Still bent before him, her head tilted downward, concentrating on his ankle, she lifted the foot and examined the limb.
“Interesting. It’s not hot, nor is it very swollen. Does it hurt if I do this?” She turned the ball of his foot to one side.
A streak of pain shot up his ankle, mixed with his burning desire and anger, he bit out, “Yes.”
“And this?” She twisted it the other way.
He bit his inner lip. To be so thrown aside still hurt somewhere deep, perhaps close to his heart, or his groin, the emotion refusing to settle. It made him realize that his foot wasn’t throbbing that way. “Not as bad,” he gritted out.
She hummed as she reached for the chilled cloth and placed it on his ankle.
“Ouch! That’s cold!”
“Of course, it is. It’s cold outside. Now, be a good boy and let it work its magic.”
“I have other magic I’d rather see happen,” he snapped, as the biting cold seared his skin, before he realized what he’d said. “Magic like all this be gone, and I’m home with a good leg.”
On that, Ada laughed, her grin lighting up her face. Damn, she’s beautiful! That is, when she wasn’t torturing him so.
“You and every other soldier I’ve treated have had the same dream. It’s my goal to see you able to do so.” She pulled the now warming linen off his ankle and stood, returning it to the washstand.
“I suggest you sleep and tomorrow, we’ll start seeing if we can’t get you walking straight yet.” She turned to walk toward the door.
Francois stood, a move driven by the power of her smile, he almost forgot his injury, until his heel lowered to the floor. He grinded his teeth, trying to drown the squelch in his throat before it escaped but it didn’t matter. She whipped around.
“Whatever are you doing? I said good night.”
Fisting his hands at his sides in an attempt to gain his strength, he muttered, “Go to sleep isn’t a good night.” He hobbled over to her, looking like a rogue—or more like a shambles in his drawers—as he took her arm. “The least I could do is walk you to the door.”
She giggled again. “Now turning gallant on me? Please, I do not want you putting your progress back by such foolery.”
“I’m fine,” he promised.
They were at his door.
“Perhaps it would be wiser to let me out without my guardian in his drawers. I’d hate to have the maids tattle, or worse.”
He’d like her to be the ‘worse’ but he nodded. Leaning on the doorknob, he opened it.
“Good night, my lady.”
She gave him an odd look. Was it his Southern French drawl by chance? He couldn’t guess as she paused before him. She was so close to him, and her smile had coaxed his body to harden again, so the feral need seemed to consume him when it came to her, an emotion he wasn’t sure what to do with. Yet, it told his soul what to do and in response, he bent to give her a kiss.
She must’ve seen it coming, for she quickly turned her head so his lips touched her cheek.
“We are not acting husband and wife here,” she reminded him.
“No, we are cousins,” he replied.
She didn’t bite. “We don’t kiss, as cousins.”
They hadn’t really kissed anyway, he thought. “Awe, but we might be kissin’ cousins.” He gave her a wink and attempted to woo her with a smile.
He caught the twitch in her jaw and the widening of her eyes—both subtle moves but he saw them. But they were not how he hoped.
“Here in the North,” she shot back sharply. “We are not. Good night, sir.”
Chapter 21
“Thank God! We have a country at last, to live for, to pray for, and if need be, to die for!”
—Former US Congressman Lucius Quintus Lamar of Mississippi, on the formation of the Confederate States of America, 1861
Francois couldn’t decide if she was a miracle worker or just a smiling torturer.
“Don’t stop. You need to actually use it all the way or you’ll soon be unable to walk.”
He counted his breath, clamping his jaws shut. This was the start of the third day of this treatment and the agony building in every step, though he feared her prediction and that was what drove him.
After that attempt to get her to kiss him, he wasn’t sure why he wanted her lips near his. She had set up a new torture here in the library. She’d looked so pleased, he recalled, putting two stuffed quilts on the floor, over the Oriental rug. Having him sit in the chair, she had him remove the now shoddy boots he’d been wearing and then she rubbed the injured foot, slowly loosening the tension that had built as he hobbled. A stress-point reached up into his calf and thigh the longer he walked, even with the cane.
She smiled at him as she massaged the sole of his foot. “We need to work this foot in an attempt to get it working again.”
The kneading started to untangle his stiffness. “I could just sit here all day with you doing that.”
She glanced up at him. There was ice in those eyes at his remark. “Yes, well, you might have had a chance with one of the slaves you held, but not with me.” Abruptly, she stopped her hands and slowly stood. “Actually, what I need you to do is stand up and follow.”
Her tone had returned to doctor on that last statement. Inwardly, he sighed. She’d be a tough one to handle if things were different but he’d never jumped to her conclusion when he thought he was complimenting her on
