt charging up her thigh. Clearly repentance was in order for all the years she’d spent silently disparaging the blushing misses she’d witnessed at countless dances, for now she finally understood them.
“I am glad to hear of your fortitude, Miss Balfour, for I’ve not brought along my medical bag tonight. Neither have I any smelling salts in my pocket.” He pounded the wall. “Drive on!”
She eyed him as the carriage lurched into motion. “So tonight you are just a man, not a doctor?”
“For once, yes.” A grin flashed in the dim light. “I am merely a man.”
Ahh, but he couldn’t be more spot-on. In every sense of the word, he was a pillar of masculinity, one she had no business admiring so thoroughly. She shrank into the seat, putting as much space between them as possible. Betsey was right. Going off alone in the night with this man might very well be a mistake from which her heart might never recover.
Two days. Just two. And then what? An entirely new life? Or death on the operating table? Colin grimaced, hand on the door latch. Both presented their own dangers, each as perilous as striding outside right now and baring his face in public. Lord, he was weary of living in a cage. But most of all, he was weary of playing it safe. Hiding. Ever hiding.
He yanked the door open and trotted down the two steps to the backyard. Not exactly a huge risk, traveling a mere six feet from the house, yet it was gamble enough for now.
Lifting his face to the gloom of twilight, he inhaled a lungful of moist air, memorizing the feel of life and breath. If forty-eight hours were all that remained for him, what was the best way to spend them? Though his father would have surely disagreed—nay—scorned his choice, he closed his eyes anyway.
Until my last breath, God, whether that be a moment or years away, I will thank You, for I am how You have fashioned me.
He flicked his eyelids wide open and added,though I wouldn’t mind if You granted me a few years as a normal man before calling me home.
How long he stood there, a single shadow among many, he couldn’t say, but long enough to hear a carriage arrive out front and the lingering voices of Amelia and the doctor while they departed. Long enough, as well, for night creatures to rustle about, searching for food, heedless of his presence. Little paws scratching for insects. Little feet creeping through shrubbery and—
Little feet?
