He was a doctor. Surely, he’d seen plenty of bare legs in his practice. And a leg was a leg, was it not? There was nothing for her to be nervous about. The fact that he was so very handsome and charming and currently pushing her dress up beyond where propriety would allow was irrelevant to the fact he was a doctor. He was merely doing his job.

So why was her heart racing at such an alarming rate?

She watched as he lifted her dress ever higher, until it practically revealed her nether regions. Blast. Why couldn’t Beeston have shot her lower down on her leg? Why did it have to be so very high? It was one thing for Dr. Pritchard to examine her and tend to her wound. He was old and unattractive and married. He’d delivered hundreds of babies. There was no need to feel modest before him. But Dr. Alcott…

“How many babies have you delivered?” Hannah blurted out before she could stop herself.

Dr. Alcott’s hands paused, resting on her thigh, near the wound. He looked up at her, his eyes piercing, causing her heart to race even faster than it had been before. At least if one was going to have an attack of the heart it was best to have one with a doctor present.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Babies. Have you delivered any?” Hannah was rather surprised at her own bluntness. She was normally one to beat about the bush or cushion her words with gentle phrases such as, “If you don’t mind sharing,” or “Pardon my candidness.” It seemed her mouth was running away with her today, and she couldn’t exactly explain why. Something about this man…

Dr. Alcott sat back and pulled his hands away from her leg. Oddly enough, this made Hannah even more nervous. She felt so exposed and was acutely aware of the slightly chilly air that breezed over her skin. Skin that should most certainly be covered in the presence of a man.

“Does it make any difference?” he asked.

“No,” Hannah answered, and then questioned why she was lying. “Yes,” she amended. “I mean…a little.”

A smile crossed his thin lips as he reached into his bag to retrieve a small bottle of something—a salve for her leg, perhaps.

“I was the only doctor in my small town in Cumberland, so yes, I have seen my share of babies into this world.” He narrowed his eyes on her. “Does that make you feel better?”

She thought it should have, but it didn’t. It was still unnerving to have him starting at her bare leg.

“Why did you leave Cumberland?” she asked, desperate to evade his question.

“Oh, I left years ago, when I was presented with the opportunity to apprentice with Dr. Pritchard. That, combined with my sister marrying a Londoner, brought me here.” He focused on the wound. “Is it sore to the touch?”

Hannah nodded.

“I will be as gentle as I can.”

Hannah sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed his hand against her wound. It was sore and uncomfortable, but she fought to maintain her composure. It was silly, really. She’d done the same with Dr. Pritchard. For some odd reason, she was afraid of offending them or hurting their feelings should she complain too much about their administrations being too painful to endure.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his tone low and genuine, reverberating through Hannah’s body, and taking away all thoughts of discomfort. “I know how painful that is.”

“You do?” She was intrigued. Had he suffered his own gunshot wound before? Perhaps a lesion from sword fighting? Was it over a woman?

“I do,” he said, placing a fresh bandage over her leg. “Dog bite.”

Well, that wasn’t terribly romantic as far as wounds went, but she was still curious as to how he’d come to the dog bite. “Your own dog?”

He shook his perfect head of dark hair. “A patient, actually.”

“You mean the dog of a patient.”

“No. I mean a patient.” His lips stretched over an expanse of lovely, white teeth, which twinkled almost as much as his dark eyes did. “My practice in Cumberland extended to animals as well.”

Hannah unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh. It came out as more of a snort. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to sober herself. “I don’t mean to laugh.”

“You needn’t apologize. It does seem preposterous to me, too. Thankfully, things have progressed since my departure. They have both a human doctor and an animal doctor in Ravenglass now.”

“Ravenglass?” That name sounded familiar. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“Perhaps you’re familiar with Marisdùn Castle,” he ventured.

That was it. “The haunted Marisdùn Castle?”

Dr. Alcott nodded. “The very one. Perhaps you can convince my sister to tell you of her own personal involvement with one of the ghosts there sometime.”

Hannah swallowed hard. It was quite presumptuous to infer she’d meet his sister one day. But it made her feel warm all over. “And what about you? Have you ever encountered a ghost?”

For the first time since he’d walked into her chamber, Dr. Alcott’s confidence seemed to waver. “Lady Beeston, I have seen death more times than I’d care to count. It would be odd if I hadn’t encountered a ghost.”

“That must be difficult. Seeing death so often, I mean.”

He shrugged. “Comes with the territory, I suppose. Though I much prefer the experimental side of medicine. Trying to save lives with new techniques and such.”

“Which is why you don’t agree with Dr. Pritchard’s regimen for me.”

A smile crossed his lips. “Did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to.”

He pulled her dress back down over her legs. Hannah had almost forgotten she was so exposed for a moment. “What do we do now?”

“Now…we walk.”

* * *

The look on Lady Beeston’s face spoke volumes in regard to how she felt about taking a walk. Dr. Pritchard had confined her to her bed all this time, but she was never going to get better if she didn’t exercise the leg.

“But my leg,” she stammered. “What if…what if…”

“What if what?” Graham pressed. “The only risk to your leg right now is weakness of the muscles. Soon, you won’t be able to use your leg at all, if you don’t start exercising it immediately.”

“Does Dr. Pritchard know about this?”

“I’m afraid Dr. Pritchard is overly concerned with other factors, such as over exertion, fever, infection. Things we needn’t worry about now. Your wound is healing as it should, if not quickly enough, and…” He placed a hand to her forehead. It was soft and lovely, and he had to fight the urge to run his fingers through her chestnut hair, dirty as it might have been. “Your temperature is completely normal.”

A slight smile broke out on her lips. They formed the most perfect Cupid’s bow on the top, and a plump little pout on the bottom. “Well, then. I suppose I’m ready for a walk.”

Graham was still reeling from seeing her lovely leg exposed to him for such an extended about of time. It wasn’t professional of him to have such thoughts about a patient, but blast if it wasn’t the most delicately rounded leg he’d ever seen. Never mind she hadn’t used it in weeks, or that it had a puckered, purple gun wound near the top of it—it was still lovely enough to set his blood racing through his veins.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” he managed. “Allow me to help you to your feet.”

She reached out a hand, which he took, while placing an arm around her slender waist. He hated to hear her wince—after six weeks, her recovery ought to be further along—but hopefully his methods would speed the healing more so than those of Dr. Pritchard.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in response to her groan as he lifted her to a standing position. “Breathe. Deeply. There’s no rush.”

“I’m seeing spots,” she said, wilting just a bit in his arms.

“It will be all right. I’m here. I have you.”