Perilous Pleasures by Jenny Brown

grew desperate. “T’aint no surgeon to be found here. Only old Landis, what sees to the cattle. And he’s off to the market today. Oh, the poor boy!” Her voice rose in a wail.
    â€œI’ve some skill at surgery,” Ramsay said. “Take me to him.”
    The woman examined his greatcoat and well-made boots with suspicion. Clearly he bore no resemblance to any medical man of her acquaintance, “We can pay but a shilling,” she whispered. “We bain’t not rich folk. But if you can save my sister’s boy—”
    â€œI need no payment.” He released her shoulder. Brusquely he said, “Wait here while I fetch my things.” He turned back toward the inn.
    Brushing past Zoe, who stood transfixed at the doorway, he said, “It sounds like a severe injury.” He pinned her with his steely gaze. “I’ve no choice but to leave you alone while I see to the child. Remain here. Don’t run from me again.”
    â€œAnd if I do?”
    He sighed. “The boy may be dying while we stand here squabbling.” His long ascetic face had gone pale, making the eyes seem brighter. Then, before she could react, he leaned over and brushed her forehead with his lips, resting them against her skin lightly and letting them linger.
    The skin burned where he’d touched her. Was he truly a wizard? The touch of his lips, even so chaste a touch as this, seemed to have torn away her ability to defy him. He needn’t worry that she might run away, when his kiss made her long for him to enfold her in his arms, though she knew that it was his devotion to his calling that shone in his face, not any love for her.
    She fell back from him with a soft gasp. “I’ll wait for you here,” she murmured. “I hope you can save him.”
    â€œI hope so, too.” His eyes met hers for another moment and filled her again with that mixture of joy and anguish that only he could provoke. Then he whipped around to rejoin the boy’s aunt, who stood wringing her hands in the middle of the street. Her last view as he vanished around a corner was of him striding alongside the cottar’s wife, his long legs taking one step for every two of hers.
    I t was late that afternoon when he came back. Zoe was seated by the window watching for him, when she saw him walking back toward the inn, alone. One look told her that it had not gone well. He walked slowly with his broad shoulders slumped. His hands were covered with dirt almost to the wrist, and the cuffs of his homespun shirt were streaked and stained with the same substance.
    She stood to greet him, but he brushed past her without a word, stopping only to hail a waiter and command him to bring a basin of water. When it arrived, he began scrubbing his hands, over and over again, for a good ten minutes, until she began to wonder if he would ever stop. It was only when she saw the water in the basin turn a darkish red that she realized what was on his hands. Blood. The boy’s blood.
    â€œWere you able to help him?”
    â€œNo.” His tone was bleak. “He’s dead. I didn’t have the power to heal him. He was eleven. His mother’s only son.”
    His eyes met hers just long enough for the look in them to tear at her heart.
    They were interrupted by the hostler. “Goody Mosely wishes a word with you, Your Lordship.”
    â€œGoody Mosely?”
    â€œThe boy’s mother.”
    â€œSend her away. She can have no further need of me.”
    But before the hostler could bar her, the woman pushed past him and ran to Lord Ramsay. She looked much like her sister, save for the look of dull despair in her reddened eyes. When she neared him, she held out a shilling piece toward him as if offering food to a wild animal.
    â€œKeep it,” he snapped. “I didn’t earn it.” He turned to escape the woman but at the last moment he stopped and after digging into his pocket pulled