“I promise not to. Too much.” Promise or not, the edge of his lip curled up. It only added to his rakish charm. Yes, she thought her husband charming. The fashionably cut coat and knotted tie did little to restrain the vitality exuding from him, as if life’s problems met their end in his presence.
Many of hers certainly had.
Yet he was not immune to troubles. They sought him by way of sickness, Russian crime lords, runaway princesses, wounded patients, and the death of a brother, but through it all he remained grounded. Never allowing the circumstances to overwhelm him, instead, meeting them as new challenges. It was a trait she was starting to find irritatingly irresistible.
“There must be something you’re not perfect at,” she said.
He jerked to a halt. “Who told?”
“A wild guess.”
“My handwriting is atrocious. They test you in medical school. If it’s legible, you fail.”
Svetlana laughed and tugged him into walking again. “I already knew that from your letters. Try again.”
“I can’t boil an egg.”
“Neither can I.”
“I think you just want to see how many things I can come up with. Let’s see.” His gloved fingers tapped an off-cadence beat on her hand that was tucked in his elbow. “I can’t sing. Dogs howl when I open my mouth.”
“I’m sure they do not.”
“Let’s find out.” He opened his mouth wide.
Svetlana clamped her hand over it as the first note gurgled out. “I believe you.” She giggled, actually giggled right there in broad daylight for all the public to witness. Who was this woman she was turning into, the one only Wynn seemed to bring out? The more time she spent with him, the more the layers of loneliness and self-protection seemed to melt away, releasing the coldness she once harbored.
His warm breath seeped through her glove, filling her palm. He gently took hold of her hand and pulled it away from his mouth but didn’t release it.
“I love hearing your laugh.”
There he went again. Effortless. Earnest. With a deep voice that wrapped around her like the White Nights of a northern summer. It caressed her senses, teasing her ears and tempting her heart.
“You are easily won over, sir, to find my crinkling nose an amusement. To laugh is considered undignified for a princess, but to have my nose scrunching at the same time is beyond humiliation.”
“Despite your best efforts to prove undignified, you are the singular most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. Princess crinkles and all.”
“If they weren’t the crinkles of a princess, what then?”
“You know I don’t care for titles. Titles muck things up from their true essence. That truth is the most fascinating. What I see is a radiant woman smiling at me. Nothing else matters.”
She’d known of his distaste for titles since first they met, but to hear him state it once more confirmed him as a man apart from all others. She didn’t have to be the perfect princess with him, nor bring him wealth or standing in the noble ranks as had been her expectations since birth. She could be Svetlana, who got lost in a pair of honest hazel eyes that saw deep inside her when no one else bothered looking.
Voices in that indecipherable Glaswegian accent vibrated in her ear.
“Standin’ there all day, are they?”
“Might be goin’ somewhere private, aye.”
“’Tis the middle of the day, for goodness’ sake.”
“’Tisn’t a proper distance they be keepin’.”
She and Wynn stood in the middle of the sidewalk. People swerved around them, twisting their heads back to gawk.
Svetlana tried to take a step back, but her hand remained captive in his. “Wynn, please. You’re embarrassing me.” Embarrassed. Warm all over and wishing there weren’t a hundred curious people milling around them like a circus spectacle when all she wanted was for him to lean forward and kiss her.
“I’m complimenting you. There’s a difference.” Offering no kiss, which was probably for the best as a priest had stepped outside of his church to squint at them through his spectacles, Wynn readjusted her hand in the crook of his arm and continued down the sidewalk, the fern swaying merrily in his other arm. “If I’d wanted to embarrass you, I’d keep singing.”
“Then I would be forced to leave you here like the pomeshanniy you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lunatic. Crackpot.”
“Sounds better in Russian, Lana.”
“What is this Lana?”
“My name for you.”
“My family and friends call me Svetka. Or Svetochka, Svetulya, Sveta. It’s common for Russians to have several diminutive versions of their names, but I’ve never heard Lana.”
“Good. I don’t want to sound like everyone else.”
“I don’t think you could even if you tried.” This outing was proving to be more daring than she first imagined. If she wasn’t careful, she’d let the magic of it sweep them into the middle of the street for a dance. Weren’t they supposed to be doing more serious things instead of giggling like children and almost kissing like lovers? The hospital! Yes, that was their purpose. “We should go or you’ll be late for your meeting at the hospital.”
He stepped toward the curb and lifted his arm to hail a passing motorized taxi. There were no horses left in the city after all of them had been sent to France for the cavalry. “I’ll have you taken to the Willow Tearooms. Mother is a friend of the owner, Miss Cranston, and says it’s the only acceptable place to have tea in Glasgow. Renowned artwork of some kind inside. I’ll meet you there after my meeting.”
A taxi swerved over and they climbed inside to the worn black leather seats. It was no warmer than the frigid January air outside.
Wynn shut the door and scooted close. “Willow Tearoom—”
“Glasgow Hospital,” Svetlana said, taking her fern from him and propping it on her knee where the bright green tips could trail down her skirt.
He looked at her with brow puckered. “You can’t come with me.”
“Whyever not? The decisions made at this meeting will affect both of us. I see no reason for me not to lend you my support on such a momentous occasion. Glasgow Hospital, please.”
The driver twisted his head to look at Wynn. “Off to where now, aye?”
Wynn settled back against the seat next to Svetlana, an amused smile twisting his lips. “You heard the lady. Glasgow Hospital.”
* * *
“We have ten surgeons on staff and four operating theaters. All are located on this floor for the best advantage of natural light coming through the windows.” Dr. Neil, chief of administration at Glasgow Hospital, led the small tour group delegated for Wynn’s visit down a wide corridor lined with symmetrical doors on either side. Iodoform and its disinfecting properties clung to the air in a familiarity to all hospitals. It smelled almost like a bouquet of flowers compared to the warfare casualties of blood, putrid human flesh, and filth-soaked uniforms that had choked the Parisian hospitals months before. They paused before the last door. “This is our largest operating theater.”
Opening the door, Dr. Neil gestured for Wynn to step inside first, followed by the trailing staff and doctors. Wynn could barely contain his surprise. This was no field tent caked with mud, nor a converted hotel dining room with glass chandeliers dripping with crystals. It was a large room specifically designed for the fixing of broken bodies. Light poured in from the wide windows and glistened off the sterile white tiled floors. Tiered seating took up an entire wall in the traditional fashion of allowing medical school students to observe the remarkable feats happening in the center of the room. Shiny instruments and equipment surrounded the operating table like servants before a throne, awaiting their glorious moment to serve.