She had only known her bed for six hours over the three days. Yet the only reason she could not sleep was that she was haunted by the feel of Darragh’s mouth on hers. Contrary to popular belief, it was possible to be haunted by the living, especially when that person shared his similarities with the sinister.
She lowered the man’s bound ankle onto a pillow. “On day three, I want ye to try some exercises.”
Three days could go by so fast, a short lapse of time when one was not thinking about it. But for a man who could not work, it could feel like an eternity. In three days, he would forget the accident that put him in this condition and throw himself back in the smithy. Men like him came and went all the time.
Like the man, three days for her amounted to a quarter of her life, especially these last three days. She had not known rest since her brain decided that instead of sleep, it would replay the very thing she dreaded the most—that stupid kiss. Whoever said counting sheep helped one drift to sleep had lied.
She could not focus on stupid sheep when she had concretized Darragh’s face so close to hers, when the feel of his five o’clock shadow felt sharp against her chin. His lashes were lush and velvety, as though he spent hours pruning them, but a man of his caliber had no time for petty appearances.
Not only did God bless him with a strong body, but He had also taken time to craft the delicate crescents that fluttered atop his cheekbones.
She had to remind herself that she was at work, that she could not swoon again. But if she did, it would be perfectly disguised as exhaustion.
“Yer ankle will take about a week to heal, and I daenae want to have to treat ye again, so promise me ye would follow me instructions,” she said, injecting joviality into her voice.
The blacksmith’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave her a smile. A lying smile!
She handed him a crutch, and after teaching him how to use it, she relinquished him to the guard lingering by the door. Lady McGhee had made sure that she had one while she saw to her patients. He was to serve as a deterrent for any man with egregious ideas and a guard on the occasions his presence could not deter misbehavior. Now, his task was to lead Mr. MacLeod to the courtyard, where he would have to fend for himself after.
Talia stepped aside after opening the door for them. The cook, Cherry, had her hand suspended in midair, ready to knock. Talia smiled at the guard, who looked conflicted, for he was not supposed to let her attend to patients alone. She cocked her head, as if to say that he did not have to worry about a woman harming her. He understood and left. It would not be long before he returned.
“Come in,” she beckoned.
She closed the door behind her and took a seat in front of the cot.
Cherry lingered by the door. “It’s me husband who needs yer help.”
The women who came to her looking hurried usually had marital problems, and what they all had in common was that they were all new wives.
“He sometimes comes home from work covered in spots.” A pattern, a diagnosis, and a remedy floated around in her head. “I tried to get him to see the healer, but he kept saying we couldnae afford it. When I told him about ye, he got angry, sayin’ that he doesnae want any woman treatin’ him, and neither should I.”
“It’s alright. Tell me what these spots look like.”
Cherry stepped further into the room and settled on the edge of the cot. She was noticeably more confident. “They’re more like bruises, purplish bruises, on his abdomen, waist, and pecs. Sometimes his neck. They stay for about a week, then new marks appear in similar spots. He says they daenae itch, but they hurt to touch. I havenae had the opportunity to touch him in a month.”
Here came the uncomfortable part. If Cherry were a new wife as Talia presumed, the questions she had would terrify her.
“How is intimacy between ye two?”
A flush crept up Cherry’s cheek. “Ye have to ken that?”
“Aye. It’s necessary, as I cannae examine the patient meself.”
She shifted her weight. “It’s the same as always, but now he insists on doing it with his shirt on. I cannae touch the bruises.”
Now, time for the patient to play her role and deduce her diagnosis. John, the guard, had yet to return, which wasexcellent. Talia would have to speak to Lady McGhee to get him to give her privacy when she was examining female patients.
“Where does yer husband work?”
“A textile shop down at Breamar Street.”
“How long have ye been married for?”
“A whole seven months.”
“And ye’re sure ye’re nae causin’ the bruises?”
“I’ve got a brain in me head, ye ken? If I was doin’ so, I’d ken about it.”
