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Not fooled by her reluctance to commit chicken murder, he took the sack as if it were his most prized possession—which, to be honest, at the moment, it truly was. “As you wish.”
“How will you . . .” She waved her hand in his direction. “You know.”
“Wring its neck. I’ll be quick, I promise. The chicken will be making the greatest sacrifice for king and country.”
“I doubt the chicken will see it that way.”
At that, he did laugh. And it felt wonderful. “On that much, we agree.”
* * *
Priscilla remainedin the small parlor when Timothy—no longerugh—returned to the kitchen. She had no desire to witness the demise of the poor chicken, even though she eagerly anticipated devouring it later.
After some squawking and a few shouted curses from Timothy, silence followed, and Priscilla said a small prayer for the chicken’s soul. Did they have souls?
She’d never given much thought to where the food placed before her at each meal had actually come from. Of course, she knew the lamb, beef, and—yes—chickens had been living creatures at one time, but until that moment, she’d never associated the two. She worried the chicken’s pathetic appeal for mercy as Timothy wrung the life from the poor creature might forever taint her appetite.
Her stomach twisted and rumbled, reminding her it was a matter of survival. Hadn’t the chicken committed the same act upon unsuspecting worms—or whatever chickens ate? Her knowledge of such matters was decidedly limited.
Might that change once she married Abner Netherborne? Would her life with a lowly curate entail tending chickens and geese, digging in the dirt of a garden to produce enough vegetables for their table? There would be no balls and fancy gowns, for certain. Her future appeared bleak and dull, nothing as exciting as being trapped during a snowstorm with a handsome doctor.
Handsome?
Well, in fairness, he was most attractive. Especially when his green eyes flashed with fire. She’d never so much as witnessed a hint of a spark in Abner Netherborne’s eyes when he gazed at her.
She spread her cloak before the blazing fire and held out her hands to warm them. Sounds of chopping from the kitchen kept her rooted in place in the parlor. She had no desire to observe the dismemberment and vivisection of her impending meal.
Darkness poured from the windows. Since Timothy had moved the candles into the kitchen while he worked, the fire in the hearth provided the only light. Rather than an eerie atmosphere, she found the effect rather romantic.
As if reading her mind, Timothy emerged carrying some type of iron stand. “Because of the scarcity of firewood, I thought it best not to use what precious little we have to set a fire in the oven. We can cook here at the hearth. I’ll need your assistance to assemble it.”
With his instruction, she helped put together the stand while Timothy returned to the kitchen to retrieve a round pot, which he hung from the stand over the open flame.
“Now,” he said, “while our supper cooks, allow me to treat your scratches. I should have done so immediately, but my empty stomach seemed to cloud my judgment. I apologize for my selfishness.”
After fetching his bag, he wet a cloth with a liquid from a flask. Next, he took a seat on the small sofa and patted the cushion next to him. “If you would.”
Was it actually possible she’d forgotten about the injuries the chicken had inflicted? She yearned for a mirror to assess the damage.
She raised her hand to her face. “How bad are they?”
He hesitated a moment, and her chest constricted. Yes, she would seek out a mirror to see for herself.
“They appear superficial. I’m sure they’ll heal with time and not leave any scars.”
“Scars!” Panic slid up her spine, and her limbs became as numb and cold as they’d been after trudging in the snow.
“To prevent such an occurrence, it would be best if you allow me to tend them.” He patted the cushion again.
She supposed she had little choice. And he said he was a doctor. She strode to the sofa, taking a seat next to him. “So, Dr. Marbry, how long have you been a physician? Did you serve as one in the military?” Not that she doubted his veracity, but why would the son of a viscount choose to become a physician?
She recalled reading something in the scandal sheets about his father’s debt and the fiasco with his sister Beatrix, Lord Middlebury, and Lord Montgomery. Still, she had no desire to reveal her identity, so she played the innocent.
He dabbed at her face with the cloth. It stung at first, and heshushedher, his tone and his touch both surprisingly gentle. “Only as an assistant to the regimental doctor. I sold my commission approximately two years ago to pursue medicine. I’ve recently passed my exams. So, you’re my first official patient.”
She jerked back. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” She gazed into his annoyingly beautiful eyes, reminding herself she was, but for all intents and purposes, an engaged woman.
“I think I can manage a few minor scratches.”
