“Having trouble?” Wynn stepped into the small yet serviceable room that didn’t appear to have cooked a meal in all its existence. No dishes, no cutlery, nothing to indicate it was more than a passing thought to its occupant.
Svetlana turned to face him, her scowl giving way beneath a pink of embarrassed frustration. “I thought to make tea.”
“With that? It looks more suitable to holding the remains of the deceased. Or sterilizing equipment in the surgery.”
“It is a samovar. A Russian tea maker.”
“Have you used one before?”
“No. Our cook always prepared our trays in the kitchen. I shouldn’t think it that difficult being only hot water and tea leaves.” She pointed to the curved spout etched with intricate scrollwork. “I only know the hot water comes from this spout and into the teapot where the leaves are. The leaves were difficult to find.” She frowned at the matching silver teapot on the counter.
A coffee man himself, and only a good slug to get him through a grueling shift, Wynn didn’t have much practice in the domestic arts, but he’d seen his mum make the watery brew often enough.
Unable to resist a challenge of inner workings, especially with a beautiful woman watching, he pried off the lid and gazed inside. It was an open chamber half filled with water and a metal pipe running vertically through the middle.
“There are burnt wood pieces in this smaller pipe. We’ll need to light them to boil this water for the teapot.”
“Yes, that seems logical.” Svetlana reached toward the windowsill and pulled down a box of matches. With a dainty flick of her wrist, she struck the match to a fiery orange and dropped it into the kindling tube. The fire crawled down the bits of dry wood and flamed the other pieces to life. “Does that look right?”
“It’ll take a few minutes, but metal is a good conductor of heat. Fanciest way I’ve ever seen it brewed.”
Svetlana smiled faintly and gazed out the rain-speckled window, the sides of her mouth turning down. With the tea underway and nothing left to divert her attention, exhaustion traced its wearisome existence over her drawn features. The natural reaction of adrenaline leaving the body after coursing through the veins in bursts of oxygen and blood to overcome stress. How she’d managed to resist its crashing effects thus far was a miracle.
“Let’s take a seat while we wait.” He crossed to the small table tucked in the corner and pulled out one of the two elaborately carved chairs. She sat and he took the chair opposite. “Better?”
She nodded. “Too much standing without stretching grows the legs stiff.”
Wynn settled back and propped one ankle atop his opposite knee. “Mine were like that when I first started medical school. Could hardly put one foot in front of the other at the end of the day, but you get used to it.”
Her gaze dropped to the table as the warm scent of burning wood drifted around them. “Seeing a man shot in the street is not a thing to become accustomed to.”
“No, it’s not. Neither is war, and yet we are surrounded by it. An ugly reality brought to our doorstep that we can’t turn away from.”
“He was lucky to fall at your feet. A physician to save his life.”
Wynn shifted as always when a compliment veered his way. Easier to deflect the discomfort with humor. “Good thing I didn’t give in to that career impulse of being a chimney sweep like I wanted to when I was younger. Lot of good a blackened broom would do him.”
Her gaze lifted to him with not a trace of humor to be found. “How do you remain so calm?”
“I have good training to rely on. Besides, what good will it do my patients if I give in to hysterics? A surgeon must always remain in control of himself in order to control the situation.”
“Unlike myself.” Her voice grew smaller, curling into itself in search of shelter.
What meager comfort he had in words, he offered to her. This amazing woman, this princess born with every luxury of life who now found herself lost in uncertainty.
“You were more composed than most would have been. It’s not easy to step into a situation like that without training. With training, for that matter. I’ve seen many a good nurse go down or turn green after seeing a gruesome injury. It’s a strength of character not forged in many people. A strength gained by trial of fire. Not everyone could have escaped a revolution in the dead of winter. You did.”
She dipped her head as a single tear escaped. “Leaving Russia I had to remain resilient for Marina and my mother. Today I wanted only to run.”
“But you didn’t.” Thinking of nothing beyond the need to ease her pain, Wynn reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “I’m sorry I put you in that situation. You were very brave, and I’m grateful for your assistance.”
Her hand moved beneath his, her little finger curling around his. Slender and finely boned, her cool fingers were soft as cream against his skin. His physician’s concern for a patient warmed to desire to ease her hurt far beyond the abilities of prescription and bandages. It surprised him how easily the desire to protect came. The sentiment had always existed, it was part of his calling as a physician, but it came in increments like carefully measured pills at the dispensary. A bit given to each patient before moving to the next, never in full doses. Until her.
She tugged at something deep within him, a part yet to be unlocked, since the day he’d called to her in the street. An irresistible pull that kept him tethered to her presence. If given the chance, what might he find at the end of their rope? Dare he dwell on the possibility of a key to unlock that hidden part?
He gently squeezed her hand, drawing her eyes to his. Eyes of pale blue. Melted were the ice shards she carried day to day and in their place was a vulnerable heartbeat.
“Perhaps next time we take a walk we might avoid injuries,” she said.
He curled his fingers and touched the sensitive skin inside her wrist. Elevated pulse. If he took his own, he bet it matched. “We do seem to attract them when we’re together.”
Steam billowed from the samovar, dousing the quiet moment they had escaped to. Svetlana yanked her hand back and jumped to her feet, the jerkiest movements he’d ever witnessed from her. She turned a knob on top of the spout and out poured hot water into the waiting teapot. Keeping her back to him, she busied herself pulling glasses with silver bottoms and handles from a cabinet.
“What business is a man about when he is shot in the street?” Gone was the tremor of vulnerability in her voice. In place once more reigned control.
Wynn rubbed his palm with his thumb, trying not to linger on the memory of her fingers curled against his. “From my experience, never anything good.”
“Yet you took pity on him. For all you know he could be a criminal, a murderous zealot.”
“Makes no difference if he’s the Archbishop of Canterbury or Jack the Ripper. I swore an oath to preserve all human life.”
“What made you choose such an oath?”
A question he’d been asked several times over on any given week. Finding his own path held far more appeal than traversing the well-laid one his title procured. Steadfast and secure was for Hugh, not him.
“As a second son there were only so many options available. Barrister. Too many rules. Clergyman. Even more restrictions and they don’t appreciate a sense of humor. Soldier. Well, I’d rather put people back together than a hole in them.”
The teapot gulped softly as Svetlana poured the amber brew into the glasses. “My father and brother are soldiers. The men in our family always are.”