Just a second too slow, her hands grasped empty air as the porcelain vase crashed to the floor, splintering into a multitude of razor-sharp fragments.
Her stomach pitched and dropped, horror freezing in her chest. She heard Dr. Cole take a step forward and her head snapped up, one arm rising reflexively to shield her face, half expecting him to land a backhanded blow. Experience had taught her that even a man who seemed kind could be driven to fits of temper. But there was no blow. The doctor stood over her, his expression calm and mildly expectant.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, crouching beside the ruined porcelain, grasping the pieces frantically, with only a fraction of the attention the task required.
“Leave it,” he commanded, even as a sharp sliver sliced into the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb.
Blood welled from the wound, dripping into the puddle of water that pooled on the marble tile. She stared in horrified fascination, mesmerized by the eddy of dark red that crept in an ever widening pattern, becoming paler and paler as it mixed with the water covering the floor.
Soundlessly, he came to her, circled her wrist and drew her damaged hand upward. She offered no resistance as he pressed a white handkerchief against the wound. Blood welled from the cut, staining the pristine fabric with a dark blotch. Unbidden, Mary's words about the bloody handkerchief she had found in his study and the macabre suspicions she harbored seeped into Darcie's thoughts.
She pushed the memory aside. Her situation was tenuous enough without adding Mary's suppositions and fears to her load.
“Here. Press firmly against the cut.” Pulling her gently to her feet, Dr. Cole drew Darcie's free hand from her side and positioned her fingers so she could do as he instructed. With one hand cupping her elbow, he guided her toward the stairs. Stunned, unable to assimilate the events of the morning, she allowed him to lead her, a sleepwalker directed by his touch.
On an afterthought, Dr. Cole paused, speaking over his shoulder without turning. “Poole, see to the mess,” he said brusquely. “And see that we are not disturbed.”
o0o
Darcie was alone in Dr. Cole’s study, edgy and uncertain, her thoughts in turmoil. He had excused himself to fetch bandages from his surgery on the main floor of the house, leaving Darcie to her own devices. Sinking into a leather chair in front of the doctor’s desk, she found her eyes drawn to the gilt-framed miniature that sat in a place of honor. She wondered again who the woman was—obviously someone greatly beloved by Damien Cole. At the thought, a strange spasm in the region of her heart pricked her and brought the unwelcome sting of tears to her eyes. She pressed her fingers against the cloth she held to her wound, blinking against the tears that clung to her lashes. Clearly she was overwrought. What other explanation could there be for her reaction to the sight of the portrait?
Her attention shifted away from the picture, back to the sketchbook that had brought her to this pass. It lay on the desk, the pages open to the very drawing she had tampered with. The soft snick of the door closing behind her alerted her to Dr. Cole's return.
He moved to her side, his warm hands gentle as he dressed the cut on her hand, wrapping it in fresh gauze and tying off the bandage with a small neat knot. “Not as deep as I first thought,” he observed. “The bleeding has already stopped.”
She realized that her hand still rested in his.
“Thank you,” she said, and pulled her hand free. She made to rise, but he rested his open palm on her shoulder, holding her in place.
“You are welcome.” Reaching across the desk, he drew the sketchbook closer, turning it so they both had a clear view of Darcie’s drawing.
“Can you do this again?” He pulled a chair next to hers, and sat in it, leaning close to examine the drawing before them.
“Yes.” Darcie closed her eyes, inhaling the clean male
Her stomach pitched and dropped, horror freezing in her chest. She heard Dr. Cole take a step forward and her head snapped up, one arm rising reflexively to shield her face, half expecting him to land a backhanded blow. Experience had taught her that even a man who seemed kind could be driven to fits of temper. But there was no blow. The doctor stood over her, his expression calm and mildly expectant.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, crouching beside the ruined porcelain, grasping the pieces frantically, with only a fraction of the attention the task required.
“Leave it,” he commanded, even as a sharp sliver sliced into the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb.
Blood welled from the wound, dripping into the puddle of water that pooled on the marble tile. She stared in horrified fascination, mesmerized by the eddy of dark red that crept in an ever widening pattern, becoming paler and paler as it mixed with the water covering the floor.
Soundlessly, he came to her, circled her wrist and drew her damaged hand upward. She offered no resistance as he pressed a white handkerchief against the wound. Blood welled from the cut, staining the pristine fabric with a dark blotch. Unbidden, Mary's words about the bloody handkerchief she had found in his study and the macabre suspicions she harbored seeped into Darcie's thoughts.
She pushed the memory aside. Her situation was tenuous enough without adding Mary's suppositions and fears to her load.
“Here. Press firmly against the cut.” Pulling her gently to her feet, Dr. Cole drew Darcie's free hand from her side and positioned her fingers so she could do as he instructed. With one hand cupping her elbow, he guided her toward the stairs. Stunned, unable to assimilate the events of the morning, she allowed him to lead her, a sleepwalker directed by his touch.
On an afterthought, Dr. Cole paused, speaking over his shoulder without turning. “Poole, see to the mess,” he said brusquely. “And see that we are not disturbed.”
o0o
Darcie was alone in Dr. Cole’s study, edgy and uncertain, her thoughts in turmoil. He had excused himself to fetch bandages from his surgery on the main floor of the house, leaving Darcie to her own devices. Sinking into a leather chair in front of the doctor’s desk, she found her eyes drawn to the gilt-framed miniature that sat in a place of honor. She wondered again who the woman was—obviously someone greatly beloved by Damien Cole. At the thought, a strange spasm in the region of her heart pricked her and brought the unwelcome sting of tears to her eyes. She pressed her fingers against the cloth she held to her wound, blinking against the tears that clung to her lashes. Clearly she was overwrought. What other explanation could there be for her reaction to the sight of the portrait?
Her attention shifted away from the picture, back to the sketchbook that had brought her to this pass. It lay on the desk, the pages open to the very drawing she had tampered with. The soft snick of the door closing behind her alerted her to Dr. Cole's return.
He moved to her side, his warm hands gentle as he dressed the cut on her hand, wrapping it in fresh gauze and tying off the bandage with a small neat knot. “Not as deep as I first thought,” he observed. “The bleeding has already stopped.”
She realized that her hand still rested in his.
“Thank you,” she said, and pulled her hand free. She made to rise, but he rested his open palm on her shoulder, holding her in place.
“You are welcome.” Reaching across the desk, he drew the sketchbook closer, turning it so they both had a clear view of Darcie’s drawing.
“Can you do this again?” He pulled a chair next to hers, and sat in it, leaning close to examine the drawing before them.
“Yes.” Darcie closed her eyes, inhaling the clean male
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