Cherished Enemy (5 page)

“But, ma'am, you—”

“You are a
doctor!
” Desperate, and indignant, she tugged. Victor resisted. Convinced his new owner was under attack, Trifle did his duty and gave the physician a good nip on the shin.

Amid a flurry of shrill explanations, loud barks, and anguished protestations augmented by the howl of the wind, they reeled to the door.

The sufferer at the rail stared after them until his attention was again claimed by more pressing matters.

*   *   *

Rosamond's head ached miserably. When she tried to sit up, her side hurt even more miserably, and she gave a fretful little cry when Trifle came boisterously to play with her.

“Get away, you damnable hound!” cried an irritable male voice.

Trifle vanished. Puzzled, Rosamond peered upward. She saw skirts swirling around her, and wet knee-boots. Aunt Estelle's anxious face hovered. “My poor dear child! Can you lift her, Doctor?”

“No need,” faltered Rosamond, striving again.

Aunt Estelle's face was replaced by another. A young face. Water dripped from the sodden light brown hair, ran in little rivulets down the lean planes of the cheeks and trickled from the end of the hawkish nose and the strong chin. “You…!” she moaned.

“My name is Robert Victor. Be still! I will try not to hurt you, ma'am.” He dropped to one knee and started to raise her.

“No!” she squealed, pushing him away.

He fairly leapt back. “Woman, I've scarce touched you! What're you blathering at?”

His grey eyes were dark and stormy, and she thought that he looked very cross and unpleasant. “You—
did
hurt me,” she whispered.

“My apologies, but since I certainly cannot leave you lying here, you must try to be brave. I'm going to lift you up and lay you on the bunk.”

His arms were strong and surprisingly gentle, but he was cold and soaked. Rosamond was deposited on the bunk and received the full benefit of a stream of icy water that poured from the point of his tricorne. She uttered a whimper of shock and revulsion, and the hand she flung up to shield herself made violent contact with his chin.

Dr. Victor growled something, undoubtedly profane, under his breath.

Happily, Rosamond was a healthy girl and had had little to do with physicians, but the inevitable ailments of childhood had come her way. Old Dr. Jackson had attended her through these miseries, and although she'd always liked him, not until this moment had she fully appreciated his warmth and kindness. This young physician was rude and abrupt and would be unlikely, she decided, to rise high in his chosen profession.

She could hear Aunt Estelle explaining what had happened, and then the doctor's fingers were exploring her head.

“Lord,” he muttered, “how can anyone get through all this stuff? Can you turn your head at all, ma'am?”

She moved as cautiously as possible, wondering in an annoyed way what he meant by “all this stuff.” Her hair? It had been referred to as “sweet swirls of gold,” or “silk spun from sunbeams,” and her unromantical brother had once told her in great amusement that his tutor said she had “the tresses of a golden goddess.” “All this stuff” was something new to her experience. And unwelcome. More unwelcome was the pain as Dr. Victor found the lump on her scalp. She gave an involuntary yelp.

He said redundantly, “She's taken a blow here, all right … Thank you, that's very good, ma'am.” Water splashed, and then an icy pad was being placed under her aching head. She whispered her thanks.

“Well, I'll leave you now,” he said briskly. “You've only to—”

“
Leave
us?” squawked Estelle. “You haven't done anything. Not
anything!
”

“I should not have done what I did. You'd have been better advised to find the ship's doctor, or—”

“La, sir, I tried. Heaven's hard, I tried! I found no sign of a single wretched sailor! They're all drunk as otters, like as not. I wonder we're not at the bottom of the ocean.”

“The Channel merely, ma'am,” he pointed out. “An you could not find a sailor is likely because they're seasick, most of 'em.”

“Then pray how would you have expected me to find a doctor? I can think of few things more useless than a seasick physician.”

He growled irately, “Or one with a blasted great hole chewed in his ankle!”

“Oh, Lud. I'd quite forgot Trifle gave you a little nip. Do you tend my poor niece, and I shall—”

“I've tended her. She's doing nicely, aren't you, ma'am?”

“No,” whispered Rosamond. “It hurts.”

She scrinched her eyes open and saw his face again, drifting over her like something disembodied. As she'd noticed at the ball, he had a very stern mouth for such a young man, but the lips were nicely shaped. And white. She said repentantly, “I'm—very sorry if Trifle bit you, Doctor.”

“Trifle, is it? Tripe, more like!” But the steely look in his eyes softened, and he went on in a less chill voice, “Never mind that. I think your head is not broke, ma'am, but 'twill doubtless feel like it. Just lie quietly and I'll try if I can find—”

“'Tis not … my head,” she interrupted. “My—side…”

Mrs. Porchester gave a little moan of concern, investigated with care, and cried shrilly, “Heavens above! Only look here! Across her ribs, Doctor—she is all blood!”

“Oh Lord,” muttered the doctor, retreating.

Frightened, Rosamond started up. “What is it?”

“Lie down,” he said, coming forward again. “I'll—er, have a look. Ma'am, will you unfasten her—er, bodice thing.”

Mrs. Porchester fumbled, then drew back. “I cannot without causing her more distress! I'll get the scissors. Rosamond was sewing, and … Here they are.”

“Yes. Well—go on, then.”

“No, no. You are accustomed to such situations and will know better how to avoid hurting her.”

He said gruffly, “I do not take female patients.” He saw the girl, who was remarkably pretty for such a hard-hearted wench, staring at him, and added quickly, “They fly into the boughs over the least little thing! Much prefer to deal with men!”

The least little thing? Shocked and infuriated, Rosamond opened her eyes wide and demanded, “Do you mean to let me lie here and bleed to death because you dislike women, sir? I had thought
any
—”

“No. Of course not. Do be quiet.” Gingerly, he began to cut through the side of her bodice, while she glared at him in speechless indignation.

Estelle murmured, “Poor man, how cold you are, you're shivering. Oh, dear—however did she do that?
However
did she do that?”

“Must have fallen on something,” he said, trying not to let his eyes stray from the graze across the white skin. “Is a shallow scrape, but has bled rather a lot.” He bathed the wound with fingers of ice, and growled, “I shall need something for bandages, Mrs. Porchester.”

“Yes. Oh dear—whatever can I use? A sheet, I suppose.”

“No such thing. I'd not vouch for their cleanliness. Better—” He leaned over, muttering, then straightened, tearing ruthlessly. “This will do.”

“Oh!” wailed Rosamond in feeble but heartfelt protest. “My new
night-dress!
”

“Gad, what a tragedy!” he sneered. “Ma'am, can you prop her up? I must reach under here.”

Rosamond had worked for weeks to make that nightdress, and could have wept. Papa had raised such a fuss about the blouse Clarissa Furlong had made, and when Clarissa's charming brother, Sir Owen, had said with his pleasant smile that he was sure Miss Albritton was just as talented as his little sister, Papa had laughed and said the extent of Rosamond's talent was to arrange flowers and sing prettily. Well aware that her father was proud of her, she had been stung nonetheless, and had vowed to show him she could sew as well as anyone. The nightdress had been so pretty, and so nearly finished, and now Robert The Arrogant had ruined it! Her anger sustained her while they lifted her carefully and the obnoxious misogynist worked with the impromptu bandage.

“What on earth are you doing?” demanded Mrs. Estelle. “You can't bandage
over
her bodice! We must have it off.”

“Yes. Well, I mean to do so, if you'll only give me time, ma'am. This is merely to—ah, hold the cut together.”

Rosamond was beginning to feel rather sick. Aunt Estelle was removing her bodice and draping it demurely over her. Probably she should feel ashamed to lie in such a condition before this strange young doctor, but it was very clear that he regarded her as a most unattractive object. She peeped at him. How wide his eyes were. A most unusual grey, and there was a darker band around the iris, she noticed. He jerked his head away and covered her with the remains of the ravaged night-dress.

Mrs. Porchester asked in an awed way, “Can you manage—under there?”

“The whole thing,” he said breathlessly, “is to keep the—er, patient as comfortable as possible.” He gave a sudden rather loud laugh that brought Trifle prancing out from under the bunk again. “Cannot have the poor girl embarrassed, can we, ma'am?”

“I feel sick,” warned Rosamond.

“Put your mind on something else,” advised the doctor with alacrity.

She did so, concentrating on his hands as he worked, and noting that besides being so icy cold, they were long hands and quite beautiful. She frowned and closed her eyes with resolution.

3

By dawn the storm had begun to disperse, but the sea was still running too high for the captain to dare bring the packet into port, so she stood off the Tidal Basin, riding it out, with three-quarters of her passengers and two-thirds of the crew incapacitated, and the ship's surgeon, himself a victim, creeping weakly among the more seriously indisposed of the sufferers.

Raging seas and high winds held no terrors for some, however, and Dr. Victor was at the rail very early, searching with narrowed eyes for the first sight of the chalk cliffs of Dover. The steady rain obscured those cliffs, but, as if he could see beyond it, he remained there, hour after hour, an ineffable sadness in his gaze.

“Doctor…? Doctor Victor…?”

The distant feminine voice, broke through nostalgia. He swore under his breath and made his way along the deck to the aft steps, which he ran down lightly and turned into the cold and almost empty lounge, his progress remarkably rapid in view of the rolling of the ship and the handicap of his slight limp.

An amused male voice drawled, “Good morning, Doctor. You're a much-sought man.”

Victor stood very still for an instant, then swung around.

Roland Fairleigh sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches, holding a newspaper, and watching him with a faint smile. He appeared to have made a full recovery, although he was still rather pale. He wore his clothes well, and his riding dress was impeccable, the black, beautifully tailored coat having the narrow revers now coming into fashion, and a fine sapphire winking among the tiny pleats of a snowy jabot. This morning, his hair was powdered and neatly tied back with a black riband. ‘Quite the dandy,' thought Victor, but he knew another dandy whose lazy boredom concealed a keen and resourceful mind and whose sword had vanquished some of the most skilled duellists in England. He was very alert, therefore, as he sat beside Fairleigh and enquired, “Your pardon, sir?”

“The ship's surgeon came looking for you. Told me he'd heard there was another physician aboard and that he has a most interesting case that he suspects is something with a name a yard long, and he'd be grateful would you give him your diagnosis.”

“Did he now. And where is this—er, case?”

“Lord knows. I told him your name, so I fancy he'll seek you out sooner or later. No rest for the dedicated physician, eh? I am glad to see you survived your—ah, abduction yesterday.”

Victor smiled. “'Twas not near as critical as the lady supposed. Her niece had fallen and hurt herself. Nothing serious, fortunately.”

“And fortunate you,” said Fairleigh with a man-to-man grin. “I'd be more than happy to pose as a physician so as to examine
that
one!”

Victor looked at him thoughtfully, then shrugged.

“Oho! Too scholarly to have time for the fair sex? Beware, friend! One thing that drives 'em wild is a man who ain't driven wild by 'em!”

“Quite an expert, are you?” said Victor, amused.

Fairleigh essayed a small sitting-down bow. “My life's work.”

“And uncaught? Or—my apologies, perhaps you have got a wife?” And he thought, ‘Heaven help her!'

“God forbid! I adore the lovely creatures, but there's not one worth more than a week of my time.” The gleam faded from the dark eyes. “Well—I'll admit I came close once,” he qualified. “But fortunately I—ah, escaped the shackles of matrimony. I'm surprised you've not been snared yourself. Paris surely is the city for
affaires de coeur.
”

“Is a beautiful city, certainly. But I'll own I prefer—home.”

Fairleigh said idly, “If you've been gone from it for some time, Doctor, you'll likely find home something changed.”

“Pitt? Or the possibility of war with France?”

“Those, certainly. But at the moment there's a great hue and cry because of this treasure business.”

Victor looked at him. Fairleigh smiled, and murmured, “You
are
aware we've lately had an Uprising in Scotland?”

“I'm not so swallowed up by my studies as to be wholly divorced from the rest of the world, sir. However, I'll have to own an unawareness of treasure. Captured booty?”

“No, no. Actually, 'twas gathered by the Young Pretender.”

The response was as swift, the voice as cold as a swordthrust. “You mean Charles Stuart?”