Patricia Rice by Wayward Angel Page B

fully exposed and accessible to her ministrations. "God will guide you, I suppose. Why is it that He speaks to you but not to those who ought to hear a little hellfire and damnation?"
    Dora bit her bottom lip as she applied the needle to his torn flesh. She felt his pain and tried not to clench her eyes closed against it. She wondered that he did not scream out. His muscles bulged with the effort of clinging to the bed. She mustn't think about muscles. Pace Nicholls had more than his fair share.
    "I assume He speaks to those whose minds are open to Him," she answered more to keep him distracted than because she had any answer.
    "That's a damned idiot way of doing things," Pace grumbled through clenched teeth. "If I were God, I'd scream fiery curses at the evildoers and leave the innocent alone."
    Dora smiled at this conceit and tied off the thread. Blood still seeped, but the flow was slower. She reached for washrag and bandages. "If thou wert God, thou wouldst not limit thyself to curses. Lightning bolts would fly, and there would be precious few people left inhabiting the earth when thou wert done."
    Pace managed a chuckle through his wince as she applied more alcohol. "It's daunting talking to someone who knows me too well. Did the girl make it across the river?"
    "Thou wouldst not ask now if thou believest otherwise. I met the bounty hunters and one of the Howards, I think also Billy John's little brother. He said to tell thee that,"—she paused to recall the phrase—"thou owes him one.'"
    "Damn." Pace lowered his arm as she applied the last of the bandages. "I don't want him knowing about you. I'll convince him you were only out to save my worthless hide and knew nothing about the girl."
    "That would be a waste of time." Dora packed her supplies back in her bag. Pace made no effort to don his ruined shirt or cover himself in any way. She tried very hard not to look at the way the band of muscles rippled beneath the white bandage. She very definitely did not want to see the way whorls of dark hair led down from his navel to the waist of his trousers. These were things of the body and not the mind or spirit. She must hold herself above them. "I am suspect regardless of my guilt or innocence."
    The truth of that momentarily silenced him. He reached for his shirt and tugged it over one arm, but he didn't lift the arm on the wounded side. He draped it over that shoulder. He looked at something beyond the room and scarcely noticed Dora. "Don't you have friends or relatives across the river?" he asked, looking at her in the candlelight.
    "Few." There was curtness to her murmur. Even after ten years, she remained a stranger to most of the Quakers. Despite all her efforts, she knew she did not blend in as she should. Or perhaps she was just as invisible there as here, and they forgot to include her. "Thou needst not worry. I will be fine."
    Pace threw his legs over the side of the bed and waited until the dizziness passed before attempting to stand. When he stood, he towered more than a head over Dora. He looked down at her, searching her face quizzically. "How can you be fine living in a madhouse like this? You should have a life of your own."
    She supposed, if she'd stayed in Cornwall with the earl, she would have a life of her own, of some sort. But she had died, and now her life belonged to others. Pace wasn't likely to understand that. She stepped out of his way, leaving the path to the door open. "I am doing as I am called to do," she informed him.
    "That's a lot of"—he visibly sought a politer word than his original choice—"nonsense, but I'll postpone this argument until later, before I fall on my face."
    Ignoring her look of concern, Pace strode to the door and walked out without looking back.
    Dora clasped and unclasped her hands, hands that had touched his bare flesh. She could still feel the heat of him against her fingertips. She might be invisible, but her body was alive. She could still feel. It was a rather