Grabbing his cane, he hobbled behind her, still favoring the injured foot, but stopped at the edge of the flooring.
“I’m to walk on this soft blanket? With a cane?”
She laughed. It was an honest laugh and it sounded like a siren’s call to him, luring his full attention. The sparkle in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks made her look so alive and no longer the bleak nurse he’d met in Virginia.
“No, no,” she murmured, trying to regain a straight face, an attempt he hoped she’d fail at. “My thoughts were, you put your damaged foot on the cushions but keep the other on the hard floor. Start with the cane on the hard floor, so your whole weight isn’t on the other, not until you get the feel of this.”
He raised his brow.
And so, it began. Now, he could stand and manage without the cane. But two days of working the stiff foot on the cushion had been hard. Painful. It had exhausted him.
“So, I think you’ve made great progress,” she decided from the sideline. “Today, let’s try it without the blankets.”
“With that surface, perhaps you’d like to be my support,” he prompted. The arch of his foot and ankle remained sore and that was with him leaning on the cane.
Her gaze narrowed. “You need to bend that foot as you walk. Heel to toe. The cushion gave you a leeway from that. Now, you need to do it. Look, I’ll give you my hand at first, but the exercise is to make that foot work, otherwise, you’ll be lame all your life.”
He growled but took her hand. Setting his heel down on the hardwood, the muscles in his foot stretched and he clenched his teeth. Her suggesting he’d be no better than a lame horse—and he knew the future there wasn’t good—drove him to push harder. As he took a step forward, he clenched his teeth when the foot bent. The muscles screamed it was too much, but he forced himself to ignore it. He’d be damned if he was shot dead due to lameness!
After five steps, she slipped her hand out of his grasp, leaving him freestanding. The freedom was uplifting, and he rejoiced, though it was still with trepidation that he took another step. Again, his foot was in agony. He gritted his teeth.
“How are we doing?”
Francois closed his eyes, French cusswords streaming through his mind, but he answered, “Good, I think. It still hard.”
“And it will for a bit, I’d imagine. That wound was damaging and their abuse of you added more to it.” She stepped closer, almost within grabbing distance, he thought. “That initially hit five or so weeks ago. The body takes time to heal.”
He nodded, his tongue lost for fear he’d issue an epitaph of swear words at her. Five steps later, he was at the end of the rug and struggled to turn around, losing his balance and in a frantic motion to try to stop his falling, he reached for her right as she came closer to help. Yet despite his desperate attempt to not fall, he stumbled, dragging her down with him in a thud on the floor.
Ada should have seen this coming. All hope that her experiment on retraining his injured foot came to a crashing halt, literally, as he turned to retrace his steps but lost his balance and tumbled forward, with her in his path. In a desperate attempt to stop his fall, and hers as well, she grabbed his arms but his hands grasped hers instead. She lost her footing as he tilted her backward and then tumbled to the floor, with him halfway across her, crumbling her crinoline dress. The contact with the floor with this man on top of her took her breath away and she gulped, blinking furiously.
From that awkward position, they looked into each other’s eyes. In that split second of time, she didn’t see a patient, or a prisoner of war, but a man. Handsome, alluring and dangerous, the type that made her blood race through her veins, a tingle that she couldn’t control. She should scream or struggle to push him away but a voice inside begged for him to hold her closer.
“Oh, ma chère, I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, releasing her hands and trying to steady himself.
The entire situation was a fiasco, and Ada couldn’t help but laugh. The doctor was pinned to the floor by the type of man she couldn’t stand, but considering everything, it wasn’t a surprise. She had pushed him to extend himself too fast, making her realize her plan to get him back in shape so she could rid herself of him had backfired marvelously.
He stopped halfway up, surprised. “I rather expected you’d demand I get off you immediately.”
She snorted, inhaling now with a good breath. “No, I think I’ve pushed you too hard.”
The door to the parlor swung wide open and James the butler stood, with another male servant with him. They raced into the room.
“Master Fontaine, Miss Lorrance, are you all right?” James asked as he and the other servant lifted Francois upright before he offered her his hand.
“Truly, we are fine, James. Thank you, though, for coming so quickly.” He was there in a flash, making her wonder if the servant hadn’t been watching through the doorway lock. She gave Francois a look, scanning him from head to toe for injuries.
“Are you hurt?”
The Frenchman smiled. “You, dear lady, are a saint. I’m no worse for wear, but you, are you all right?”
She stood, stretched her fingers and shifted on her feet, testing herself. “Thank you, I feel fine. Perhaps a little shaken, but overall, fine.”
“What a relief, ma’am. A man his size could easily have hurt you,” James inserted, handing her the shawl that had fallen off her shoulders. “I’ll have Mrs. Mooney prepare tea to revive you.”
Tea. She wanted to laugh. Only polite society would think of tea and,
