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Dulcie's Gift. Ruth Langan
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“I’m not suggesting we turn them out in the cold.” Cal sampled the corn bread and thought again how he’d missed such simple pleasures when he’d been away at war. So many things had been taken for granted until they were gone. A bed. Dry clothes. Corn bread warm from the oven. “At least not now,” he added. “But as soon as the injured are well enough to travel, I want them returned to Charleston.” The sooner the better, he thought, and felt a little flush of displeasure at the image that had come, unbidden, to mind. The image of a body pressed to his, lips buried against his throat, lashes whispering across his heated skin. Abruptly he lost his appetite and shoved aside his plate.
“You will see to them, won’t you, Calhoun?” His aunt placed a hand over his.
At once she felt him pull back.
He had been this way since his return from the battlefield. Cold. Withdrawn. As though he could prove that he needed no sympathy for his loss. No comfort for his pain.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, at the pleading look in her eyes.
“I’ll be happy to take them back to Charleston when they’re ready,” Barc said with a smile.
“It will give you an excuse to try your hand at the cards again,” Dar muttered.
“How soon do you think they can travel?” Aunt Bessie asked.
Cal shrugged. “A week or so, I should think. The child doesn’t seem as badly hurt as the woman.”
He stood, eager to keep his promise to his aunt so he could escape to the fields. His impatience wasn’t lost on the others. Ever since their return from the war, each brother had taken refuge in his own way. The reclusive Dar had his precious books. Outgoing Barc had his whiskey and gambling. And Cal, angry and embittered, lost himself in the mind-numbing, physical demands of farming.
“Is there some potion or poultice Robert could prepare?” Aunt Bessie asked.
Cal shook his head. “There isn’t any medicine that will erase a blow to the head.”
“Well, I know you’ll do the best you can,” his aunt said solemnly.
Cal was already striding from the room and up the stairs.
As he entered the Irishwoman’s room, he nearly collided with Dulcie. Instinctively his hand shot out to steady her.
The rush of feelings was the same. He felt the heat first and then the tiny current that seemed to pass from her to him and back again. He released her at once and took a step back.
It was obvious that her crimson satin gown had once been considered the height of fashion. Now one sleeve was torn, and the cuffs were frayed beyond repair.
Over her gown she had tied a simple white apron, which only served to emphasize her tiny waist.
But it was her face that held his gaze. Scrubbed clean of mud, her skin was flawless and as pale as alabaster. Burnished dark hair, brushed until it gleamed, fell in silky waves to below her waist. The striking green eyes were wide with surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I promised my aunt I would look to our injured guests.” He emphasized the word “guests” as he moved past Dulcie.
She stood with hands on hips, looking as if she would block his entrance. “Why?”
“I know a little about healing.” He sat on the edge of the bed and touched a hand to Fiona’s head, then gently lifted each eyelid, frowning as he studied her pupils.
Dulcie watched him, feeling a growing sense of panic. Of all the people in this house, why did it have to be this gruff, angry man who’d been sent to look after Fiona?
Well, this was his house. He had permitted them refuge from the storm. She had no right to interfere.
Nevertheless, she persisted. “Are you a doctor, Mr. Jermain?”
He shot her a quelling look. “I am a farmer, Miss Trenton. A simple farmer.”
When he returned his attentions to Fiona, Dulcie clenched her hands at her sides. A farmer maybe. But simple? Never. There was so much anger in this complex man, so much hostility, it fairly burned to burst free.
“Miss O’Neil.” Cal spoke sharply to the still figure in the bed. “Can you hear me, Miss O’Neil?”
Acting as a buffer between her friend and this stern stranger, Dulcie moved to the other side of the bed and reached out to clasp Fiona’s hand. “Oh, Fiona,” she whispered, “please, please hear me.”
“You must speak in a normal tone, Miss Trenton.”
Dulcie eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because your friend is in a deep sleep. You must find a way to penetrate the layers of pain. Each time you visit her bedside, you must attempt to engage her in conversation. Talk about things you both know. Things you’ve shared. Call to her. Invite her to reach out to you.”
She stared down at her friend, as if willing the young woman her strength. “Yes. All right.”
“Now, about those marks on her back…”
Dulcie’s head came up sharply, and he could see her closing up before his eyes.
“It is obvious that not all of them were caused by the fall in the boat. How did she come by the others?”
“I have no right to violate her privacy. You will have to ask her when she awakes.”
“I am asking you, Miss Trenton.”
Dulcie gritted her teeth and held her silence.
“Very well.” Cal stood and walked out of the room.
She released Fiona’s hand and raced after him as he crossed the hallway to another bedroom. “Clara is sleeping. I would rather you not disturb…”
Ignoring her, he stepped into the room and approached the bedside where the little girl lay. From the doorway Dulcie watched as he lifted the child’s hand and examined her injured arm. After applying a clean dressing, he felt her forehead, then gently rolled the sleeping child onto her stomach and ran his fingers along her spine. When at last he tucked the blankets around the little girl’s shoulders and turned away, Dulcie confronted him.
“You call yourself a simple farmer, Mr. Jermain, yet your actions say otherwise. I do not believe you.”
“Then we are even, Miss Trenton.” He pinned her with his dark, penetrating look. “For when you say you did not see the storm approaching, I do not believe you.”
Struck speechless, she could only stare after him as he moved around her and stalked away.
As Dulcie stepped into Starlight’s room, where the others had gathered, she was pleasantly surprised. The young woman had supervised sponge baths for everyone, and all stood, neatly dressed, hair combed.
But despite their spotless appearance, they wore identical frowns of concern.
“You look splendid. But please, tell me what’s wrong,” Dulcie coaxed.
“We’re afraid,” Starlight explained. “The Jermains are such stern people. It’s obvious they don’t like having us here.” She clutched Dulcie’s arm. “Oh, Dulcie. What if they send us back today?”
Dulcie swallowed. She’d been asking herself the same question.
“I don’t believe they will send us away until Fiona and Clara are capable of making the journey back to Charleston. So for a few days they will tolerate our presence on their island. And perhaps we can find a way to remain a little longer.”
“But how?” Starlight asked.
Dulcie glanced around at