“Tell me about Mr. Locke,” she said as she scrubbed out one of the bowls she’d used earlier.
John Locke, she remembered all too easily, had been one of Alastair’s favorites.
“He was a physician first,” Gilbert explained, “which allowed him to write from a unique perspective—about humans as physical individuals, but also how they exist with one another, and how governments ought to work.”
At times like this, Gilbert truly did seem too mature for his age.
“And when did he live?” Daisy prodded.
“The seventeenth century. And before you ask, he was English. I believe he was born in Bristol.”
“I have heard of him.” Daisy pinched her mouth together, placing the bowl she’d just dried on the shelf while Gilbert continued.
“He writes that humans are born with no preconceptions about anything. That our minds are blank slates.”
“A state which I am, unfortunately, far too familiar with.”
The abrupt comment came from behind her.
Daisy turned in surprise, meeting her patient’s stare as he cocked a single brow. How did he do that? In less than twenty seconds, his presence had sent the temperature in the room soaring by at least ten degrees.
“Although,” he added, his voice laced with dry amusement, “I’m not sure my particular condition is what Locke had in mind.”
She swept her gaze over him, noting his improved appearance. She had left some of her father’s old clothing in the pantry, and while they weren’t a perfect fit, they were far more appropriate than the thin, worn nightshirt.
“I have your clothing,” she said, anticipating his next question. “The ones you wore when I found you. They’re clean. But—” She turned to a nearby cupboard, extracting the neatlywashed and mended garments: a fine linen shirt, an embroidered waistcoat, well-cut breeches, and a pair of worn Hessians. Holding them up, she gave him a pointed look. “Although I’m not sure what Mrs. Farley would think if she saw my seaman husband wearing clothes fit for a king.”
She moved to put them away, but he was already stepping around the worktable toward her.
“Let me take a closer look,” he said. “Please.”
As he crossed the room, she noted that although his movements were careful, he was no longer limping. It was remarkable that he was up at all.
He lifted the fabric, studying each piece, and as he stood beside her, Daisy resisted the urge to lean closer to him.
Perhaps she was coming down with something. An illness that caused temporary loss of one’s self-control.
That would certainly explain the ridiculous flutter in her chest.
Because… this man was one kind of attractive while vulnerable and bedridden, but quite another while he towered over her, his broad shoulders brushing hers, examining clothing that could only have belonged to a wealthy gentleman.
A titled gentleman?
“Do you—” She swallowed the strain in her voice. “Do you remember them?”
He unfolded each piece, smoothing his palm over the fabric. Daisy took a measured step back—partly to get a better look at him, partly to put a bit of space between them.
Two faint lines appeared between his brows. “I know they’re mine, and yet, they aren’t specifically familiar.”
“Like Locke?” Gilbert piped up.
He let out a low chuckle, still focused on the garments. “Like Locke.”
But then he found one of the patches she’d sewn and ran his thumb over the stitches.
“The garments are very fine,” Daisy pointed out, her voice measured. “Even mended.”
She held her breath, waiting—uncertain of what, exactly—until he lifted his gaze and met hers.
