“Doing much better, in fact,” said the doctor. “Now that he’s finally consented to actual bed rest, the true healing has begun. Of course, the sustenance and mental stimulation has also been a boon. He is a strong man and you are a devoted nurse, luckily. He’s just told me you’d gone out to fetch fresh herbs to make a healing tea.”
“Oh yes, a healing tea,” Sabine repeated, biting her bottom lip. Original. She went on, “It’s imperative to keep him drinking and eating, and I’ve had no end of luck with this particular... er, tea.”
“Carry on, then,” said the doctor, putting on his hat. “Just take care you don’t poison him. I find one cannot go wrong with chamomile or jasmine.”
“Of course,” Sabine said, patting her drafting kit.
The doctor went on, “I’ve cleaned and redressed the wound. Always a painful process, but the bandages are fresh now and he is resting. Mind you, I’ve left him without a shirt, and I should like him to stay that way. The wound should air out during the mild part of the day. Assuming the sunshine remains, keep him uncovered while daylight remains, keep the windows open, and let mind and body breathe.”
“Mind and body,” repeated Sabine vaguely, “right.”
Dr. Cornwell clipped up the steps. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mrs. Stoker.”
Sabine bid him farewell and pushed her way into the apartments, pulling off her gloves. She dropped her satchel and coat on the bench and paused, staring at the open door to her bedroom.
Shirtless. Stoker. Just inside the room. Right. Not a problem.
Sabine had never felt shy about hosting Stoker; she’d strode in and out of his room, lecturing him, inquiring about evidence, retrieving her dog without a second thought. All the while, he’d lain there in his shirtsleeves, the sheet pulled tightly, and been wholly... well, inert. Even when she dragged him down the hall, she had not been shy or nervous.
So the doctor said he would be shirtless—so what? She may have not seen a shirtless man before, but surely such a paltry thing as the lack of a shirt would not change the fact that he was a very sick man, completely harmless, and really more of a resource now than whatever he was—
Sabine forced herself around the corner and froze in the doorway.
Jon Stoker without a shirt changed everything.
She puffed out a breath. The room shrank to the expanse of tan skin above the white of the sheet. He appeared to have doubled in size. All at once, she saw shoulders and biceps and a tapered waist. She saw ribs and hair and broad, bare chest. She saw old scars and fresh bandage and the aggressive serpent tattoo weaving up his right arm and coiling around his chest.
He was sitting up against the pillows, reading a broadsheet newspaper folded into a rectangle. In no way did he appear infirm or harmless, except for the bandage. Sabine was struck by the dual impulses to duck back into the hallway but also to stand and stare.
Stoker looked up from his paper. “I’m sorry,” he said, narrowing his eyes. His expression was sincerity and chagrin with a touch of bashfulness. He spoke as if he’d promised something and failed.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, but the words came out with too much force. She cleared her throat. Bridget was not fazed and progressed to the bed with her usual sense of entitlement.
“Bridget, no,” Sabine said weakly, watching the dog leap.
“Oh, now you call off the hound,” he said.
“I have very little control over my dog.”
“You have keen control over your dog. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I’ve never seen anything like you,Sabine thought.
She wondered how he could be both so very ill and also so imposing. Had he expanded in height and breadth when his shirt was removed? Was his tan darker? And that tattoo up his arm and across his chest? She’d not known the extent of it.
She blinked up at the ceiling, uncertain of where to look. It was missish and awkward to stare at the floor or out the window, but staring at his chest was hardly appropriate. She settled on his face. He watched her in silence.
“You are enjoying this,” she said.
“I do not enjoy making you uncomfortable. I would tell you to go, but I would like to know what happened in Marylebone. You were gone for an age.”
She gave a little laugh. “Nothing happened.” She retreated to the bench to retrieve her notes. “Why should something happen?”
“You were eavesdropping on suspected criminals, Sabine. Any number of things could have happened.” There was a bite in his voice she’d not heard before.
“Are you... worried about me?” The prospect of Stoker taking stock in potential danger had not occurred to her. It had been so long since anyone regarded Sabine’s safety but Sabine herself.
He shook his head. “I never worried about my own well-being before I was nearly stabbed to death, and look at me now.” He gestured to his wound, and Sabine’s eyes migrated to his expansive chest and thick, muscled arms. “Caution is not a weakness. It is self-preservation. I know you’ve been independent for many years, but I—” He stopped and began again, “I am so incredibly useless here in this bed.”
