Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels 2)

“I agree,” Dr. Gibson said. “Keep him steady while I attend to it.”

Rhys blinked his eyes open as he felt his upper garments being removed with a few strokes of a wickedly sharp blade. One thing was certain—the woman knew how to wield a knife. Glancing at her small, dispassionate face, he wondered about what it must have taken for her to earn a place for herself in a man’s profession.

“Holy hell,” Severin murmured, as the bruised flesh of Rhys’s back and shoulder became visible. “I hope saving that ragamuffin was worth it, Winterborne.”

“Of course it was,” Dr. Gibson said, having turned to rummage through a cabinet. “He saved the boy’s life. One never knows what a child might become someday.”

“In this case, definitely a criminal,” Severin said.

“Possibly,” the woman said, returning with a small glass filled with amber liquid. “But not definitely.” She handed the glass to Rhys. “Here you are, Mr. Winterborne.”

“What is it?” he asked warily, taking it in his good hand.

“Something to help you relax.”

Rhys took an experimental taste. “Whisky,” he said, surprised and grateful. A decent vintage at that. He downed it in a couple of swallows, and extended the glass for more. “It takes more than one to relax me,” he told her. At her skeptical glance, he explained, “Welsh.”

Dr. Gibson smiled reluctantly, her green eyes sparkling, and she went to pour another.

“I need to relax as well,” Severin told her.

She looked amused. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remain sober,” she replied, “as I shall require your assistance.” After retrieving the glass from Rhys and setting it aside, she slid a strong arm behind his back. “Mr. Winterborne, we’ll help you to lie down. Slowly, now. Mr. Severin, if you will lift his feet . . .”

Rhys eased to the leather surface, letting out a few curses in Welsh as his back settled on the table. Agony radiated through him in continuous spikes.

Dr. Gibson used her foot to depress a pedal several times in succession, raising the level of the table. She moved to his injured side. “Mr. Severin, please take a position on his other side. I will need you to reach an arm across him, and place your hand on the side of the ribcage to stabilize him. Yes, there.”

Severin grinned down at Rhys as he followed the doctor’s directions. “How do you feel about those Hammersmith shares now that you’re at my mercy?” he asked.

“Still want them,” Rhys managed to say.

“I doubt you’ll need this, Mr. Winterborne,” Dr. Gibson said, bringing a section of leather strap to his mouth, “but I’d advise it as a precaution.” Seeing Rhys’s hesitation, she said, “It’s clean. I never re-use supplies.”

Rhys took it between his teeth.

“Are you physically strong enough for this?” Severin asked Gibson doubtfully.

“Would you like to arm-wrestle?” she offered with such cool aplomb that Rhys let out a huff of amusement.

“No,” Severin said at once. “I can’t take the chance that you might win.”

The doctor smiled at him. “I doubt I would win, Mr. Severin. But I would at least make it difficult for you.” She took Rhys’s wrist in her right hand. With her other hand, she gripped beneath his upper arm. “Keep him steady,” she warned Severin. Slowly, smoothly, she exerted traction while pushing the arm upward and rotating it until the joint popped back into place.

Rhys made a sound of relief as the stabbing misery eased. Turning his head, he spat out the leather and drew in a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

“Right as rain,” the woman said in satisfaction, feeling the shoulder to make certain everything was in place.

“Well done,” Severin said. “You’re very clever, Dr. Gibson.”

“I prefer the word ‘competent,’” she said. “But thank you all the same.” Using the table’s foot pedal mechanism, she lowered the level of the table. “I apologize for the loss of your shirt and waistcoat,” she commented, reaching into a lower cabinet for a length of white cloth.

Rhys shook his head to indicate that it was of no importance.

“The shoulder will become increasingly sore and swollen over the next few days,” she continued, “but you must try to use your arm naturally in spite of the discomfort. Otherwise the muscles will weaken from disuse. For the rest of today, keep it supported in a sling and refrain from exertion.” After she helped him to sit upright, she expertly tied a sling around his neck and arm. “You may have difficulty sleeping for the next few nights: I’ll prescribe a tonic that will help. Take one spoonful at bedtime, no more.” She retrieved his coat and carefully draped it over his shoulders.

“I’ll step outside and wave down a hackney,” Severin said. “We can’t have Winterborne walking outside in all his bare-chested glory or the pavement will be cluttered with swooning females.”

As Severin left the room, Rhys awkwardly reached for his wallet, tucked in an inside pocket of his coat. “What is your fee?” he asked.

“A florin will be sufficient.”

The sum was half of the four shillings that Dr. Havelock, the staff physician at Winterborne’s, would have charged. Rhys fished out the coin and gave it to her. “You’re very competent, Dr. Gibson,” he said gravely.

She smiled, neither blushing nor denying the praise. He liked her, this proficient and unusual woman. Despite the obvious odds against her, he hoped she would succeed in her profession.