A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(47)

“The doctors bled me more, dosed me with emetics and purgatives. After that, I refused my meals, took to hiding in the cupboards. They called the doctors back again, and again. When I fought them, they decided I suffered from hysteria. My treatments increased. Two footmen would restrain me, so the doctor could take yet more blood, dose me with more poison. They would bind me in blankets until I was drenched with sweat, and then force me to bathe in ice-cold water.”

The painful memories rushed in on her, but they weren’t as difficult to voice as she’d thought they’d be. After all this time, the words just flowed out of her, as if—

Oh, now there was an ironic thought.

As if she’d opened a vein.

“They . . .” She swallowed hard. “They shaved off all my hair and applied leeches to my scalp.”

“Oh God.” Guilt twisted his features. “The other day on the green, when I threatened to cut your hair . . .”

“No. Bram, please don’t feel that way. You didn’t know. How could you?”

He sighed. “Just tell me everything now.”

“I’ve told the worst of it, truly. Just one vile, useless treatment after another. In the end, I was so weakened by it all, I truly took ill.”

Frowning intently, he smoothed the hair from her brow. His eyes were the angry green of tempest-swept seas.

“You look so grieved,” she said.

“I am.”

Her heart pinched. Truly? Why would he care about the medical travails of a spinster, years upon years in the past? Surely war had shown him much worse. It had done far worse to him. And yet, something in his serious, battle-ready expression told her he did care. That if it were in any way humanly possible, he would go back in time and impale those surgeons on their own bloody lancets.

She could love him. God help her, she could love him for that alone.

“It’s all right now. I did survive.” She gave him a smile tipped with self-effacing humor, to keep the tale from growing too maudlin. Or perhaps to keep herself from bursting into grateful tears.

“That obstinate streak was to thank, I imagine. No doubt you simply refused to die.”

“Something like that. I don’t remember much of the illness, mercifully. I grew so weak, they sent an express to my father, thinking my time was near. He arrived, took one look at me, bundled me up in his cloak, and had me out of that house within the hour. He was furious.”

“I can believe it. I’m furious now.”

Blinking a moist sheen from her eyes, she cast a glance around the room. “That’s when we moved here, to Summerfield. He bought the place so I could convalesce by the sea. Slowly, I recovered. I didn’t need doctors or surgeons. Just nourishing food and fresh air. Once I was well enough, exercise.”

“So,” he said thoughtfully, running his thumb over her scars, “these are why . . .”

“Yes. They’re why.”

He didn’t ask for further explanation, but she gave it anyway.

“You see, my father did eventually take me to London for my presentation at Court. And just as my cousins had predicted, I didn’t fit in. But while I was standing at the edges of those elegant ballrooms, I realized there were others like me. Girls who, for one reason or another, didn’t square with expectations. Who were in danger of being sent to some dreadful spa to take a ‘cure’ they didn’t need. I began inviting them here for the summer. Just a few friends at first, but the number has grown each year. Mrs. Nichols is glad for the steady custom at the inn.”

“And you turned your own talents to healing.”

“I take after my father, I suppose. He’s an inventor. All those surgeons’ failed experiments made me curious to find better methods.”

Again, he traced his fingertips over the crosshatch of scars. So many of them, from the razor-thin, superficial lines to the thick, gnarled evidence of a formidable fleam—a wooden implement nearly as thick as her wrist. She still shuddered to recall it.

“Damned butchers,” he muttered. “I’ve seen veterinarians tap horses’ arteries with less injury incurred.”

“The marks would have been fainter if I’d struggled less. Do they . . .” She resisted the urge to look away. “Do they disgust you?”

In response, he pressed a kiss to her scarred wrist. Then another. Emotion swelled in her breast.

“Do you think me weaker for them?” she asked.

He cursed in denial. “These have nothing to do with weakness, Susanna. They’re only proof of your strength.”

“Well. I don’t think you weaker for your scars, either.” She stared deep into his eyes, willing him to absorb the meaning of her words. “No one would.”

“It’s not the same,” he argued, shaking his head. “It’s not the same. Your wounds can be hidden. They don’t cause you to limp, or fall, or lag behind those you’re meant to lead.”

Perhaps not. But she was only just beginning to understand, her scars had held her back in different ways. She’d been afraid, for so long, to come this close to a man. To let the gloves come off, and take the chance of being hurt again.

“There are differences, to be sure,” she whispered, drawing him down. “But I do know how it feels to fight a long, slow recovery. To feel confined in your own body, so frustrated with its limitations. And I know what it is to crave closeness, Bram. You don’t have to attack me every time you wish to be touched. To be held.”