He wasn’t going to see a doctor.
“I can stitch it now.” Her offer was a challenge to prompt him to see a physician although she could attend to his wound.
He propped himself up on his elbows. “Are you serious?”
“I stitched dozens of cuts on dogs, cattle, and bulls. It’s not that different.” It was. Animals’ skin was thicker than humans’, but the technique was the same. She closed her bag. “But if you prefer seeing your physician, as you should, I understand.”
“No.” He tilted his head back, exposing his strong neck and bobbing Adam’s apple. “He would ask a thousand questions. Yes, do it.”
“You’re welcome. I love it when someone I’m trying to help gives me orders.”
He lifted his head just enough to stare at her. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to order you around.”
“Honestly.” She prepared everything she needed to stitch the cut. “I would appreciate a bit of respect and good manners.”
“Fair is fair. Apologies.” He swallowed. “Did you study at a college?”
“Women aren’t allowed to study veterinary medicine. We can study medicine in many universities and can become surgeons, but heaven forbid if we touch a cow.”
“That sounds unfair. Like many other things in life.” He sounded genuinely sorry.
“Thank you for understanding. People don’t usually react like you did when I tell them about my aspiration.”
He flushed and mumbled, “You’re welcome.”
Had she embarrassed him? “You aren’t used to praise.”
He gazed around. “Not exactly. Let’s say people don’t praise my understanding.”
His abdominal muscles tensed when she took out the needle and the thread.
“Is it going to hurt?” he asked.
“No. I’ll apply cocaine to your skin to numb it. You won’t feel anything.” She worked quickly, applying the cocaine first, then stitching the wound with the thinnest curved needle she had. “The scar shouldn’t be very visible, but you’ll have one.”
“Why are you so kind to me?” His tone of voice was the same as the one he’d used for Zeus—sweet, calm, and patient. He stared at her as if she were his guardian angel.
“Because I feel sorry for you.” And she wasn’t referring to the cut.
“Pity then.”
“Compassion. It’s different.” She finished the last tiny stitches. “You’re always so defensive. Why? Not everyone is your enemy. I certainly am not.”
He lay down again and blew out a breath as if he were exhausted. When he met her gaze, the tense lines on his face smoothed. “I’m going through a rather difficult moment.”
“May I ask what exactly?” She wiped the cut again.
“You know the story of my family.” The guarded tone was back.
“I know you lost everything and rebuilt your fortune. I grew up in the country. I came to London twice a year. I don’t know much about what happened here.” She wiped the excess of disinfectant with a clean cloth. “Tell me. Everything I know about your family comes from other people.”
He released a long breath through his teeth. Maybe the attitude was reluctance, but she suspected it was more about shame.
“My grandfather made a few bad investments, then some more bad investments in the attempt to repair the damage. He was a good man but with no sense of business or understanding of the market. He bled so much money he bankrupted my family. One of those investments dealt with an enemy of the crown, so he was almost accused of high treason on top of everything else. His title and life were at risk, and his coffers were empty. The shame and the pain were too much. He died of a seizure.”
She stopped wiping his skin. “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke but at the ceiling. Perhaps he felt more comfortable talking about himself that way.
