“I see.” She pointed to the one table that wasn’t covered in bric-a-brac by a far wall. “Set me there and find me a strip of leather.”
“That’s it?” Renard asked, his mouth bent down in a frown. “Two words and you’ve changed your mind?”
“Yes.”
His nose scrunched as his feeble mind worked hard to catch up. His expression turned comical. “Dear Lord!” He shook his head. “You’re just like the crackpot, aren’t you?”
*
Renard leaned againsta table, his arms crossed over his chest.
She was more than clever. He knew that look, the one a person of superior intellect used while waiting patiently for the rest of the world to understand. He’d mistaken Miss Forthright’s actions and words as blustered pride. Pride she surely had, but with a mind to back it up, and none of the patience. He never thought he’d see the day when Gregori’s two-word explanations were the preference.
Gregori bent close and examined her jutting shoulder before moving to the plum-colored mess of her wrist.
“How did the bone dislocate?” he asked.
“I ran into a wall,” she said. At his quirked brow, she added, “I was being chased.”
“Ah.” His typical neutral expression covered his stupid face.
Renard sucked a tooth, his mood souring.
He’d forgotten how young Gregori was, with long hair and a whisker-dusted jaw that never failed to turn the ladies’ heads on the rare occasions he left his lair. The man didn’t even have the decency to look ragged after being up all night, no doubt tinkering with some new experiment.
Renard rubbed the back of his neck. Why the hell was he thinking about the crackpot’s hair or how the ladies liked him? Not that the man’s looks mattered when he had the personality akin to one of his soulless machines.
Miss Forthright watched him with hawk-like precision, looking ready to shred him if he got too close. “What is your opinion on Dr. Hood’s book regarding bone-setting?” she asked.
Gregori took one of the tools from a nearby table, inserted it into the side of the odd-looking contraption on his head, and gave it a twist. Aclick-clacksound later, and a round eyepiece fell over his left eye, with no need to hold it in place.
He continued to examine her wrist, prodding the joint. “I prefer Steele’s more recent article.”
Her brow arched. “And your opinion on Steele?”
Gregori looked up and smirked. “The man enjoys the word ‘quack.’”
She smiled. “And ‘qualified.’”
Renard stared, dumbstruck. The smile was captivating, tempting. His insides felt like they’d liquified into warm honey. Her smile was perfection, and it was directed at another man.
Renard bit the inside of his cheek. So they talked in riddles. So she’d smiled at the stupid crackpot. He merely felt protective. He had saved her, after all, and gone through the trouble of carrying her here. She could smile at whatever stupid, mechanical crackpot she wanted.
Except that crackpot’s characteristic neutral expression just lit up in a completely uncharacteristic fashion.
“What’s your take on adding bone-setting to the medical curricula?” Gregori asked.
Was that interest in the other man’s voice? Couldn’t be. Miss Forthright didn’t have gears or any kind of wire sticking out of her body. Renard would know—her dress was threadbare and left little to the imagination when in his arms. His blood heated thinking about how her curves had fit perfectly against his chest.
Miss Forthright gave Gregori a sniff. “I think doing away with the ease and affordability of generational bone-setting families so some educated snipper-snapper’s feelings don’t get hurt is a waste of talent and much needed services for people who work for a living.”
It was Gregori’s turn to smile, a brilliant grin straight and full of white teeth that Renard suddenly wished were crooked and bloody.
“Something to add?” Gregori asked him.
Renard shot Gregori his finest glare. “Can you set the lady’s shoulder or not?”
Gregori’s mouth twitched.
