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“ T ell me where I’m needed,” he said, stepping into the chaos, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves in one fluid motion.

He took in the scene with a soldier’s precision: three feverish children huddled near the window, another dozing on a pallet, and a toddler clinging to Abigail like a limpet. The room smelled of willow bark, vinegar, and the distinct musk of illness that no amount of cleaning could mask.

Abigail blinked, clearly startled by his response. “I—that is—we weren’t expecting?—”

“You need assistance,” Graham stated, not a question but a fact. “I’m a doctor. This is what I do.”

Mrs. Welling approached, eyeing him with undisguised interest. “Well, if you’re offering, Doctor, we have six more burning with fever upstairs. The little ones need their doses, and that one—” she pointed to a girl of perhaps five curled on the pallet “—hasn’t kept a thing down since breakfast.”

Graham nodded. Medical problems, he understood. Children were an entirely different matter.They were unpredictable, emotional, and had an uncanny ability to see through pretense. They made him distinctly uneasy.

“I can prepare the remaining doses,” he offered, moving toward the worktable where Abigail had been measuring powders.

The toddler in Abigail’s arms twisted to stare at him. His tiny face scrunched up in suspicious assessment. Graham stared back, uncertain of the proper protocol. Should he smile? Make some inane cooing noise? He settled for a small nod, as if acknowledging a fellow officer.

The child responded by burying his face in Abigail’s shoulder.

“Georgie isn’t fond of strangers,” Abigail said, amusement threading through her strained voice.

“A sensible position,” Graham replied, measuring willow bark with practiced efficiency. “Most of the trouble in my life has come from strangers.”

Abigail’s lips quirked. “I should point out you are the stranger in this room.”

“I assure you, I’m quite troublesome.” He finished preparing a dose and extended it toward her. “For the boy on your hip. The concentration is adjusted for his size.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the medicine, and he studied the contrast—his hands large and calloused, hers slender and reddened from work. His gaze traveled to her throat where her collar had slipped, revealing a dark bruise.

Something primal and protective surged in his chest. The memory of the attacker’s face under his fist flashed through his mind, along with a savage wish that he’d done more damage.He tamped it down, focusing instead on the task before him.

“If you tell me what else needs doing, I can help while you rest,” he said, keeping his tone clinical rather than commanding.

Abigail’s chin tilted upward—a small but unmistakable gesture of defiance. “I don’t need to rest.”

“Of course not. Your throat is raw, you’re favoring your right ankle, and you’ve clearly been on your feet since dawn, but you’re the picture of vigor.”

A child coughed wetly from the corner, drawing Abigail’s attention away from what might have become a heated exchange. She moved to the little girl, administering medicine with gentle words of encouragement that Graham couldn’t quite hear.

For the next hour, they fell into an unexpectedly efficient partnership.

Graham mixed medicines and checked temperatures while Abigail comforted the children with a skill he couldn’t help but admire.

She knew each by name, remembered which ones disliked being touched and which needed extra reassurance.

Working beside her felt strangely natural, as if they’d been doing this for years rather than hours.

When he was in the army hospitals alongside other doctors and nurses, they developed an unspoken communication based on anticipation of what was needed next.

That same instinct served him now. He watched her movements, predicting where she would go next, what she might need.

“You have a gift with them,” he observed as they folded clean linens together in a moment of quiet. “They trust you.”

She shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. “They’ve had few reasons to trust adults. It’s a privilege when they do.”

Abigail folded with practiced ease, her motions precise and economical. Graham mirrored her across the table, smoothing a length of linen with deliberate focus. He let the conversation lull, happy that she was at least sitting.

The door flew open with a crash that reverberated through the walls. Two boys—healthy ones from the upper dormitory—barreled into the room, all flying limbs and hoarse laughter.

“Mind your feet!” Mrs. Welling bellowed from the hallway, just as one of the boys careened straight into Graham.

The contact was brief but jarring. The child bounced off his side like a ricocheting cannonball and vanished back out the door with his companion, trailing apologies and a half-hearted “Sorry, sir!” behind them.

But Graham pitched forward and the edge of the table bit into his thighs. The floor tilted beneath his feet. In a blink, he was in the frigate’s hold, and his hands were covered in blood.

A man lay sprawled across the planks, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.

Gut shot. Hands scrabbling for something—anything—to hold.

Graham’s knees buckled, and he pitched forward, bracing himself just inches from the man’s open wounds.

The stench of iron and bile filled his nose.

Shouting surrounded him, orders barked over crashing waves, the wet thud of boots on timber.

Get up. You have to get up. He’s still alive. If you can stop the bleeding—if you can?—

“Graham.”

The voice was quiet. Not barked or panicked, but steady. Real.

He blinked. The blood was gone. The wounds. The ship.

He was leaning on the worktable, knuckles blanched, fists clenched in a twisted sheet. The room had stilled again—no laughter, no footsteps. Only the tick of the old clock on the far wall and the distant sound of children.

Abigail stood opposite him, a pillowcase folded neatly in her hands. She didn’t speak again. Didn’t step closer. Her expression was unreadable—calm, yes, but not indifferent.

She saw him.

Graham exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers to uncurl. The sheet was crumpled where he’d clutched it, the linen damp with sweat.

He gave a single nod, sharp and clipped. “Apologies.”

Abigail handed him a fresh square of linen. “You missed a corner.”

He took it with quiet gratitude. No questions. No pity.

“Water needs changing in the dormitory,” Mrs. Welling announced, bustling in with empty pitchers. “Alice is occupied with the new arrival.”

Abigail reached for the largest bucket, but Graham was already there, his hand closing over the handle.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

“I’m perfectly capable?—”

“I never suggested otherwise,” he snapped, but forced his tone to soften. “But as there are sick children who need tending and only one of us knows their preferences, perhaps I could be most useful fetching water?”

Abigail hesitated, then relinquished the bucket with a small smile. “Very diplomatic, Doctor.”

“Military training,” he replied. “Supply lines are as crucial as front-line action. I won’t be long,” he said over his shoulder.

He stepped into the corridor, the cool shadows of the hallway wrapping around him like a balm.

The bucket swung in his hand with rhythmic purpose as he made his way toward the pump in the small courtyard.

The murmur of distant voices—children, staff, the clatter of pots—drifted on the air, grounding him in the now.

God, would the ghosts never leave him?

He set the bucket beneath the spout and worked the handle with mechanical precision. Water splashed and frothed. As it filled, he braced one hand against the brick wall and exhaled slowly.

No smoke. No gunfire. Just damp stone and spring air.

He hefted the bucket, water sloshing gently against the sides. His shirt was damp with sweat at the collar, but his hands were steady now.

Back to work. Back to her.

By late afternoon, the melee had been tamed into something resembling order.

All the children had been medicated, and the beds had all been made.

The front door opened with a decisive swing, and quick footsteps approached the workroom.

A woman entered carrying several parcels wrapped in brown paper, her elegant burgundy dress marking her as distinctly out of place in the humble surroundings.

“Abby, I’ve brought everything Dr. Hargrove recommended, plus extra honey and—” She broke off, her gaze settling on Graham with sudden intensity. “Who is this?”

“Marjory, this is Dr. Redchester. He’s been kind enough to assist us,” Abigail said.“Doctor, this is the Duchess of Sherton, but within these walls we dispense with our titles and here she is simply Miss Marjory.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Graham said, bowing.

Marjory adjusted the parcels in her arms. “Doctor, would you mind helping me sort these supplies? I fear the apothecary was rather haphazard in his packaging.”

Before he could respond, she was already moving toward a side room, clearly expecting him to follow. He glanced at Abigail, who gave him a small nod.

“Go. I can manage here,” she said, turning back to the ledger she was updating.

The adjoining room was little more than a glorified closet, lined with shelves of supplies. Marjory unwrapped her parcels with quick, precise movements.

“Are you the doctor?” she asked without preamble, sorting small jars into neat rows.

The interrogation begins.

“I am.”

“You saved my sister in the alley.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re here.” Her gaze was unnervingly direct. “Why?”

Graham considered several diplomatic responses, then discarded them all. “Because your sister is injured, overworked, and too stubborn to admit either condition.”

A hint of a smile touched Marjory’s lips before vanishing. “And you appointed yourself her guardian?”

“No.” The word emerged more sharply than he intended. “I appointed myself nothing. I came to speak with her and found myself useful.”