Read Online Rogue's Honor by Brenda Hiatt - Free Book Online Page A

and herbs. "If
you will boil these together in water, with a teaspoon or two of
vinegar, the resulting tea may prove beneficial."
    The woman glanced from Purdy to Luke, who
gave her a nod and a smile. "Why, thank you, miss. I'll do as you
ask, of course. Your mother raised you right, I must say. Was it
from her you learned the herb lore?"
    Luke thought she hesitated before replying.
"She instructed me when I was young, yes, along with the . . . er,
another woman. Together, they knew quite a lot about such
things."
    Again Mrs. Plank thanked her profusely as
they bade her farewell. Walking back toward his lodgings, Luke
decided to risk probing a bit. "I rather doubt you induced the dogs
on the farm to drink medicinal teas. I presume you've treated
people before, as well?"
    Her fair skin pinkened deliciously. "I . . .
my mother did, and I was always with her. I suppose I learned more
from her than I realized at the time."
    His eyes did not leave her face, even though
he knew his gaze was making her uncomfortable. "You said your
mother had passed away. How long ago was that?"
    "Ten . . . I mean, two years ago. But she
was, er, ill for several years before she died." She didn't meet
his eyes, and it was obvious to Luke, long studied in reading
people, that she was lying. But why?
    "And the other woman you said taught you
about herbs and healing?" he prompted.
    She swallowed, reddening further. Lying she
might be, but she was not nearly as practiced at the art as he was.
"Mrs., um, Horrigan. A . . . neighbor, skilled in the healing
arts."
    They had reached the stairs to his lodgings,
so he forbore questioning her further —for the moment. Placing a
hand at her elbow, as much for the pleasure of touching her as to
assist her, he escorted her up the stairs.
    As they approached his door, a scruffy little
mound of brown and white fur jumped up and ran toward them, short
tail wagging furiously.
    "And what have you been up to today, Argos?"
Luke asked, scratching the terrier between the ears. The tail
wagged faster. "Ah." Kneeling, his back to the girl, he unwound a
scrap of paper from around the dog's collar. The note would be from
Flute, and could mean only one thing: someone in the neighborhood
was in desperate need of help.
    Surreptitiously scanning its contents proved
him right. Mme. Billaud's son Christophe had broken his leg—no
doubt climbing out of windows again—and the surgeon refused to see
him unless she paid in advance. With her husband recently dead, she
had no way to come up with the money.
    Palming the note, he put it in his pocket as
he drew out his key. Normally this would mean that the Saint of
Seven Dials would ride again tonight, but with Purdy here, he
wasn't sure how he would manage it without both arousing her
suspicions and putting her at risk by leaving her alone. He opened
the door and bowed her inside, still frowning.
    "Is there something I can do to help?" she
asked, startling him back to awareness of her presence.
    "Help? What do you mean?"
    She lifted a hand in a vague gesture, then
dropped it. "You seem, ah, upset about something. As you've been
very kind to me, I'd like to help with whatever it is, if I
can."
    Luke stared at her for a moment, thinking
hard. Not only had Purdy revealed unexpected skills, she was more
perceptive than he'd given her credit for, as well. Was it possible
that she could help?
    Deciding there was little to lose, he asked,
"By chance, did you ever watch or help your mother set a broken
bone?"
    Her eyes widened, but she answered quickly
enough. "I've seen it done, yes. Why do you ask?"
    "I've just remembered that a boy nearby has
broken his leg. I had promised to help, or bring help, but, er,
events of the past night and day drove it from my mind."
    Her smile sent a jolt of desire straight to
his vitals, and this time he did not try so ruthlessly to suppress
it.
    "As I was that 'event,' it seems fair that I
help remedy your lapse," she said. "Let's go at once—the poor boy
may