Marrying Winterborne

“Some people find that an ice bag or a mustard plaster helps,” she heard Dr. Gibson say quietly. “Or a massage of the neck muscles.”

Helen twitched with agitation as she felt Rhys’s hands settle on her exposed nape. “Oh not here—”

“Shhh.” His fingertips found places of excruciating soreness and began to knead gently. “Rest your forearms on the counter.”

“If someone should see—”

“They won’t. Relax.”

Although the circumstances were hardly what Helen would have considered relaxing, she obeyed weakly.

Rhys used his thumbs on the back of Helen’s neck, while his fingers pressed into the knotted tightness at the base of her skull. She lowered her head, as her muscles were coaxed and inexorably coerced into releasing their tension. His strong hands worked down her neck to her shoulders with sensitive variations of pressure, finding every tight place. She found herself taking deeper breaths, surrendering to the pleasure of his touch.

As Rhys continued to knead and probe, he spoke over her head to Dr. Gibson. “This orphan asylum you’re going to—have you been there before?”

“Yes, I try to go weekly. I visit a workhouse as well. Neither place can afford a doctor’s services, and the infirmaries are always full.”

“Where are they located?

“The workhouse is in Clerkenwell. The orphan asylum is a bit farther out, at Bishopsgate.”

“Those places aren’t safe for you to go unescorted.”

“I’m quite familiar with London, sir. I don’t take chances with my safety, and I carry a walking stick for self-defense.”

“What good is a walking stick?” Rhys asked skeptically.

“In my hands,” Dr. Gibson assured him, “it’s a dangerous weapon.”

“Is it weighted?”

“No, I can deliver three times as many blows with a lighter cane than with a heavier stick. At my fencing-master’s suggestion, I’ve carved notches at strategic points along the shaft to improve grip strength. He has taught me some effective techniques to fell an opponent with a cane.”

“You fence?” Helen asked, her head still down.

“I do, my lady. Fencing is an excellent sport for ladies—it develops strength, posture, and proper breathing.”

Helen liked the woman more and more. “I think you’re fascinating.”

Dr. Gibson responded with a surprised little laugh. “How nice you are. I’m afraid you’ve disappointed my expectations: I thought you would be snobbish, and instead you’re perfectly lovely.”

“Aye, she is,” Rhys said softly, his thumbs making circles on Helen’s neck.

To Helen’s amazement, the burning coals in her head were fading to blessed coolness: She could feel the searing agony retreating by the second. After another minute or two, she flattened her palms on the counter and pushed herself up, blinking.

“The pain is almost gone,” she said in wondering relief.

Carefully Rhys turned her to face him, his gaze traveling over her. He stroked back a blond tendril that dangled over her right eye. “Your color is better.”

“It’s extraordinary,” Helen said. “I felt so ghastly just a few minutes ago, and now . . .” A euphoric feeling had spread from head to toe, not only chasing away her former worries but also making it impossible for her to recapture them. How odd it was to know exactly what she should be anxious and unhappy about, but somehow not be able to feel anxious and unhappy. It was the effect of the medicine, of course. It wouldn’t last. For now, however, she was grateful for a reprieve.

She swayed slightly as she turned back to the other woman, and Rhys instantly slid a supportive arm around her. “Thank you, Dr. Gibson,” she said fervently. “I thought I was done for.”

“I assure you, it was no trouble,” Dr. Gibson said, her green eyes crinkling. She pushed the tin of neuralgic powders across the counter. “Take another of these in twelve hours if necessary. Never more than twice a day.”

Rhys picked up the tin and scrutinized it before tucking it into his coat pocket.

“From now on,” Helen told Dr. Gibson, “I will send for you whenever I need a doctor”—she paused and gestured to the curved-handle walking stick hooked over the edge of the counter—“or a bodyguard.”

The other woman laughed. “Please don’t hesitate. At the risk of being presumptuous, you’re welcome to send for me if you need a friend, for any reason.”

“I will,” Helen exclaimed cheerfully. “Yes, you are my friend. Let’s meet at a teashop—I’ve always wanted to do that. Without my sisters, I mean. Goodness, my mouth is dry.” Although she wasn’t aware of moving, she found her arms around Rhys’s neck, her body listing heavily against his. Warm flushes kept rising through her like sunlight. “May I have some more lime water?” she asked him. “I like the way it sparkles in my mouth. Like fairies dancing on my tongue.”

“Aye, sweetheart.” His voice was reassuring and pleasant, even as he sent Dr. Gibson a narrow-eyed glance. “What else was in that powder?”

“She’ll be much steadier in a few minutes,” the other woman assured him. “There’s usually an initial sensation of giddiness as the medication enters the bloodstream.”

“I can see that.” Keeping one arm around Helen, Rhys took the open bottle from the stand and gave it to Helen. “Easy now, cariad.”

“I like drinking out of bottles.” Helen took a long, satisfying draught of lime water. “I’m good at it now. Watch this.” She drank again to show him, and his hand closed around the bottle, gently taking it from her.