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It was Sir Richard who rumbled, “Oh, certainly, Augustus can join us, as long as he stands back. I trust him, and he is after all an intellectual boy, so the no-amateur rule—no offense, my dear—doesn’t apply to him.

Doctor Butcombe, what exactly do you think is wrong with her?

” He had already gestured for the veterinarian to follow him closer toward the recumbent elephant.

“Everything I’ve read says that it’s too early in the pregnancy for her to be laboring… ”

Doctor Butcombe—who’d introduced himself as Hunter —glanced almost hopelessly over his shoulder at his sister as he followed Sir Richard. Gus followed eagerly, but Cassian? He was nailed in place, utterly nailed by a weak leg and a midnight gaze.

“Gabby!” the Doctor called frantically, and she suddenly jerked her attention to her brother.

“Why, it is just like in Geneva , Hunter,” she called, too loudly. “I suspect you will want to do a visual examination only , until we get her back to her stable?”

“Yes!” Nodding gratefully, her brother shrugged at Sir Richard. “Yes, yes. Visual examination only. Just like Genoa—um, Geneva?”

Miss Butcombe strode with confidence toward them—and the sick elephant—and Cassian found himself drifting after her in her wake, more intrigued than aroused at this point. She was bold and outspoken, but acted as a mere secretary for her brother—who was clearly bumbling and forgetful?

“Why, I remember you telling me ,” she was saying as she slipped her arm through her brother’s, “about how you diagnosed that pregnant bison with Malta fever last year. Remember?” Even from behind, Cassian could see how she squeezed his arm.

A kindly reminder? “Pregnant animals can be delicate. Or so you said.”

“Delicate, yes,” the Doctor said in relief, turning back to Sir Richard. “Martha fever. Visual examination only, until we can see her in her stall.”

But Sir Richard was shaking his head. “I specifically sent for you, my boy, because of your experience with pregnant mammals. I’ve been very careful with her care—only the best feed, hired my most trusted caretakers.

You understand, I cannot allow your secretary to participate in her care as well—no offense, miss. ”

If Cassian hadn’t been staring at Miss Butcombe, he would have missed the shadow that crossed her face moments before a pleasant—if vacant—smile was plastered on her lips.

“Of course, we cannot have amateurs stomping about,” she agreed, and when she squeezed his arm again, her brother mumbled an echo: “Of course.”

Surprised at the strange response, Cassian dropped his gaze to his son…only to see Gus frowning thoughtfully at Miss Butcombe as well.

“After all, we know women are too silly to participate in veterinary medicine, do we not, Hunter?” she said too-brightly, jerking Cassian’s attention back.

“In fact, I am feeling ever so weak and tired. My, if I have to stand much longer I will simply faint away. I think I should retire to the house and oversee our luggage, brother—not actually unpacking it myself, of course. Lawks.”

The doctor, who’d been frowning down at her in confusion, now turned pale. “Uh—there’s nae need?—”

“Capital!” boomed Sir Richard, already dragging Doctor Butcombe away. “Cassian, lad, could you point Miss Butcombe toward Zilphia? She’ll get you all settled, m’dear.”

And then Cassian was left staring at the intriguing redhead, who managed to be desirable while wearing a serviceable drab frock and a too-big bonnet both of yesteryear’s fashions, as they were abandoned in favor of a sick pachyderm .

The woman was no debutante, even had she been dressed finely enough to be considered one; she was well past the first—and second and third—blush of youth. Clearly Doctor Butcombe’s veterinary work paid minimally, and he supported his sister in commensurate style.

Surprisingly, knowing her position in Society was far closer to his than Sir Richard’s, put Cassian more at ease.

Here was someone who had known some level of struggle, of hardship.

He’d spent a lifetime pretending to be better than he was—even when it came to courting Artemesia—and it was a relief to know he didn’t need to at this moment.

So with a brisk nod of acknowledgement, he turned back toward the house, leaning on his cane across the wet grass. “Come, Miss Butcombe. I’ll walk ye back, but forgive me if I dinnae offer ye my arm.”

She didn’t speak, but fell in at his side, matching her steps to his—a courtesy.

He couldn’t decide if he was surprised or offended that she’d noticed.

Hm .

“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Grey.”

Cassian merely grunted. He’d done little.

“I can see your leg is paining you?—”

“It’s fine,” he growled, irritated at himself for his body’s response to her, but intrigued at the same time. She was a respectable doctor’s sister, for fook’s sake, he had no right to be sniffing around her. “I need the exercise. ”

Not true; he’d spent an hour working the leg earlier today, but he always welcomed the opportunity to try it on different terrain. Unfortunately, he was discovering that wet grass wasn’t at all stable.

They reached the stones of the patio and Cassian breathed a little sigh of relief as he stepped up onto the firm surface. As she followed, her foot became tangled in her skirt, and she pitched forward.

Only years of honed skills allowed Cassian to lunge to one side, dropping his cane and catching her before she could take a tumble.

Unfortunately, those years of honed skills forgot the inconvenient fact that he was missing a fooking foot. The prosthetic gave way under the sudden lurch, and Cassian fell backward.

Since he had momentarily been holding her up, the doctor’s sister went down too. On top of him. Onto the patio. Hard .

Her forehead slammed into his mouth as he hit the ground with a pained grunt.

Stunned, he lay there for a moment as she gasped and rolled off his chest. “Mr. Grey? Oh, Mr. Grey, I am so sorry.” Her hands were on his chest, she was kneeling at his side. “Mr. Grey, are you?—”

“I’m fine,” he growled, brushing off her hand and trying to roll over, only to find his jacket pinned beneath her knees. “Just a wee fall.”

“You are bleeding,” she announced, in that bold way of hers. “Where is your handkerchief? ”

Before he could object, she was digging into the pocket of his plain waistcoat, pulling out a white square. “What the—” he began, only to be silenced by the press of cotton against his lip.

Frowning, Cassian reached up and snatched it from her hand, glaring at her as he patted the sore swelling he could already feel growing. “In these cases, it’s generally preferable for the young lady to use her handkerchief.”

Miss Butcombe blinked. “Why?”

Why ? One of the skills he’d never been able to master undercover had been flirting, and now he tried to recall. “I believe it’s so the victim—excuse me, gentleman has an excuse to see her again and return it.”

Suddenly, her smile bloomed.

And had he thought her intriguing before?

Miss Butcombe was stunning when she smiled.

What was she doing, unattached and scribbling notes for her brother, decked in such modest apparel?

She ought to have found a lover to drape her in diamonds and pearls…

or at least a husband, to drape her in respectability.

Christ knew Cassian would, if he could afford to.

“It is a good thing I do not need an excuse to see you, Mr. Grey,” she announced, laughter in her voice, as she rolled to her feet. “Since we will be staying in the same house. Castle. Whatever.”

Then, to his great surprise, she held her hand out to him. What had happened to the woman on the verge of fainting? Sprawled on the patio stones, Cassian could only glare up at her .

“And I think, since I have managed to fall into your horizontal embrace and bloody you within minutes of our meeting, you ought to call me Gabby.”

Well that was so unexpected, Cassian reached up and took her hand before he could think through the action.

Earlier he’d avoided taking her hand for fear of his body’s reaction.

Now he knew he’d been right; a shock went up his arm when his palm touched hers, and he was surprisingly grateful they hadn’t met at a ridiculous social function where they’d both be forced to wear gloves.

Her grip was strong and warm…or perhaps that was just his response to her, as he rolled to his feet, keeping his weight on his right leg.

They ended up standing mere inches apart, hands still gripped between them. He stared down into her midnight-blue eyes, and to his surprise…saw interest there.

Miss Butcombe was no simpering Society miss, och nay. She knew what she wanted.

And she was, frankly, in a position to get it. Unmarried, untitled, out of polite Society, hidden away up here in Inverlochy…

Cassian felt his brow twitch. “Miss Butcombe,” he began in a murmur.

“Gabby,” she corrected, squeezing his hand, her lips twitching. “And I am afraid I owe you a handkerchief.”

Was she flirting? Was this flirting?

Could he flirt back?

Should he ?

He swallowed. “Cassian,” he rasped, then tried again. “Call me Cassian, and my handkerchief is fine.”

“Perhaps so, but your lip is not.”

When the gorgeous woman’s free hand rose, her fingertips barely brushing against his swollen lower lip, he jerked back in surprise.

Gabby suddenly blinked and seemed to realize what she was doing, yanking both her hands back and stumbling away. “I—um…” She swung her attention to the house. “I hope you will let me know if I can look at your injuries. I can help.”

His brows rose. Injur ies ? “My lip and…?”

“Your leg.” Midnight blue eyes turned serious as they flicked to him. “I can help. I am very good with my hands.”

Cassian couldn’t help it; the image she evoked—her kneeling over him again, except this time with that glorious red hair flowing across her naked shoulders as her skilled hands reached for him—wrenched a growl of need from his chest.

Her sudden sharp intake of breath told him that she’d heard it, and realized the unintended way her offer had sounded.

Flustered, she backed away further, her cheeks pink, her eyes wide…but she didn’t drop his gaze.

Not until she turned and all but ran for the French doors to escape him.