The Lass Wore Black (39 page)

She made it, and walked through the house to the front door with Dina on one side and Sarah on the other. Once out the front door, she stood on the top of the steps, looking down at the carriage.

Only ten more steps, and these were shallow. She could do this.

Mr. Johnstone got down from the driver’s perch and came to stand in front of her, bowing slightly. “Miss,” he said, surprising her by clamping his arm down on her uninjured shoulder. “You’re well, then?”

“I am,” she said, “thanks to you. I understand you got us here quickly.”

“I did what I could, miss. It’s glad I am to see you up and about.”

She was up but certainly wasn’t “about” at the moment. In fact, she felt as if she were going to fall over any second. Dina must’ve known, because she supported her around the shoulders, while Artis went ahead. Together, she and Mr. Johnstone opened the carriage door, lowered the steps, and moved aside.

No queen could have been treated more royally.

After Catriona was seated in the carriage, Sarah handed her a small twine-wrapped box.

“My sweet scones for a treat,” she said. “I know how you like them.”

What else had the woman discovered in the past weeks? That allowing people to help her made her grit her teeth? Or that she’d come to feel a fondness for her? Or that she rarely asked about Mark, for fear that she’d reveal something in her question?

She nodded, grateful for the veil that hid her emotions.

Surprisingly, the vehicle held little terror for her. Was it because she knew that Andrew had been imprisoned? Or simply because all the fear had been frightened from her?

“You needn’t sit that way,” she said to Dina. The older woman had angled herself so her back was to the window, blocking it. Artis had done the same on her side of the carriage.

She’d come to understand that terror existed mainly in the mind.

In the past weeks, whenever she closed her eyes she’d been able to relive those moments before the shooting, the feeling of regret she’d had, and the deep and bottomless sorrow.

Yet at the same time, she could recall Mark’s kisses, his gentle touch, and the twinkle of amusement in his eyes when he’d teased her.

Which memories did she want most?

The answer wasn’t even an answer, because it was rooted so deeply in her mind. When she indulged in recollections of the past, it wouldn’t be fear she remembered, but love.

T
he days passed, during which Catriona slept, recuperated, and slept some more.

Her meals were brought to her on a tray, but by Artis, not a certain footman. When she felt better, she left her bed and began a slow pace of her living quarters, sometimes sitting beside the window and watching the construction of the new carriage house.

Everyone treated her like a well-loved patient. If she wanted company, Aunt Dina came and sat with her. If she wanted something to read, one of the maids was sent to the book shop. Chocolate? Her whim was instantly gratified. Whatever she wanted was only as far away as a wish.

But instead of being content, she was miserable.

She wrote to her sister, planned a visit to Ballindair when the weather was warmer. She wanted to see Jean and her new niece. First, however, she’d have to force her envy down into a secret place where no one could see it.

She wasn’t recuperating as much as mourning. She didn’t grieve for her lost beauty; she’d already done that for months. This was different, a type of sadness that was always with her. When she woke, it was the first thing she felt. During the day, when she didn’t deliberately occupy herself in a task, it crept in and overwhelmed her. At night when she prayed to sleep, it crouched at the edge of her consciousness.

This was grief coupled with loneliness. Perhaps a future grief—for those things she could never have: a man to love her, who teased her and laughed at her, and made her heart stutter on seeing him.

A certain man who was as gloriously handsome as she was ugly. She never failed to appreciate that irony. In her days of beauty she would have shunned associating with an ugly man. Yet Mark had once offered her marriage. A sweet gesture, as well as an unexpected one, and something he no doubt regretted.

She would not remind him. She’d never see him again.

On the Monday of the third week she’d had enough. She lay in her bed and decided that she could still have a life that brought her happiness, as well as a sense of purpose, even if she was forever alone.

First, however, she would have to make some changes. Instead of remaining in her hermitage, the world was simply going to have to endure her presence in it. People could call her the Lass in Black or the Lass in Blue or the Veiled Lady, or Ugly Catriona. Let them say anything they wished, but she wasn’t going to hide any longer.

Another change—she wasn’t going to wear her veil in the house. Everyone had already seen her scars. They would just have to accustom themselves to what she looked like, beginning this morning.

She heard the soft knock, and instead of reaching for her veil, sat up in bed.

But it wasn’t Artis with her breakfast.

Mark stood at the doorway, holding a tray.

Her heart stopped, then madly began to race. She placed her hand against her chest to keep it inside her body.

“What are you doing here?”

The sheet had dropped to her waist, and she noted that he was looking at her chest.

“Have you come to examine me?” she asked. “I’m healing well, and Aunt Dina changes my bandages every morning.”

We don’t need you.

“You still require the services of a physician.”

“Not necessarily you,” she said.

“I agree.”

She frowned at him.

“However, I’m here, so it would be remiss of me not to check your wound.”

“It’s no longer a wound. It’s a scar.” Another one, but this scar didn’t bother her as much. Perhaps because it was a testament to being a survivor.

“I’ve come to make sure you eat,” he said, setting the tray on the edge of the bed.

“I’m eating. I’m eating well.”

“I’ve heard differently,” he said, coming around the end of the bed.

She scooted up until her back was against the headboard. “From whom?”

He didn’t answer, merely picked up her hand, his fingers against her wrist. Her pulse was racing; he must feel it. He smiled, dropped her wrist, and slowly unbuttoned the placket of her flannel nightgown. His gaze wasn’t on the buttons but her hair.

“I think your hair has grown lighter,” he said. “Do you always braid it like that?”

She nodded. Who was he to comment on the color of her hair, however she fashioned it? If he was going to be her physician, then let him examine her and be gone.

He parted the fabric wide enough that her shoulder was exposed. Gently, he fingered the edge of the bandage, then unwrapped it to examine the wound.

“You heal fast,” he said. “Good.”

She nodded again.

“Next week we’ll remove the bandage. Until then, be careful not to lift anything or otherwise strain yourself.”

Once more she nodded.

“You’re angry at me.”

“Angry? Why should I be angry at you, Dr. Thorburn?”

“There was an epidemic in Old Town. I couldn’t take the chance of spreading any disease to you,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have been here sooner.”

“As you see,” she said tightly, “I’ve been just fine without you.”

“Have you?”

Another nod.

He slowly buttoned her nightgown. “I haven’t,” he said.

She glanced at him, startled by his words.

“All my patients have noticed. ‘Are you feeling well, Dr. Thorburn?’ ‘Is anything amiss, Dr. Thorburn? You seem distracted.’ I am distracted,” he added. “My life hasn’t been the same since I met you.”

She didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased.

Bending down, he shocked her by scooping her up in his arms and depositing her in the middle of the bed. Before she could question him, he climbed in beside her.

She looked away, but he reached out, placed his fingers on her chin, and gently turned her to face him.

“I didn’t feel it was right to pounce on you when you were a patient in my house.”

“But it’s acceptable to pounce on me now?”

“I couldn’t wait any longer.”

He bent and kissed her. Despite all the warnings that suddenly bloomed in her mind, she sighed into his kiss, opened her mouth, and was lost.

Moments—or hours—later, she pulled back.

“My father was a doctor,” she said.

“I know.”

Startled, she looked at him.

“I knew him. He was one of my mentors when I was training.”

“Did you?” she asked. “I don’t remember you.”

“I don’t think you ever saw me,” he said. Reaching out, he pushed back a tendril of hair from her face. “I thought you were both the most exquisite beauty I’d ever seen and the most spoiled creature I’d ever met.”

“You did?” Was she supposed to apologize for the foolish, self-centered girl she’d been?

“I much prefer you as you are now.”

“Ugly?”

“I doubt you could ever truly be ugly, Catriona, although your character has leaned in that direction in the past.”

She frowned at him.

“Footman, have you come here to be annoying?” she asked.

“No, I’ve come to give you fair warning.”

“What kind of warning?” she asked, her eyes widening.

Had Andrew been set free?

“I’m going to marry you, Catriona Cameron, and we’re going to begin this courtship today. It’s been long enough.”

Astonished, she stared at him.

“You’re going to meet my family, such as they are. My grandfather will adore you. My mother already does. You’ll despise my father, and the emotion will probably be mutual, I’m sorry to say. My brothers are worthless, but I’m interested to know your opinion of both of them.”

She’d lost the power of speech.

“When all that is done and a proper time has passed—but not all that long, by the way—I’m going to marry you, take you back to my house, and stay in bed with you for a month. Or however long my patients allow us.”

He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles tenderly.

“That’s my warning.”

“I don’t want your pity, Mark,” she said.

His laughter startled her.

“Of all the people in the world I might pity, I think I’d label you last. You’re a fighter, Catriona, and one of the most stubborn, obstinate, and hard-headed people I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. You stand your ground regardless of where you are or what circumstance you’re facing.”

“I do?” she asked, her voice sounding distressingly faint.

He nodded.

Yet, for all his words, he deserved someone better, someone who had no ghosts in her past. Someone who had been chaste and sweet. Someone unlike her.

How could she bear to send him away? How could she live without him? For weeks now she’d told herself that she could, and all she had to do was see him again to prove that resolve foolish.

“But I truly can’t marry you,” she said, determined to be honest.

“Why not?” he asked, kissing her cheek. She pressed her fingers against his lips, wishing he wasn’t so kind, so honorable.

“I’ve made a great many mistakes in my life,” she said. “But between London and Andrew shooting me again, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.”

“That life is short?”

She shook her head. “That I have to make up for those mistakes. I have to be a better person.”

“You can’t be a better person married to me?”

She frowned at him again.

“I only care about who you are now. I like this Catriona. I admire you. I like talking to you. I like being with you.”

“Are you certain you’re not infatuated with the girl I was?” she asked. “Perhaps you see the memory of her instead of me.” She looked away. “She was beautiful.”

“I’m not infatuated,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s gone beyond that.” He cupped her cheek, gently turning her face. “I see your beauty, Catriona.”

For several long minutes he studied her scars, never once flinching. When the agony of inspection was finished, he smiled down into her face.

“I see your beauty,” he said again. “Perhaps one day you will, too.”

“I’m not a good person, Mark,” she said, shaking her head. “Not like you. I’ve been selfish and mean. I’ve hurt people and ridiculed them. I’ve been deliberately unkind. I’ve been shocking.”

She placed her fingers over her scars, wishing she were beautiful for him. He smiled at her, reached over, and peeled her hand away.

“I don’t like one of my patients,” he said. “She complains constantly. I think she’s vain and shallow. All her ailments are between her ears.”

He bent to kiss her temple.

“I could go the rest of my life without seeing my father again. He’s ruthlessly pompous.”

Her frown was having no effect on his smile.

“I put a frog in my tutor’s bed once and castor oil in my father’s port. He figured it out, eventually, but not before he had a fitful night.”

A strangled giggle escaped her.

“I confess to wishing I was paid more for all the work I do in Old Town, and there are times when mankind disgusts me.”

“All in all,” she said, “those flaws make you a better person.”

“While yours make you human. Neither of us is perfect. Together, we can help each other be better, don’t you think?”

“I don’t deserve you,” she said.

He pulled back and smiled at her.

“Pardon me, but where have you put Catriona Cameron? The woman who called me an irritating boor?”

“She was truly arrogant, was she not?”

He traced her bottom lip. “She was afraid,” he said. “Everything she knew as certain and sure had disappeared, and she was trying to find herself.”

She studied him. “You knew about Andrew,” she said, the thought having occurred to her after the shooting. “That’s why you set Mr. MacLean to follow me.”

“I didn’t know about him specifically,” he said. “I suspected the same person was responsible for both events.”

“You never said anything.”

“Would you have told me about Andrew if I had?”

She wasn’t entirely sure.