white kerchief around her shoulders. Her hair shone beneath a cap with a single frill to adorn it, softening the angles of her face.
And he still wanted to kiss that point of hair in the center of her forehead.
He smiled. “See the lengths I go to so I can see you again, Miss Eckles?”
“You can’t have too serious an injury if you can talk such nonsense, Mr. Cherrett.” Her tone was brisk. She glanced around the kitchen. “You’re in the middle of serving dinner, I see. I’ll take your manservant into the kitchen garden.”
He’d have suggested his room if he thought he could climb the steps. But just rising from the chair proved difficult. He gripped the edge of the worktable with his good hand and hauled himself up. Dizzy, he swayed, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
“Are you all right, sir?” Deborah asked. “You’ve gone as pale as my apron.”
“Perfectly fine. I should be back in time to serve the pudding.” Dominick managed a smile.
“Your brains are the pudding if you think that.” Tabitha slipped her forearm beneath his. “Has he lost a great deal of blood?”
“Apparently enough.” Letty began to slice into the pie, sending the aroma of raisins and cinnamon around the kitchen.
Dominick leaned on the midwife’s arm. “I don’t like blood, especially when it’s mine.”
“Then we’ll stop it,” Tabitha said.
She proved to be a strong woman, easily steadying him on their way outside into the warm sunshine and fragrant herb garden. A puff of air smelling of the sea blew into Dominick’s face, reviving him like a whiff of hartshorn.
He sank onto the bench. “I apologize for interrupting your Sunday dinner, ma’am.”
“It isn’t the first time a meal has been interrupted.” She settled beside him and took his hand in hers. “It won’t be the last.”
“This town needs a surgeon or apothecary.”
“I’ll still be getting interrupted.” She began to unwind the makeshift bandage. “Babies don’t wait until I’m done eating.”
“A pity.”
For what, he didn’t know. Air struck his wound and pain shot up his arm. As she probed the gash with fingers as gentle as breaths, he fixed his gaze on what he could see of her face—the smooth, creamy brow with that intriguing peak of hair that lent her features their heart shape. The way her golden brown lashes shielded her eyes when her head was bent. A wrinkle in the center of her cap, as though it had been ironed inexpertly or in a hurry.
A pucker formed between her winged brows. “The bleeding is slowing, but I need to stitch this. Can you bear the discomfort?”
“I did the last time.”
“The last time?” Her head shot up, her blue eyes questioned him. “You’ve cut yourself before?”
“It wasn’t a cut.” And he wouldn’t have said a word if he didn’t feel so lightheaded.
“A gunshot?” she asked.
“You don’t need to know to treat me.” His tone was sharp.
She returned her attention to his hand, her cheeks flushing. “Of course not. Medical curiosity, is all.” She set his hand palm up on the bench and reached for the satchel she carried. “This will hurt.”
“But I’ll get to see you in a week or so to get the stitches out?”
“Yes.” She took several items from her bag. “Meanwhile, you should be able to continue your work, though I recommend you wear gloves if you have them.”
“I have them.” He shuddered at the idea.
“Good. Close your eyes.”
He caught a glimpse of a needle and silk thread and obeyed. He braced himself for the bite of steel in flesh, but caught the odor of spirits first. The burning sensation on his cut made him long for the needle. Words not fit for a lady’s ears surged to his lips. He clenched his teeth, swallowed, wished he could smell that springtime aroma he’d caught from her hair earlier.
Then the needle came. The muscles on his back jerked in sympathy. His entire body tensed, and behind his closed lids, he saw a cloudy day, cold and
And he still wanted to kiss that point of hair in the center of her forehead.
He smiled. “See the lengths I go to so I can see you again, Miss Eckles?”
“You can’t have too serious an injury if you can talk such nonsense, Mr. Cherrett.” Her tone was brisk. She glanced around the kitchen. “You’re in the middle of serving dinner, I see. I’ll take your manservant into the kitchen garden.”
He’d have suggested his room if he thought he could climb the steps. But just rising from the chair proved difficult. He gripped the edge of the worktable with his good hand and hauled himself up. Dizzy, he swayed, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
“Are you all right, sir?” Deborah asked. “You’ve gone as pale as my apron.”
“Perfectly fine. I should be back in time to serve the pudding.” Dominick managed a smile.
“Your brains are the pudding if you think that.” Tabitha slipped her forearm beneath his. “Has he lost a great deal of blood?”
“Apparently enough.” Letty began to slice into the pie, sending the aroma of raisins and cinnamon around the kitchen.
Dominick leaned on the midwife’s arm. “I don’t like blood, especially when it’s mine.”
“Then we’ll stop it,” Tabitha said.
She proved to be a strong woman, easily steadying him on their way outside into the warm sunshine and fragrant herb garden. A puff of air smelling of the sea blew into Dominick’s face, reviving him like a whiff of hartshorn.
He sank onto the bench. “I apologize for interrupting your Sunday dinner, ma’am.”
“It isn’t the first time a meal has been interrupted.” She settled beside him and took his hand in hers. “It won’t be the last.”
“This town needs a surgeon or apothecary.”
“I’ll still be getting interrupted.” She began to unwind the makeshift bandage. “Babies don’t wait until I’m done eating.”
“A pity.”
For what, he didn’t know. Air struck his wound and pain shot up his arm. As she probed the gash with fingers as gentle as breaths, he fixed his gaze on what he could see of her face—the smooth, creamy brow with that intriguing peak of hair that lent her features their heart shape. The way her golden brown lashes shielded her eyes when her head was bent. A wrinkle in the center of her cap, as though it had been ironed inexpertly or in a hurry.
A pucker formed between her winged brows. “The bleeding is slowing, but I need to stitch this. Can you bear the discomfort?”
“I did the last time.”
“The last time?” Her head shot up, her blue eyes questioned him. “You’ve cut yourself before?”
“It wasn’t a cut.” And he wouldn’t have said a word if he didn’t feel so lightheaded.
“A gunshot?” she asked.
“You don’t need to know to treat me.” His tone was sharp.
She returned her attention to his hand, her cheeks flushing. “Of course not. Medical curiosity, is all.” She set his hand palm up on the bench and reached for the satchel she carried. “This will hurt.”
“But I’ll get to see you in a week or so to get the stitches out?”
“Yes.” She took several items from her bag. “Meanwhile, you should be able to continue your work, though I recommend you wear gloves if you have them.”
“I have them.” He shuddered at the idea.
“Good. Close your eyes.”
He caught a glimpse of a needle and silk thread and obeyed. He braced himself for the bite of steel in flesh, but caught the odor of spirits first. The burning sensation on his cut made him long for the needle. Words not fit for a lady’s ears surged to his lips. He clenched his teeth, swallowed, wished he could smell that springtime aroma he’d caught from her hair earlier.
Then the needle came. The muscles on his back jerked in sympathy. His entire body tensed, and behind his closed lids, he saw a cloudy day, cold and
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