Both of them were sweating heavily. Ned’s arms felt as if they weighed two stone. His knuckles hurt and he wasn’t certain he could go on until Winderton dropped to one knee.
“Enough,” he said.
Ned had never heard a better word spoken. He didn’t let down his guard. “And?” he prodded.
“No more chickens.”
“Or any other nonsense.”
Reluctantly, the duke nodded. “We were in our cups.”
Ned wasn’t going to give him a sobriety lecture. His mother could do that. He dropped his guard and offered the duke a hand up. “That was a good match, Your Grace.”
Winderton’s head shot up as if to see if Ned was mocking him. He wasn’t.
“I didn’t expect a doctor to fight so hard.”
“I may have had more practice. You live in a boys’ school where everyone knows your mother is a whore, you learn quick.”
Winderton gave a begrudging smile and then frowned with a sniff. “What is that yellow stain on your shirt?”
Ned looked down. “Egg. Mrs. Estep has a temper. You owe her an apology, Your Grace. You all do,” he added, raising his voice.
The duke looked to Mrs. Estep sitting on the horse. He sighed and walked over to her. Her expression grew apprehensive until he stopped. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Estep, for my boorish behavior.” He looked to the others. “Come here. You need to show some manners.”
With that the other three made their apologies to Mrs. Estep. She sat as if in shock at the turn of events, her brows buckling in concern.
“Will you break your fast with us, Thurlowe?” the duke asked when he’d seen the last of his minions apologize.
Lingering any longer was the last thing Ned wanted to do. The weight of the duke’s blows were starting to make themselves known on his body. He kept his voice steady and cordial as he commented, “I wish I could, Your Grace. However, I am late for patients.”
“Ah, well, perhaps tomorrow.”
“Possibly. Thank you for asking.” On those words, Ned managed to mount Hippocrates. It took effort and he prided himself on looking reasonably good doing it.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Your Grace.” He gave a short bow and, lifting the reins, put them on their way. He didn’t ride far. Every step Hippocrates took was a jolt.
“What was that about?” Mrs. Estep demanded.
“Chickens,” he murmured.
“No, there was something else taking place. Why do men pound each other with their fists, and then shake hands as if nothing happened?”
“I fear you wouldn’t understand.”
“You are probably quite right. If someone hit me, I would be angry for ages—Wait, where are we going?”
Ned had set Hippocrates on the path to his favorite destination—a spring-fed pond a quarter of a mile off the road. Few beyond the locals knew of it because it was on Winderton’s land and because of the shelter of trees around it.
Reaching his destination, he brought Hippocrates to a halt, and then practically fell to the ground. He caught himself by grabbing the saddle. Every muscle hurt and all he could think about was relief.
Ned pulled off a boot, then another.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Estep asked.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have the energy.
When he’d finished the fight, he’d not bothered to put his coat or hat back on. Now he practically clawed at his neck cloth as he walked toward the pond. He tossed it on the ground. Then he pulled loose the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head.
“Mr. Thurlowe? What are you doing?”
His answer was to walk straight into the icy-fresh water of the pond.
Chapter Fourteen
Gemma watched Mr. Thurlowe march straight into the pond, uncertain if she trusted what her eyes were witnessing. She slid off the back of the horse, keeping the reins in her hand. Mr. Thurlowe disappeared completely under the water. It was as if the pond swallowed him whole.
She looked at the horse. The horse looked at her. “Does he do this often?”
Was it her imagination that the horse nodded? Then, he yanked on the reins, pulling his head down, letting her know he wished to graze. She held on, not knowing what to do.
After several minutes there was a disturbance in the water. Mr. Thurlowe’s head popped up. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “Drop the reins. He won’t step on them.”
As if seconding the order, the horse gave a snort and another annoyed pull of his head. Gemma dropped the reins . . . but not because of a conscious effort.
No, she dropped them because Mr. Thurlowe had started walking out of the pond. Water sluiced down over his naked torso in rivulets that followed his muscles. Every stitch he still wore molded almost obscenely to his body, and yet, she was not offended.
She’d been married. Many of her patients were men. She was accustomed to the male anatomy. It was no secret that Ned Thurlowe was an excellent specimen of masculine beauty in its prime.
But no man, not even her husband, had made her jaw drop in lascivious admiration as if she had the manners of a sailor. She couldn’t stop herself.
Or control the sharp yearning that radiated from the pit of her stomach to the essence of her being. Even her breasts tightened, and it took all her strength to bite back the half whimper before it escaped her lips, and fortunately the only one who heard was the horse, who cocked an ear and then snorted his opinion.
Paul Estep’s looks had turned heads, even hers. She had been flattered that, out of all the lasses in Manchester, he’d singled out her.
But never, not once, had he inspired in her this almost overwhelming reaction to his body. She wanted to step forward into Mr. Thurlowe’s arms, to see if he was as strong and safe as she remembered.
He, on the other hand, acted completely oblivious to her. He raked his hair back from his face as he made his way to the bank. Reaching the grassy area, he threw himself upon the ground. He rolled to his back, closed his eyes, and groaned.
The sound of pain broke through her ogling.
She reached for his jacket she’d draped over the saddle. She walked over to the prone body. “Mr. Thurlowe?”
He didn’t move. His eyes were closed.
Had he lost consciousness? Was there something wrong with him internally? She’d been appalled at the beatings the doctor and the duke had given each other.
She dropped to her knees beside him and tucked the jacket around his chest. His skin was cold to the touch. She cupped his face in her hands. “Mr. Thurlowe? Mr. Thurlowe?”
He shook his head as if she had startled him from sleep. “What?” He squinted up at her.
Gemma sat back, a touch chastened that she’d laid her hands on him. “I was checking if you were all right.”
Wincing as he propped himself up by his elbows, he declared, “I’m not. There isn’t a muscle in my body that doesn’t ache like a bloody—” He stopped eyeing her as if her presence was an annoyance and finished tamely, “With pain. I ache with pain.”
“You didn’t need to correct yourself. I am not critical of strong language. Sometimes it has its place. My father was quite fond of it.”
He looked at her as if she spoke gibberish and lay back down.
Gemma sat in silence. Not asking questions went against everything her gran had taught her. Her purpose was to heal.