“That explains the state of yer dress. But not the state of yer . . . emotions.” His brow furrowed, his mouth pulling into a frown. “Charlotte, did the doctor say something unkind tae ye?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I mean, no. The very opposite. He apologized, actually. But he . . .” Why had she ever thought she could explain this when she couldn’t make sense of it herself?

  “He apologized,” Tavish repeated slowly. “And that had you crying because . . . ?” His logic made her sound downright absurd.

  But the way Dr. Galloway had closed himself off had been hurtful. She’d confronted him with honesty and vulnerability, and he’d withdrawn like a clam, using the farce of an apology as his shell.

  It was worth at least trying to explain to Tavish—perhaps he could shed some light on the confounded man. Charlotte took a deep breath before she started in. “When we first met, I thought Dr. Galloway ill-mannered, but I didn’t believe his rudeness was personal. But now, having observed him . . . He keeps his distance from others, yes. But he can be polite and engaging when the circumstance requires it.”

  Tavish nodded. “That has been my experience.”

  Her thoughts unspooled slowly as she spoke them out loud. “Yet every time I walk into the room, it’s as if he puts on boxing gloves. As if I am to be viewed as an opponent of sorts.”

  Tavish steepled his fingers, his full attention on her. “And ye willingly join him in the ring.”

  “Well, I . . .” Charlotte wrinkled her nose, displeased with Tavish’s assessment of her. “It’s difficult not to defend myself when he’s determined to throw punches!”

  “I am not defending his behavior, Charlotte. And I do not claim tae be an expert on pugilism. But answer me this: when is a man most likely tae throw a punch?”

  She shook her head, puzzled. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  He leaned forward, his voice soft. “When he feels threatened.”

  Charlotte froze. Tavish was right. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Dr. Galloway felt threatened by her.

  Tavish frowned. “I know Dr. Galloway even less than ye, so I won’t hazard a guess as tae what it is about ye that makes the man so defensive.” He raised his head, his gaze piercing. “Do ye feel something for him, Charlotte?”

  That she hadn’t expected. She wanted to deny the possibility at once, but instead she found her thoughts drawn back to the doctor’s house, where she’d watched as he held the flailing pig to the bed.

  Because she’d asked him to.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was so quiet, it was possible Tavish hadn’t heard her response.

  The truth was she couldn’t feel anything for the doctor. She couldn’t. She was a future duchess with permanent ties to a title and its accompanying properties back in Scotland. He was a doctor with deep roots here in Pittsburgh. What had Mr. Magann said? That Dr. Galloway had turned down a teaching position in Philadelphia because he’d wanted to come back here? What was the point of even considering whether she felt anything for him or not?

  Tavish’s eyes held no judgment. He offered no insight into his own opinion on the matter. He was someone who observed carefully, thought deeply, and kept his views close. Which only made her want his advice more. “What should I do, Tavish?”

  “I cannae tell ye.” He swallowed. “I like the doctor. I think he’s a good man. But from the little I know, he’s been dealt a harder hand than most. He’s in pain. And sometimes people who are in pain lash out.” He looked down at his hands, then raised his head again and met her gaze. “I would not wish tae see ye hurt.”

  Her heart twisted. That was why Dr. Galloway’s dismissal this morning had wounded her so deeply. She’d seen glimpses of his pain and brokenness, and it went against her very nature not to somehow make it right. Not to ease pain where she saw it. “I’m not afraid of being hurt.”

  “I ken.” Tavish offered her a small smile, one that said he saw her and knew her, both her flaws and her strengths. “I suppose I’d offer ye just one piece of advice.”

  Now it was she who was sitting forward.

  “No matter what ye decide about Dr. Galloway, it doesn’t change the fact that ye have a big heart. One that could ease some of his suffering, though it will not be easy, especially if he is determined tae push ye away. And while ye may not understand boxing, ye do understand animals.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I believe when ye next approach him, ye should do so as ye would a wounded animal.”

  The rightness of Tavish’s counsel hit her square in the chest. As she considered his simple wisdom, the tension of her tightly wound emotions eased, and the pain in her heart receded. She didn’t have to decide how she felt about the doctor right now, or how he felt about her.

  All she needed to do, all she could do, was approach him with gentle restraint. “You are right. Of course you are. Thank you, Tavish.” She reached forward and put her arms around him. “I’m lucky to have a cousin with so much wisdom.”

  “And I’m lucky tae have a cousin with so much heart.” He returned her embrace despite the awkwardness of their positions.

  It was the growling of Charlotte’s stomach that drew them apart.

  “Did ye bring home some wild animal I’m not aware of?” he teased, straightening his coat.

  She smirked. “You know how I can be if I haven’t eaten.”

  “Yer tray should have been here by now.” He got to his feet. “I’ll go see what’s keeping it. But first, a homesick lass like yerself might want what was delivered in the post this morning.” He patted his pocket, a wide smile gentling the angles of his face.

  “From home?” She held out her hand, her fingers fluttering impatiently.

  He withdrew a letter from his pocket, placing it in her hands. “We’ve waited a long while tae hear from home, but its coming today somehow seems providential.”

  “It really does.” Excitement nearly had her crumpling the precious paper. “Did you receive one as well?”

  “Aye, one from my mother, and she forwarded a letter from the twins as well.”

  “It feels like ages since I’ve heard from them. I know you must go, and we’ve the theater tonight, but promise that tomorrow you’ll share every detail.”

  “I promise. Are ye sure ye’ll be all right?”

  “I will. I’m almost as anxious for a bath as I am for my breakfast.” She urged him toward the door. “Now, off with you. You have much to do, an important meeting to attend.”

  “On my way out, I’ll see that yer breakfast tray is sent up tae yer room.”

  “You are better to me than I deserve.” With a final brief hug, they parted ways.

  Charlotte practically raced up the stairs. She tore open the seal of the letter, tearing the paper a bit in the process, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. A page each from Father, Mother, and Iseabel. It felt like Christmastide.

  She began with Iseabel’s, anxious to see how her sister fared without her. The missive was full of anecdotes about the border collie pups and their antics and her sadness to part with them as they’d been given away one by one. Mother begged for details of Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, sent greetings from Aunt Olivia and Grandmother, and provided details about Iseabel’s progress with the harp. Father shared particulars about the lambing season and the newest foals and had penned out several verses of scripture. It felt strange to think of life at home continuing without her. She’d known things would change, but to imagine it, to read about it happening, still took her by surprise.

  Harriet appeared in her room a few minutes later, her face as dour as Charlotte had ever seen it. “With as late as you are, that blood on your dress had better be your own.”

  Charlotte was spared having to answer by a knock at the door. A maid bearing a large tray entered. “I’m sorry it took so long, Lady Rowand. We had a bit of a mix-up down in the kitchens.”

  She wouldn’t complain, considering the feast that had been brought. “If you’ll just set it on the table near the bed.”

  The maid obliged. “Is there anything else?”

  “A bath,” Harriet replied. “As quickly as it can be managed.”

  The maid nodded and curtsied. “I’ll see it done.”

  Charlotte’s stomach growled again, and she reached for a piece of sausage. Harriet moved the tray out of reach. “You are filthy! Not a single bite until you’ve bathed. Did I truly raise such a barbarian?” She continued grumbling about the state of Charlotte’s hair, her ruined dress, and her lack of propriety. “You shouldn’t be gadding about by yourself in such an unfamiliar place.”

  Despite the desperate state of her stomach, Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to mind Harriet’s overbearing ways. After some time with Tavish, the precious letters she’d received, and an earful of Harriet’s grumbling, she felt as near to home as she had in months.

  Harriet undid the buttons of Charlotte’s dress as an army of maids brought buckets to fill the copper hip tub a footman had delivered. When she climbed into the steaming water, her limbs relaxing in its warmth, Charlotte’s mind drifted to the advice Tavish had given her.

  When Charlotte was seven, her cat, Cleo, had swiped at a willow warbler and injured the bird’s delicate wing. Watching as the poor thing tried to fly, never getting more than a foot or two off the ground, had wreaked havoc on Charlotte’s girlish heart. But the warbler had been as wary of her as it had been of Cleo. Every time she’d managed to get close, the bird had evaded her. She’d tried to chase it, and when that hadn’t worked, to sneak up and pounce on it. All she’d wanted to do was help.

  At seven years old, patience had not been her forte.

  Father had found her an hour later, her eyes red from crying. “Ye can offer help, but ye cannot force it. Be patient, Charlotte lass.”

  She’d raised her tearstained face. “I’ve tried, Papa. I have. But the bird doesn’t want my help! And he’ll die out here without two good wings!”

  “Approach him slowly. Don’t frighten him. Take this.” He’d dropped a little beetle into her hands. “Let him come tae ye. If he’s going tae have a chance at being healed, it must be his choice.”

  Father had been right. With his coaching, Charlotte had approached the warbler slowly, minutes passing between each step. Her nerves had been so brittle they’d threatened to snap. But finally, finally the bird had wearied of her pursuit. She’d closed the last few inches and reached for it, holding out the beetle before gently scooping the bird into her hands.

  The memory was disheartening.

  Approaching Alec Galloway would take a great deal more patience. It wasn’t merely a broken wing he suffered from, but a broken heart.

  She slipped beneath the water, immersing herself completely. And she wished, not for the first time since she’d left home, that her father were here to hold her close, to set her worries aside, to assure her that things would all come right in the end.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alec woke to a soft grunting noise. Something wet pressed against his cheek. He threw out an arm and touched smooth, warm skin.

  Who was in his bed?

  Another grunt.

  His eyes flew open. The pig!

  He jerked back, fully awake now, and raised up on one elbow.

  The pig made no move to get up, only looked at him with wide, doleful eyes, blinking its long lashes. It was probably thirsty. Rays of afternoon sun burst across the bed. It must be nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, which meant Alec had slept nearly seven hours. He remembered cleaning up from the surgery, sitting on the edge of the bed, and pulling off his boots. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

  And sharing his bed with a pig, apparently.

  He sat up and lowered his feet to the ground. His throat felt like sandpaper. A drink. He and the pig both needed a drink. Alec put on his boots and went out to the well, his brain still addled from sleep as he drew a bucket of water. He took a long drink from the dipper, the cool liquid easing the rawness of his throat.

  He was covered in the grime of several days of nonstop work, leaving him feeling gritty and in need of a bath. But first, the pig. As he carried the bucket of water back to the house, his thoughts drifted through the morning’s events. How had Lady Rowand managed to convince him to operate on a pig? He was a doctor, a man who prided himself on logic and rationality.

  And there was nothing rational about what he’d done.

  He valued the known. He valued control. And yet in every interaction with Lady Rowand, she’d wrested both from his grasp. Panic began trickling through his chest. How long had Martin said she was planning to stay? Whatever the answer, it was too long. Alec truly feared the havoc she’d wreak in his life before returning to Scotland.

  His hand shook as he poured water into a small saucer for the pig to drink from. The animal lay on its side exactly where he’d left it. But how long before it tried to get up and pulled out its stitches? Why had he ever agreed to such a preposterous plan?

  The pig turned its head as he approached. “Easy now. Stay still, boy.” He brought the saucer to the pig’s mouth, propping up its head while the pig drank noisily. The water was gone in seconds. Alec refilled the saucer half a dozen times before the pig’s thirst was sated.

  Setting the saucer on the bedside table, he touched the pig’s belly, examining the stitches. Neat and straight. The splint was still in place, at least for now. Given its blood loss, the pig would likely not be strong enough to rise for a day or two.

  The pig nuzzled his hand, its breath warm against his skin. Alec pulled away. Infernal pig. “I’ll not be sharing my bed with you tonight,” he warned.

  Now he was talking to a pig.

  He crossed the room and examined himself in the mirror that hung on the far wall above the dressing table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so long. For once, his eyes didn’t look tired. His beard most certainly needed a trim, though that could wait another day or two. A good washing couldn’t.

  He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of the sleeves, placing the garment in the pile of shirts that needed laundering. He doused himself in water from the basin and grabbed a bar of soap, working up a lather. After rinsing away the soap he splashed water on his face, his skin tingling from the cold.

  A freshly laundered shirt waited in his bureau. He’d just slipped the starched linen over his head when a knock sounded. His thoughts went immediately to his black bag, determining which supplies were running low and what might need replenishing before he made house calls.

  At the door, he was surprised to find a boy of ten or twelve. His hair was coal black, his skin a warm brown. He had eyes that were too large for the angular planes of his face. “As promised, Dr. Galloway.” He held up a string of freshly caught fish.

  Alec’s mind cut back to a few weeks prior, in a small shanty with a woman and her half a dozen children, where he’d treated a crying toddler with a terrible case of croup. As he’d left, this boy had followed him, confessing that his mother didn’t have the means to pay for medicine. “But I’ll catch you a dozen fish, Doctor. That’s a promise.”

  Alec swallowed and took the proffered string of fish the boy’s family probably needed badly. “That’s a fine catch. And a promise kept.”

  Though Alec had not been nearly so scrawny, he saw much of himself in the boy. Eyes that were anxious to please, a determination to provide for his family no matter the cost. “What’s your name, young man?”

  The boy met his gaze. “Matthew.” He shifted, drawing Alec’s attention to his muddied feet. He wondered how much responsibility the boy shouldered at home. How many more hours he’d have to spend fishing in order to feed his own siblings.

  Alec held up the string of fish, admiring it. “I’ll tell you what. I’m a busy man. I’ve work waiting for me, and I haven’t the time to skin and cook these fish right now. If you’ll do it for me, I’ll take four in payment, and you can take the rest home to your family.”

  The boy shifted uncomfortably. “Four fish ain’t nearly enough for what you did for my sister, sir.”

  Something told Alec that Matthew would not accept charity. “You’re right.” Under the boy’s expectant gaze, he considered. “But in this heat, these fish won’t last long. Six of these fish, skinned and cooked, is more than fair. Do we have a deal?”

  Matthew stuck out a grimy hand. “Deal.”

  Alec shook it, then handed the line of fish back to the boy. “Think you can have them ready by six o’clock?”

  He grinned. “I’m a hand at skinnin’ fish. I’ll be done well afore that.”

  “Good,” Alec replied. “Because I’m already hungry.”

  * * *

  It had been an hour since Alec had sat down at his desk, and he’d barely managed fifteen minutes worth of work. Instead, his mind seemed determined to revisit every moment of this morning’s incident, from the fear he’d felt when he thought he might have injured Lady Rowand to his surprise at discovering she possessed such steadiness in the face of crisis.

  Not that a wounded pig could be labeled a crisis.

  He scooted back from the desk and found himself walking back to his bedroom to check on the pig. The creature was sleeping, no doubt exhausted from the trauma it had endured. Alec wondered who the pig belonged to . . . and how on earth he’d go about finding out.

  A vision of Lady Rowand murmuring soft words to the pig sparked to life, her soft, curling hair falling over one shoulder. What kind of woman rushed to the aid of an injured animal with no thought for her own safety and then assisted with the very surgery she’d ordered be performed?

  Alec had first believed her flighty and demanding, but while she didn’t hesitate to make demands, it was difficult to fault her for it when they were made on behalf of another creature.

  Especially when the woman was so convincing.