Mick began to suspect he understood her too well.
“Jesus,” he said at last. “What the hell do you think I am?”
She blinked at him. “A customer?”
He couldn’t hold back his whoop of laughter. “Look around, woman. Does this look like a whorehouse?”
The woman pulled herself up. She squinted around the dark, shabby room. Mick grimaced when he considered what she saw. There was the sagging bed she lay on, a chair and a bureau. The paper on the walls that might have had pink roses a decade ago. He had given up trying to thoroughly clean the place, though he kept it neat.
“Yes, from what I saw of that bordello, it does, rather,” she said timidly. “But from your manner, I- I appear to be mistaken. Oh. Good. Very good.” Her eyes rolled up, and the touch of pink in her cheeks drained away. She fell back on the bed in a faint.
Sat up too quickly, Mick supposed, and felt for her pulse in her neck. Strong and even. He stared down at the little whore for a moment. Strange to think that if she came from his village, her choice of profession would mean she’d cease to exist. Her picture would be turned to the wall, and no one would utter her name again. He hoped her people were more tolerant.
He sat back down to take off his other boot. After he washed his hands in the pot of perishing cold water, he examined the wound on her head. It still oozed. He gently felt it again. No sign that the skull had been injured. He’d have to give her stitches, though, and the gash on her shoulder did look nasty enough to leave a scar. He’d ask her about it when she came round again. For a moment he considered doing the stitches while she was out cold, but she’d probably appreciate knowing what he was about before he started.
English. She’d like a cup of tea, perhaps, but he wasn’t going to waste fuel until he was sure.
He carefully slid his arm under her and hoisted her close. And froze.
A waft of the woman’s scent hit him, and he just about swooned himself as he breathed in. Under the dust, the stench of the street and perspiration he smelled a complex fragrance of flowers, absurdly out-of-place in his back tenement. And in the mix, a sweet but musky scent he thought might be called sandaltwig. No, sandalwood.
He leaned closer and sniffed again. The flowers and sandalwood were overlaid with another impossibly delicate essence. A man could spend a day doing naught but breathing this in . . .
“
Sguir
,” he said aloud. Stop it.
Still holding her cradled against him with one arm, he reached for the dipper of clean water. No point in soaking the bed. He pushed the dipper toward her lips. When that didn’t rouse her, he dipped his fingers into the water and dribbled some down the side of her face.
“Wake up, then, miss. We got some work to do on you before we get you on your way.”
The cold water did the trick. She stirred and her eyes opened. For a moment, horror flashed into her face, but then as quickly disappeared.
Endth="1em">
“Hallo,” she said. “Now I remember. I saw you getting undressed and thought . . . Ah. Well. I do apologize. Now I understand you are not a customer or a boss. Thank heavens.”
He grinned. “That about sums me up.”
He peered into her eyes. Green, though not a true green, a rather mossy green speckled with gray. She looked back. Their gazes locked, and his breath caught in his suddenly tight throat. He grew entirely aware of her body leaning against his chest. Stop it, he warned himself, silent this time, and he loosened his grip on her.
Her eyes. Right. The pupils looked the same size. “You look better already I’d say. Can you tell me what year it is?”
“1882.”
“Good. The day of the week?”
“Wednesday?”
“Right. Have you done any vomiting?”
“No.”
Her interesting shape still rested against his arm. He lowered her to the bed and smiled reassuringly down at her.
“But listen, miss, you’re bleeding all over me bed. I’m thinking your head requires a stitch or two, and maybe your shoulder. I’ll do that and you can tell me about yourself to keep your mind off the stitches, all right then?”
He bent down and hauled out the medical kit stashed under the bed. He pulled it onto his lap and unbuckled the top.
She felt the top of her head gingerly as she watched. “You’ve got a strange bedside manner for a doctor. Not to mention a strange surgery, or rather, office.” She looked him up and down. “No, I do not believe you are a real doctor either.”
“I’m no boss, no customer, nor doctor. I’ve stitched up plenty of wounds though, on our farm. My father taught me and he learned from a doctor. D’ye want a real doctor? I can take you over to the hospital or I’ll go search for Dr. O’Toole.”
He sighed and put the kit back down on the warped floorboards. He looped his braces back onto his arms and started to fasten the top of his shirt.
“No,” she said suddenly. “I trust you. I believe you know what you’re about. I dislike doctors, actually, and would rather have you.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Mick, who was thoroughly knackered and did not want to jam his feet back in the boots and tramp the half mile, probably carrying the woman most of the way. He knew he wouldn’t simply dump her to wait alone, and the wait was always long.
He opened the bag and took out the needle, gut thread, and a bottle of spirits. “So, miss. What’s your name?”
She eyed the scissors he fetched from the bottom of the bag. “I should tell you, shouldn’t I? Very well. I am Miss Timona Calverson.” She paused a long moment. “Do you think you have to cut my hair?”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Calverson. I’m Michael McCann. I only have to cut a bit of it. Not the whole head of hair. Otherwise can’t see what I’m doing with the needle.”
“Oh, I see.” She reached up and pulled off her cap. About three feet of dark brown hair tumbled down, along with two hairpins.
Mick almost jumped back. “Aye, but that is a lot of hair.”
She pushed it back from her face. “I can’t bring myself to cut it, though it’s a difficult vanity to indulge whilst traveling.” She slowly leaned over and bent her head so he could see the cut. “Go on, Mr. McCann.”
“Thank you.”
He hadn’t noticed he’d spoken aloud. He spent enough time alone in the flat he tended to talk to keep himself company.
She twisted round to look over her shoulder at him, nervous. Couldn’t blame her. From the sound of it, she’d had quite an adventure, poor little whore.
He washed the wound, then briskly poured the spirits onto a clean cloth and lightly clapped the cloth to her head.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, miss. I’d offer you a spot of gin for the pain, but I believe you’re not supposed to drink when you have head wounds.”
Her mouth curled into something between a smile and a grimace. “I was merely surprised. Go ahead, do your worst and I shall hold steady.”
“I don’t doubt it, miss.”
He had her lie face down across his lap, as if she were a sewing project. That’s the way he dealt with most of his “patients.” Easier to work on the quiet woman than on the squirming dog that Paddy, a neighbor, had brought him the week before, but she was more distracting. With her astonishing hair down and spread across his lap and thighs he couldn’t help but get notions. The weight and warmth of her made it worse. And when he caught her scent again, he knew the notions weren’t going to abate.
Hell, he only hoped she didn’t notice his reaction. Just what a nervous woman recently roughed up by thugs did not need.
“I think only a few will do the trick,” he said.
She gave a soft yelp when he began. He stopped to give her back what he hoped she interpreted as a friendly pat. He grinned at his instinctive move; many of his patients liked a good back rub. The grin faded as he imagined stroking other parts of the delicate body sprawled across his lap.
Stop it.
He got back to work.
At the first stitch, he noticed her hand on the bed was clenched so tight he worried she’d hurt herself with her fingernails. He leaned over and shoved a bit of a blanket into her fist. “Squeeze this when it hurts.”
After a few minutes, he clipped off the final stitch. “Good then.” He sprinkled some powder on the wound, then reached down to her armpits and hauled her body sideways up and off him.
Perhaps he moved her too quickly for someone in her condition. But this one had to get out fast. He didn’t need her around, and God knew what Daisy would say if she found out.
“My shoulder isn’t bleeding as much now.” She sat up and tucked back her chin to examine herself. “But it hurts. And it looks dreadful. Ugh.”
True enough, the gap in the flesh should be closed. “Hell,” he muttered. He cleaned the needle, thread, scissors and wound with the spirits, then tried to position her on the bed. He knelt on the floor next to her, but he wasn’t used to working that way.
He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’ll, er, be best to do it the way I did your head.”
“I don’t mind,” she said brightly. “I expect I shall find it easier to breathe face up.” She gingerly pulled off the jacket, then unbuttoned the shirt and started to pull it off too.
“Good enough,” he yelped at the fascinating and unwelcome glimpse of her milky smooth skin. “Just the shoulder, eh?”
She gave him a small, odd grin and arranged herself across his thighs, scooting herself around on his legs more than was necessary. Even through the thick cloth of his trousers he felt the warmth of her brushing against his erection.
The sly smile of hers told him the little wretch knew what she was doing to him. She was enjoying herself, Mick thought crossly. Damn prostitute. He scowled down at her, but then felt sorry for it when he glanced at her face again. She watched him, distress in the odd eyes.
“I- I am sorry about causing all of this trouble, Mr. McCann,” she said as she stared up at him. “I appreciate all that you have done for me. And I shall leave as soon as I can.”
Maybe she wasn’t toying with him, then. It wasn’t her fault he was starved for a female. He avoided meeting her eyes, and studied her shoulder. He smiled to ease her worry.
“If you’re going to dress like a boy, Miss Calverson, I suppose I ought to accompany you. Just so’s you’re safe when your disguise is discovered.”
He leaned closer to look at the wound near the delicate line of her collarbone. When he made the mistake of glancing over at her face, he could see the gray-green eyes watched him. Her warm breath fanned the side of his face. His own breath came fast and unsteady.
She wasn’t the only one who needed distraction.
He cleared his throat. Again. “But will you tell me why are you dressed so odd, miss?”
“I needed some clothes because they left me with only a chemise. Annie, one of the girls, found these clothes in her closet. I suppose some of the customers liked girls dressed as boys, or perhaps just boys. Annie and I thought I’d be less conspicuous in them.”
“And where is this marvelous place you escaped from?”
“I don’t think I heard the name. I believe it is a few blocks from the river.” She groaned and closed her eyes. “The only thing I am certain of is that I do not know the area, and, oh, the day is a jumble.”
She flinched when he cleaned the wound, and then again when he put the first stitch on her shoulder. She gathered up a handful of the bedding to clutch again, but she didn’t move or cry out. A brave creature.
He finished another stitch. “You weren’t there long then?”
“A couple of hours at most,” she said.
“Which house were you in before they got you? Or were you on the street?”
“What do you mean? Oh, no, you think I’ve been a . . .” She snorted. “No, I did not come from another one of those houses, Mr. McCann. I dressed rather shabbily, which probably was a mistake. Perhaps I walked too far alone, another mistake. But the light was so wonderful and I was admiring the views when I was grabbed. I think they used chloroform on me. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a filthy bed in a filthy room with a man ripping at my dress.”
She drew in several deep breaths and he could feel her shudder, her first sign of distress. A moment later she continued, her tone ridiculously matter-of-fact again. “I acted queerly, and then I screamed. And when that didn’t help, I fought him.”
“Did you, now.” Mick meant the words merely to soothe her, but she must have thought he wanted an explanation.
“I used my knees. My brother, Griffin, has shown me ways to defend myself. I managed to hurt the man.”
Mick winced.
“He shouted about the dreadful things he planned to do to me. Then he limped out and locked the door. When he came back he was accompanied by another man and they had some rope. They told me that since I was difficult I would get plenty of what they called, ah, rougher customers.”
“I saw they intended to tie me to the bed. And that was when we started up the most absurd game of round and round the cobbler’s bench—they chased me around the bed. I shouted the same things I told you. That people would pay for my return and so on. They probably shouted too, but I was too agitated to listen.” She made a small noise, something like a laugh and said, “What a ridiculous scene.”