What kind of man treats anyone that way, especially a woman, his wife?
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the cot.
Mrs. Clay eyed it with trepidation. No doubt she feared that he had purchased her for one purpose only.
“I have no intention of making you my wife,” Orlando assured her as he opened a case that held his ointment and bandages kept for personal use and minor injuries.
“Am I to be treated as your mistress instead? Someone to warm your bed when you are in need,” she inquired calmly. “I had hoped that you had honor but I find that my first impression was correct.”
“First impression? We have never met.”
“An introduction is not needed for an opinion to be formed.”
“And what was or is your opinion of me?” he asked out of curiosity as he knelt before her and took one hand to examine her injuries before gently applying the ointment, massaging into the skin, except for where it was broken, and used care so as not to cause her any pain.
“That you are nothing but a rake disguised as a doctor.”
Orlando chuckled. “I supposed there are worst things a man could be accused of.”
He bandaged the first wrist then picked up the second and dipped his fingers into the ointment.
“As I have seen you visit the lightskirts and camp followers during the day, I can only assume that you are going to force me to act as your mistress which makes you nothing but a true scoundrel and rake. To think, at one time I had admired you.”
Mrs. Clay was not as timid as he had first assumed, and Orlando liked that she had spirit.
“Admired?” he questioned. “I assume that was before you decided I was a rake.”
Her face took on a crimson hue. “I stand corrected. That was my first opinion of you, when I observed you with patients. You seemed kind and caring. The second was when I observed you visiting camp followers so often.”
“And now, because I purchased you, your opinion has been altered a third time.” He finished wrapping the bandage around the second wrist.
“That remains to be determined.”
Orlando tried to fight the smile but couldn’t help but be flattered that she had noticed him—enough to form opinions.
His estimation of her had been that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in an army camp and must love her husband very much if she had to be with him, even with war on the horizon. He’d witnessed as she scrubbed laundry against a board before hanging it from a line to dry and prepared meals over an open fire and assumed that she also kept a neat tent. Without knowing who her husband was, Orlando had been jealous of the man.
He also found Mrs. Clay quite delightful, even in her judgement of him. Of course, none of that made a difference. Nothing could change between them.
“I have no intention of making you my mistress for the same reason you will not be my wife,” he assured her.
She frowned. “Why?”
“You are already married. The church would not recognize a union between us, nor would England. A marriage cannot be simply terminated with a bill of sale,” he explained. “And I will not commit adultery.”
She pulled back as her dark brows rose. “You are very religious.”
This time he chuckled. “No. I was raised by a vicar. It is more that I do not want to disappoint him than my own convictions.”
“Would he not object to the camp followers?”
“Not as much as he would if I took another man’s wife as my lover,” he answered. “Do you have any other injuries?” If her husband had no difficulty chafing her wrists and tying her with a rope, what other atrocities might he have committed against her person?
“There are none.”
He took Mrs. Clay at her word and started to put the ointment away.
“What am I to you then? A laundress, cook…?”
