Once She Was Tempted (19 page)

“I’ll lock the door. If someone comes, I’ll have time to hide.”

In spite of his misery, he flashed a wicked grin. “Have you done this before?”

“Nursed patients back to health? Yes.”

“I’ll wager none as ornery as I.”

“Not even close.” She smiled. If he could make self-deprecating jokes, surely his condition couldn’t be that dire. However, his sunken eyes and sallow complexion were not encouraging signs. She withdrew a small bag from her drawstring pouch and emptied its contents into a glass.

“What in God’s name is that?”

“Chopped comfrey leaves. They’re for the poultice.” After adding a few tablespoons of hot water to the glass, she vigorously mashed the leaves with a spoon. The smell reminded her of the herb garden they’d had at the small cottage where they’d lived before Papa died. It had been a neat, utilitarian garden, filled with plants that could flavor a stew or ease a head cold.

But nothing in their little garden had been able to save Papa. He got sicker and sicker and after he died, weeds choked the plants. When she, Mama, and Belle rode
away from the cottage for the final time, the overgrown, neglected garden was the last thing Daphne had seen.

“What are you thinking about? My eulogy?”

“Other patients.” She added more water and mashed with renewed energy.

“Like your mother?”

“Yes, and my father.”

Ben didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You like to take care of people.”

It was true. But she wouldn’t mind something a little less severe—an ankle sprain or a sore throat would be nice for a change.

She retrieved another small bag from her pouch. Before he could ask, she held it up. “Flour.” Little by little, she added flour to the mixture in the glass and it began to thicken nicely. She wished that the glass were a little bigger and that she’d brought more of the comfrey leaves, but the mixture amounted to almost two cups. “There,” she said, satisfied at last.

“You’re not putting that on my leg.”

She’d anticipated this reaction after the incident in the garden, but the nurse in her knew she had to be firm with him. “Yes, I am. But not yet. Why don’t you trust me?”

“If you want to know the truth, you’re one of the only people in this world I do trust.”

“But not when it comes to a poultice?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Fine.” She stooped over the bucket and dipped the cloth in the water, glad to find it was still warm enough. Not scalding, but hot. “You can tell me all about it while I place this cloth on your leg.”

“No.” The refusal was adamant. Final.

Good heavens. She knew men were awful patients, but this was ridiculous. “It’s only
water
. On a towel.”

He gave an impressive scowl. “I know that.”

“I just want to drape it over your thigh. Please don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.”

“I don’t need you to nurse me like I’m some sort of invalid.”

“Of course you don’t. Pull back the blankets.”

He propped himself up on his elbows but made no move to do as she’d asked. “It won’t do any good.”

“I’d prefer to have you soak the leg in a warm bath, but I thought this would be easier. It should relax the muscles. What have you got to lose?”

“My dignity. Give it to me—I’ll put it on myself.”

Amazing that such a strong, handsome man could be so infantile. She folded the cloth so that it formed a long rectangle that should cover the length of his thigh and handed it to him.

Curiosity—of a medical nature—niggled. How big had the wound been, and how had it been treated initially? How long had it taken to heal? She stepped closer to the bed.

“Would you turn your back?”

“I’ve seen a man’s leg before.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d tended to her father, of course, and also to Mr. Coulsen. Who was approximately eighty-two.

“Scandalous. Turn around, please.”

She did as he asked, mostly because her cheeks were starting to flame again. “Lay it across your leg so that it wraps around the sides.”

He grunted and she could imagine the struggle he was having just to sit up. She should have helped him sit up
before she turned around, but perhaps this would make him reconsider the next time he refused her help.

“There.”

She turned around to find him reclining and looking even paler than before. She took the cool cloth from the washbasin and dabbed his forehead. He closed his eyes. “Did you know that you are very stubborn?”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “That’s why I still have my leg.”

“The surgeon wanted to remove it?”

He gave a hollow laugh. “
Remove
is the word that he used, too. What he really intended to do was saw it off.”

“He was trying to save your life.” Daphne sat on the edge of bed and left the cloth on his forehead while she raked her fingers through his hair. She liked the feel of it, thick and slightly wavy.

“I’m still here,” he said. “Barely.”

“Why don’t you want me to see your injury? I’m not squeamish, I promise you. I helped our neighbor Mrs. Munson when her daughter gave birth to twins.”

He smiled, opened his eyes. “I’m impressed.”

“Then why won’t you trust me?”

“My leg is… disfigured. I don’t want you to think of me as one of your patients.”

“I think of you as a friend, someone who has gone out of his way to help me. I’m not going to think any less of you because you have a scar.”

He gave another cynical laugh and looked up at the ceiling. “The scar is the least of my problems.”

“How does your leg feel now?”

He blinked and seemed to think about it a moment. “The spasms have subsided, but it still feels like my thigh is in a vise.”

“I’d like you to replace the towel with a hot one.” She dipped another cloth into the bucket Mrs. Norris had brought and wrung it out. Before he could object, she slipped an arm behind him and helped him sit. She handed him the towel and turned her back once more.

“It’s steaming,” he said. After he’d shuffled around a few moments, she heard him flop back onto the bed with a sigh.

Daphne turned and took the old towel from his outstretched hand.

“You see?” she said. “No voodoo or witchcraft. So far.” She smiled evilly and was rewarded with a slight grin.

“What’s next? We sacrifice a small animal?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Just a simple massage.”

“No.” Emphatic.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I took a risk in coming here. The least you can do is humor me.”

“Daphne.” It was a plea. “I don’t want you to see it.”

The fear, the desperation in his voice made her eyes well up. “I know. You can keep it under the blanket if it will make you feel better. But this is going to happen. I am not going to think you any less of a man because you were injured by a bullet. On the contrary, I think you are very brave.”

He shook his head, mumbling under his breath.

“It’s going to be all right.” Slowly, she reached beneath the blanket, removed the warm towel, and hung it on the side of the bucket. Then she took a soft, dry one and eased it under the covers and over his leg. She sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “I’m just going to dry you off.”

His other leg was bent at the knee and provided a tented area for her to work. As she rubbed lightly, back
and forth, over the towel, his injured leg grew tense and spasmed under her hands. She focused on the task and tried not to dwell on the fact that she was in bed with a very attractive man. Rubbing his bare thigh.

The important thing was to give him some relief—some hope that he wasn’t destined for a life of agony.

She turned and scooted closer to him so that she could work with both hands and set up what she hoped was a soothing rhythm. She began with one hand on either side of his knee, and slowly worked her way up his thigh, rubbing small circles with her thumbs. The towel still provided a barrier, but very gradually, Ben seemed to relax. She inched farther up his thigh, noting the irregular bumps and indentations. Even through the towel, the damage to his leg was obvious.

Though her heart was breaking, he did not need her sympathy or pity. He needed someone to stand up to him. “I’m going to massage a bit harder now. It may be uncomfortable at the beginning, but after a few minutes you should notice an improvement.”

“Are you sure about this, Daphne? I don’t like you risking your reputation for me. I’m not worth it. Ask anybody.”

“I’ll form my own opinion.” It would be much easier if she could see what she was doing, but she had decided to make the one concession of the blanket. The towel, however, had to go. When she slipped it out from under the blanket, Ben’s eyes snapped open.

Daphne ignored the signal and pressed on. The feel of his skin beneath her hands was startling, on many levels. He was warm and solid and very… male. Hair tickled her palm, but in some places his leg had icy smooth ridges;
still other parts of his thigh seemed knotted or twisted beneath his skin, as though the wound had healed over, but not everything was quite right under the surface.

She kneaded the flesh as hard as she dared even though Ben’s lips were pressed in a thin line and a sheen of perspiration covered his face. As she inched her way up his thigh, she could feel his leg tense until it was as hard as rock. She must be drawing closer to the spot where the bullet had torn into his flesh. Toward the outside of his upper thigh, she felt a depression the size of a large strawberry. She did not avoid it, but instead ran her fingers over and around it, trying to picture what the injury might look like and how it might best be treated.

Ben made a sound in his throat and turned his head away, but she didn’t think she was hurting him any more than he already was. Now she began to understand. He didn’t want her to see. Didn’t want to her to think him weak or, worse, pitiful.

Now that she knew him, she could
never
think of him that way.

“You’re doing very well.” She hoped she sounded encouraging. “Can you feel the muscles loosening up a bit?”

“I don’t know. I’m too mortified by the current situation to notice.”

“It feels like the flesh is becoming a little more pliable. That’s good. Some of your pain may be caused by the muscles contracting so tightly. The injury probably stretched and damaged them.”

He cast a doubtful look her way, but at least he was listening and not discounting her opinion outright. For the next quarter of an hour, she continued massaging his
thigh from the knee up to—well, as far as she dared. She worked around the sides of his leg and propped his knee up with a pillow so that she could rub the back as well. By the time she finished, she was breathless and perspiring but satisfied.

She hadn’t known if he would let her get this far into the treatment plan. Now she only had to apply the poultice and wrap the leg.

She slid off the bed and set the jar containing the poultice in the pail to warm it. Meanwhile, she prepared another hot towel and draped it over Ben’s thigh. While she waited, she gave him some more water to drink and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Some of the color had returned to his face, and his expression wasn’t quite so pinched.

“It was kind of you to come… but foolish, too. The men could return from the woods at any time. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

“At dinner last night, Lord Biltmore suggested a trip to the village tavern after hunting.” She walked to the window and parted the curtains. The day looked warm but the leaves on the trees beside the house rustled. She opened the window and the curtains billowed slightly behind her. “Can you feel the breeze?” she asked.

“Nice.” He’d closed his eyes again.

Perfect.

To apply the comfrey mixture, she would need to see what she was doing, and she didn’t anticipate he’d be a cooperative patient. She stirred the poultice and stuck a finger into the center, finding it warm and sticky. Just right.

She took a thin cotton cloth and slid it under Ben’s
thigh, then scooped up the jar and eased herself onto the bed beside him. Without asking permission, she folded back the blanket to expose the lower part of his leg.

Ben jerked his head and shoulders off the pillow. “What are you doing?”

“I thought we’d discussed this. I’m putting the comfrey mixture on your leg. See? It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“Daphne, stop. Please. You don’t want to—”

She yanked the blanket completely off.

Ben uttered a curse and threw himself back against the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut. She leaned closer to examine his leg.

Good Lord. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed hard. She would not think about what he must have endured. Not now. She needed to maintain a caring, but professional, demeanor. Or else she’d be of no use to him.

Though she knew nothing about bullet wounds, she guessed this one had been inflicted at close range. His thigh looked like a pack of wolves had feasted on it, leaving gashes, pitting, and jagged scars. On the positive side, the skin had healed over. There was no redness or swelling to indicate infection. Just a mangled mass of muscle and tissue.

“Are you happy now?” His voice was tinged with anger, horror, and something else. Relief.

“I am glad I can properly see what we are dealing with. Did the bullet enter here?” She pointed at the hole in the side of his leg.

He glanced down. “Yes. At least, I think so. My memory of that day isn’t very clear.”

“What’s all the other scarring from?”

“There were bone fragments and other debris lodged
throughout my thigh. The first surgeon to see me when I came off the battlefield wanted to take my leg. I refused. The wound got worse. Another doctor said he might be able to save my leg, but it wouldn’t be pretty. He was right.”

As he spoke, Daphne gently spread the green paste over his thigh. Now that she could see his bare leg, some of her awkwardness returned. Her cheeks grew hot as she carefully covered every inch, making sure to spread the mixture evenly and to fill in all the indentations left by the bullet and the removal of small pieces of bone. When she’d finished with the top and sides, he raised his leg so that she could apply the poultice to the back as well.