Dominic looked up at the boy. “How long has she been like this?”
Tristan’s eyes were sad. “A few days. She ain’t eaten much neither.”
This woman didn’t need just a doctor. She needed a hospital, and quickly. Dominic didn’t hesitate. He slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back and lifted her with ease. She weighed next to nothing.
“I’m taking her to the hospital,” he announced.
“We can’t afford the hospital,” Tristan said quickly, hurrying after him. “We only have a few pennies.”
“You need not worry about that,” Dominic replied without looking back.
“What do you want, then?”
“Nothing.”
The woman mumbled a weak protest but made no real effort to stop him. In moments, they were back on the main street, weaving through pedestrians who now stared not at his scar, but at the woman cradled in his arms.
When they reached the hospital—a stout brick building with tall windows and polished brass lanterns—Tristan rushed ahead to open the door.
Dominic strode in. “This woman needs help!” he barked.
A young man with neatly combed blond hair and a sneer that could curdle cream stepped forward. “I’m afraid this is not a hospital for vagrants.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Did I ask for your opinion?” he demanded. “Furthermore, did I say I wouldn’t pay?”
The man blanched. “Well, no, but… look at her. She clearly?—”
“Prepare a bed,” Dominic ordered, stepping forward. “Now.”
“Sir, if I may?—”
“You may not.” He turned his full attention on the man, his voice commanding. “Get a doctor. Or I’ll see to it your position is replaced by morning.”
Another figure entered—a tall man with white hair and a long face. “Is there a problem here?”
Dominic shifted the woman’s weight in his arms. “My name is Lord Warwicke. This woman needs a doctor’s care.”
The older man nodded his understanding. “I am Doctor Langley. This way, my lord.”
Dominic followed, and Tristan remained close. The doctor pushed open a door, revealing a long hall lined on either side with narrow beds. Some were occupied, others empty, but all were curtained off in some fashion, offering only the illusion of privacy. The air was thick with the mingled scents that Dominic instantly recognized from his time on the battlefield—sickness.
Doctor Langley gestured to an unoccupied bed near the far wall. “Lay her there.”
Dominic stepped forward and lowered her onto the thin mattress, cradling her fragile form until her head rested against the pillow.
The doctor moved to the bedside, already inspecting her pallid skin, taking her wrist in hand to check her pulse. “How long has she been in this condition?”
Dominic glanced at Tristan, then back to Langley. “The boy said a few days. Perhaps longer. She hasn’t eaten much.”
As the words left his mouth, a wave of unease surged through him. His mind betrayed him, transporting him back to makeshift field hospitals with blood-slicked floors and theconstant scream of the wounded. He could smell the iron tang of blood again, hear the sharp report of distant gunfire and the ragged cries of dying men.
The doctor’s voice broke through the fog. “My lord? Are you all right?”
Dominic blinked, shaken from the memory. His hands had unconsciously curled into fists. “Yes,” he said stiffly, eyes refocusing on the present. “Quite.”
Doctor Langley studied him for a second longer, then returned to his patient. “Does the woman have a name?”
Dominic turned to Tristan, who had quietly taken a seat beside the bed, his small hands clasped in his lap. “What’s your mother’s name, Lad?”
