The Winds of Fate by Elizabeth St. Michel Page A

patient.
    Claire fumbled tidying up the bedside table. What had made her speak so horribly? He possessed the predisposition to turn her into a hopeless shrew. Every conversation turned into an accomplished act of war. Claire reminded herself that her goal was to heal Cookie, not antagonize him. Her temper was responsible for getting rid the other two island doctors. She didn’t want a battle. She wanted a treaty. With her uncle she had learned to deal with difficult men−the physician was bent on being difficult; therefore, she needed to maneuver him into a more reasonable frame of mind. Pointing out his status would not accomplish that. “I apologize for what I said.”
    “Faith, a study in diplomacy?” he mocked.
    Claire balled her fists, but kept her voice soft, weary of argument. “I’m trying to call a truce of sorts. Won’t you come at least halfway?”
    He folded his arms in front of him. “What if a person owes you a debt? Do you think that person should fulfill it?”
    “Why yes,” she waffled, wondering where this cryptic conversation was leading.
    “A debt is a promise, an obligation to be fulfilled, is it not?” He smiled benignly.
    “A person’s promise or word is his sense of honor.” Why did her chest tighten?
    “How important is your sense of honor? Do you abide by it?”
    She studied the inscrutable expression on his face, yet had the distinct impression she was a mouse toyed in a tiger’s paw. “Why ofcourse.” Was there a deeper meaning to his questions she failed to grasp?
    He bowed. “I’ll concede to your wishes. If it’s a truce you want, then it’s a truce it is.”
    Claire smiled with triumph not really sure what was conceded. She rinsed a cloth in the cool water. He took it from her hands, his long supple fingers, brushed against hers. She shivered. He placed the cloth on Cookie’s forehead with gentleness. Claire speculated the different sides of him. The physician, she stood convinced, was a fearless, brash, capable man, but simmering beneath that exterior facade, one who could be brutal. “How is she doing?”
    “Her pallor is good, temperature has dropped and breathing has steadied. She’ll make it.”
    Through a haze of tears, Claire bestowed on him her most brilliant smile. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice husky.
    “I’ve just now realized, I’ve never asked you your name.”
    “Some call me physician, some call me slave,”
    Would he always remind her of his misfortune? She sighed worn from argument, and at once, felt achy and exhausted. She leaned back and stretched her spine.
    “Tell me, of your husband,” he asked.
    She was so stunned, she couldn’t hide her reaction. She fingered the small gold wedding band she had purchased before she left London. “Why-why he’s passed on.”
    “So young? How unfortunate.”
    “He suffered a terminal illness. He went quickly. Before I even knew,” she explained. The pit of her stomach clenched.
    “Sounds quite bleak.” His voice was devoid of emotion. “No other attachments?”
    Claire rubbed her arms up and down. “No. Although my uncle wishes to marry me off, but my widowhood imposes a period of mourning.”
    “Of course. The prospect of marriage must be difficult.”
    She nodded her head and sighed. “But I’ve moved on and am content to be independent.”
    “No ties to a man to rule you. How convenient−his death. Now you are free to prove your intelligence and capabilities to the world. He must have been a generous man to give you his name.”
    Claire’s jaw dropped. “This conversation has gone long enough.”
    Lily entered, diverting her anger from his personal questions, and if her cousin appeared surprised to see the slave, gave no more notice than a perfunctory nod. She stood stick-straight, her hair dressed in a tight bun and from beneath her spectacles took note with hawk-like precision of everything in the room.
    “And how is the patient?” Lily addressed the