Chapter One
London, August of 1826
Doctor Ian McCullom narrowly dodged a messenger boy as he careened recklessly through the bustling walkway, heedless of those around him and bent only on earning an extra penny or two if he delivered his note with due haste. He shook his head and righted his beaver hat before resuming his pace. The early afternoon was surprisingly clear and crisp for an August day. The soot in the air was less cloying and summer’s heat loosened its grip upon London. The Season had wound down some weeks earlier, but, rather than retreat to their country estates as he’d hoped, the English elite seemed bent upon staying within the City for the time being…which placed them squarely within Ian’s jurisdiction. After the months of unending calls and social events, emergencies and overwrought alarmists, Ian had so been looking forward to a moment to catch his breath.
He paused at the edge of the narrow walkway and attempted to gauge when it might be safe to cross to his destination. It seemed as if the whole of London had taken to the break in the heat and the clarity of the air to fill the streets around him. Unfortunately, the scents of horseflesh and unwashed bodies smothered any hint of fresh air he might have hoped for during his outing. The cacophony of peddlers and coachmen, liveried tigers and roughly-dressed cart drivers all squawked for supremacy in the din which seemed to reverberate all the more thanks to the height of the fashionable buildings lining the street in their orderly rows of shops and cafes.
The door to the business behind him swung open and a wave of flour-scented air wafted into the street, momentarily masking the otherwise unpleasant odors. He knew the bakery well and sometimes sent his housekeeper there to purchase bread. The shop was the only one he’d found that could closely enough replicate the crusty bread of his youth and afford him that slight bit of nostalgic escape.
The brief reprieve on the air was all-too-quickly whisked away on the haunches of the next lathered steed which rumbled past.
As he continued to monitor the traffic and wait for an unlikely opening to cross, the lyrical tones of a woman behind him cut through the din like a songbird in a forest of crows. She must have been the patron who exited the bakery, as she was busy gently instructing her young, gangly footman to take care with the parcel of baked goods. Ian saw out of the corner of his eye a lavender skirt shot with iridescent threads as the woman finally came even with him. She stood slightly more than an arm’s distance away as she also seemed to be watching the bustle on the street—perhaps awaiting her driver or preparing to cross as he was.
Ian’s gaze sidelong traveled higher to take in the fashionable cut of her sleeves, the amethyst gems winking in her dainty earlobes, and the rich, inky curls caressing her ivory neck. He caught only a glimpse of her profile—a pert nose and daintily sculpted chin—as she glanced from side to side.
What little he saw was evidence of a pretty young woman; well-born and English in the way she dressed and the manner with which she held herself. As someone who was not of this heritage, Ian had spent a great deal of time examining such mannerisms to fit in and be better accepted within broader, more well-off social circles. No matter how the English liked to think themselves forward-thinking, there remained a decidedly prejudicial undercurrent when they were confronted with a man born and bred with the blood of the Scottish Highlands.
Just then, the young woman turned fully in his direction and Ian’s lungs forgot their duty. She initially looked past him with a pair of the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Rimmed with long, coal-colored lashes, her eyes were striking against the pale flesh of her cheeks and the contrasting darkness of her hair.
That captivating gaze flicked back over him like a butterfly and rested upon his face. Their eyes met and a spark jumped deep inside of Ian’s chest. It was a primal, irrational moment where the male in him recognized a desirable female. And by God, this woman was lovely…and utterly unattainable.
Still, their eyes inexplicably held.
Even as there was a shout from behind the woman, they remained frozen in that languorous moment…right up until another messenger boy burst through the crowd up the street, dodged between two affronted women, narrowly spun free of the grasp of a man who attempted to cuff the lad for his reckless behavior, and then knocked straight into the young woman in lavender.
Her eyes widened a moment before her lips parted in shock. Her arms swung in a wild windmill in a futile attempt to remain upright.
The messenger boy dashed onward and was once more swallowed by the crowd.
Ian watched as the woman tilted precariously forward and into the path of the traffic where she would undoubtedly be trampled and seriously injured—if not permanently maimed or killed.
Ian cursed and dropped the paper-wrapped parcel he’d been carrying as he lunged forward to snatch her wrist not a moment too soon. He yanked the woman back to the safety of the walkway, but their collective weight collided with the sizable frame of her footman. Together, they all tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful spectacle. The young woman yelped against his chest as he landed with a thud. His beaver hat tumbled from his head and rolled into the street. Ian watched with more than mild annoyance as it was quickly flattened beyond all recognition beneath the muddy hooves of a fruitmonger’s mule.
That damned hat had been expensive, too.
Looking down at the dark curls pressed against his chest, he took quick stock of himself and realized there were no immediate injuries other than a likely bruise to his arse. He heard the footman groan and shuffle to his feet before attempting to gather up his packages before they could be further damaged or snatched up by greedy fingers.
There were murmurs of spectators surrounding them and Ian knew they needed to stand and he had to unhand her before much more was made of the scene.
“Are you alright, miss? Are you injured?” he asked gently, his heart pounding in his chest. It had been a dangerously near miss. He gripped her upper arms in his hands and, though he could feel the fragility of the petite bones beneath his practiced fingers, there was a strength to her frame that was surprising. Her dark curls bounced as she nodded her head and turned to look up into his face.
“I—I believe so. Thank you, sir.”
Ian was struck once more by the color of her eyes. This close, however, he could see they were rimmed in the darkest of blues; the color of far-off mountains in the hazy early morning light.
“My lady!” the footman clad in black-and-yellow livery rushed over, abandoning his task of gathering up the parcels once he saw his employer sprawled on the ground in a pool of purple skirts. The lad’s fretting grew until the woman in Ian’s arms reassured him.
“I’m well, Thomas. Here; please take my hand and help me to my feet before people begin to believe I’m just another fixture to be trod upon.” The footman assisted her and Ian’s legs were free of her slight weight. “There now—oh!” She stumbled as she attempted to put weight upon her right ankle.
Ian saw her grimace and lurched to stand and catch her about her slim waist before she crumpled to the ground once more.
“It would appear that I’m not so well as I believed,” she laughed breathily, and Ian found her attempt at levity quite charming. His tongue felt suddenly too large for his mouth as she met his gaze once more.
“You’re clearly injured,” he said, forcing the words from his mouth. “Your ankle must be examined to be sure there is no break.” Ian gestured as he helped her stay upright. “I am a physician. My offices are just across the street two blocks away; please, allow me to make sure it is not serious.”
“I couldn’t impose,” the young woman began as she gave her head a little shake. A few more curls had come loose from her coiffure and fell to her temples to dance as she moved.
“Nonsense. It is no imposition at all. In fact, I insist we have a look at that ankle.” Ian leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Besides, we’re making much more of a scene just standing here. If we retreat to my offices, it will allow you to compose yourself in more privacy.” This seemed to speak to her rational side and she finally nodded in assent. She, too, must have felt the many pairs of eyes upon them as she was propped up in the middle of the walkway on a busy afternoon.
