“This isn’t a Southern farm,” Ada sneered in a hush tone, incensed he’d ask for this, as if there were slaves available here for such a luxury.
He smiled. A smile that grew larger when Mrs. Turner replied.
“I’ll see if I can’t send some up directly. Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine.”
Ada could barely contain herself. Mrs. Fontaine? As he halfway directed her toward the stairs, using his other hand to manage the cane, she realized he was walking. It was slow and deliberate but it was a walk, not a jump or slide of the foot. Her anger kept her lips shut, for fear she’d blurt something vile at what he’d done, but her inner self had a dozen questions to ask him. That is, if she didn’t kill him first.
Like how had he gone from prostrate in bed, his foot swollen and ugly, to walking?
Francois felt the robe of intense anger wrapped around his physician as he guided her to the stairs. If she wasn’t a doctor, he’d wager she’d push him down that staircase in a second, but how else was he to explain his presence? Brother was highly doubtful. They looked nothing alike, and he came from a family where it was obvious who was related to whom, so his dark hair, high cheekbones and blue eyes held no counterpart to a slim, petite lady with dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes and a temper that blazed easily.
Besides, Mrs. Turner was somewhat suspicious of Ada, which was fairly obvious. She’d told him how she thought the world of Ada, for helping tend those ‘poor, wounded soldiers,’ though that was far from a ladylike course of action. Her tone, changing from praise to pettiness, had forced him to do the only thing he could to protect her and him, and that was claiming they were married. Now, he’d have some explaining to do. Wonder if he could do it without her throwing him out, or worse.
Thankfully, their room was at the top of the stairs, second to the right. As he pushed the door open, a task that was a little harder than he imagined, since he cradled that foot, balancing with the cane. But it swung open to the small sitting area that was adjacent to the bedroom. The discovery that she’d spent her nights curled on that small settee while he took the bed had angered him. Ladies should never have to give up comfort for men like him, he’d argued with himself. Yet, he knew he had no choice.
“All right now,” Ada exclaimed, stepping away from him to close the door and shed her cloak and gloves to the chair. “Let us get you into bed—”
“My, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a lady order me to bed,” he chortled, hobbling toward the mattress. The stairs had been grueling. His ankle and heel were sore.
“I’m not ordering you for any nefarious reasons,” she shot back. “I can tell you’re hurting. Probably pushed yourself too hard, to stand and walk.”
Wheeling slightly with the cane in aid, he climbed on the mattress, his feet swinging off the side of the bed. It’d taken the last of his reserved strength to get up here. He never understood why it had to be so high off the ground.
“I could no longer take being held hostage, as it were.”
“Hostage?” she asked in a painful voice. As if she held him there by gunpoint.
Perhaps that phrase was a bit harsh. Yet, that was how he felt. Stuck in the land of those people. He snorted softly. Those people was General Lee’s expression for the Yankees, something Wiggins had told him that made him laugh. Of all the times for that to pop into his head…
She didn’t even flinch at his laugh. Instead, she appeared entirely fixated on his injury as she lifted his foot up to the mattress. Her brows furrowed as she stared at his boot.
“I had wondered…” she murmured, inspecting his work.
Francois steeled his shoulders as she lifted the trouser leg to see the boot he’d managed to shove on hours earlier. Then, she turned his limb, causing a shot of pain to face up his leg. Contorting his face to prevent himself from yelling, he countered her move with, “That is still sore.”
She glanced up, a look of shock on her face, as if she’d forgotten he was awake. “I’m sorry. But we need to get this off.”
He swallowed hard. This was going to hurt.
She pulled the linen strip he had tied around his calf. “I’m amazed you did this. Where did you find the knife?”
How was he to tell her? He’d tried to stand and the only plausible way was to not have his heel hit the floor. So how was he to walk? Scanning the room for answers, he’d found his worn out boots. He now regretting not having the brogans most of the soldiers wore, but supplies were slim and when his pair fell apart, he switched to the boots, happy to have another set of footwear to wear.
“I had to borrow yours, because I’d never get that leg part around my foot.”
She gave him a narrow glance. “My knife? You rummaged through my medical bag for this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Horror hit her as she stared at the raw leather. “That is not a knife for common use. It is a surgical instrument.” She closed her eyes. Cutting through the boot no doubt dulled a tool that lives could depend on. In fact, operations like she’d done for his leg…She bit her bottom lip in pure frustration.
“I’ll replace it, if it’s that important. But I needed to get my foot into my boot, to test my theory, and I couldn’t even fathom attempting to do so with all
