Kate Hoffmann - The Pirate

"No leeches!"

Meredith glared at Griffin as he sat on the end of Dr. Kincaid's examining table. The nurse had shown them in a few minutes before and ordered Griffin to remove his shirt. She gave him an appreciative once-over before she popped a thermometer into his mouth and left the room, leaving Meredith alone to ponder the play of muscles across his shoulders and chest.

Meredith had thought it best to accompany Griffin, considering his rather low opinion of the medical profession. Apparently, the only doctor Griffin had ever encountered had used some rather primitive medical practices, including the curative use of bloodsucking worms.

"Put that thermometer back in your mouth," Meredith said.

He stuck it under his tongue with a stubborn expression. "Ummph!" he replied. "Ut about da eeches?"

"Do you see any leeches?" she asked impatiently. Lord, he was going to drive her mad. He'd been prowling the cottage for the past few days, even surlier than he'd been before, coughing and sniffling and ignoring his symptoms as if giving in to them would be less than manly. She'd offered him aspirin, cold tablets, cough medicine, but he'd preferred whiskey, straight up. "Forget the leeches," she said.

Griffin grumbled an unintelligible response, then snatched the thermometer from his mouth. "The butcher will bleed me, then. 'Tis the same thing. Always with them 'tis bad blood. They should stick to what they do best, cutting hair."

She placed a hand on his upper arm to calm him, then hesitantly pulled it away as a flood of warmth raced up her arm. If she knew what was good for her, she'd make it a point not to allow herself the pleasure of touching him, especially when they were alone in a room with him half-dressed. "I promise you," she said, "this doctor will not bleed you, or cut your hair. He'll give you some medicine to help your cold."

"But I am not cold."

"You have a cold, or the ague, as you call it. I think you might have a bronchial infection-"

"Lung fever ," Griffin corrected, slapping his broad chest with his palm. "I know what ails me and I know how to cure it. A mustard poultice and a few drams of good whiskey."

Her gaze wandered to his hand as he idly rubbed his palm on his chest. Meredith, mesmerized, imagined her fingers doing the same, furrowing through the silky dark hair, drifting over the hard muscle and smooth skin. With a sharp breath, she glanced up at his face. "If you have an infection, the doctor will give you some antibiotics and you'll be fine," she said, her voice a bit uneven.

She drew a long breath. At first, she thought Griffin had just caught a common cold, a result of his midnight swim in Bath Creek, but then she realized he was stoically fighting something more. When she finally managed to force a thermometer between his teeth, she found a low-grade fever. It was then she realized that Griffin was probably at risk for any number of modern diseases and mutated germs.

"If I were you, I wouldn't mention the leeches again," Meredith said. "Just let me answer any questions the doctor asks."

"I can speak for myself," Griffin countered, putting the thermometer back into his mouth as if to signal the end of the discussion.

The door to the examining room opened and a woman in a white lab coat walked in. She held out her hand to Meredith. "I'm Dr. Susan McMillan. I'm taking care of Doc Kincaid's patients while he's on vacation. I usually work out of the medical center in Kitty Hawk." She held out her hand to Griffin, as well. Griffin glanced at Meredith before mimicking her handshake.

She knew what he was thinking. A doctor was bad enough, but a woman physician was guaranteed to arouse suspicion.

Dr. McMillan pulled the thermometer from Griffin's mouth. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Rourke?"

"Griffin," he said. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "Or Griff, if you prefer."

Dr. McMillan took a deep breath and blinked hard, obviously not immune to Griffin's infectious smile, but apparently shocked that he'd be so blatant about it. Meredith bit back a laugh. If he thought he'd be able to charm his way out of an exam, he had another guess coming.

"Griff," Dr. McMillan repeated. "What is the problem, then?"

"The problem is, I don't want to be here," he said in a seductive tone. "Merrie believes me to be ill, but as you can see I am in perfect health."

"I think he has a chest cold," Meredith amended. "He's had it for about a week. And now, I think it might be developing into a bronchial infection. He's been coughing a lot and running a low-grade fever for the past three days."

"His temperature is elevated," the doctor remarked. She adjusted her stethoscope and placed it on Griffin's naked chest. He jumped at her touch and she looked up at him in concern. "A little cold?" she asked.

He nodded. "That's what Merrie calls it, but I told her I don't feel cold. 'Tis lung fever. Or the ague." He watched the stethoscope suspiciously, frowning. To Meredith's relief, Dr. McMillan was listening more to Griffin's breathing than his self-diagnosis.

"Breathe in," she ordered. "Deep breath."

He did as he was told, over and over again, and Meredith watched the rise and fall of his chest. What if it was something more than just a cold? He could have tuberculosis or some other disease that he'd brought with him. Meredith clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers together. She couldn't bear it if she'd brought him here only for him to succumb to some twentieth-century illness.

When the doctor finished listening to his breathing, she pulled out a tongue depressor and held it up to his mouth. He drew back and stared at the flat stick as if the woman were holding a dead fish to his nose.

"Open," she said.

"You expect me to eat that?" he asked. He gave Meredith a knowing glance, as if the medicinal properties of eating a piece of wood were well known, even to his colonial mind.

"Open your mouth," Meredith said, arching her eyebrow.

Hesitantly, he parted his lips.

"Open wide," Dr. McMillan said. As soon as she touched his tongue with the depressor, he pulled back. She looked at him in amusement. "I know most people hate the way it feels, but I need to see what's happening down there."

Dr. McMillan methodically proceeded to look into Griffin's throat, nose and ears, all the while dealing with his reluctant behavior. After she'd finished, she scribbled a few notes in the file, then turned to Griffin. "You do have a lot of congestion in your chest. We'll try a normal course of antibiotics and if it doesn't dear up, I'd like to do a chest X ray and a few more tests. I'll give you an injection right now and some tablets to take for the next ten days. I want you to be sure to take the entire course of medication. I'll be right back."

Meredith winced. An injection? If Griffin balked at the tongue depressor, he surely wouldn't care for a needle. She silently watched as the doctor left the room.

"She's not going to bleed me?" he whispered once she left.

"Griff?" Meredith asked, ignoring his question. "I could have told you that flirting with her wouldn't help, Griff . Maybe things are different in your time, but these days, doctors don't mess around with their patients."

"You sound like a jealous harpy, Merrie-girl," he teased.

"I'm not jealous! I just don't want you to make a fool of yourself. People will begin to ask questions that neither you nor I are prepared to answer."

"I never play the fool," he said, turning his smile on her.

She paused. "Then I better warn you now. She's going to give you a shot. But don't worry. Though it might look a little scary, it's really nothing. Children have them all the time."

"Scary?" Griffin asked.

"Well, there's a needle. And she'll inject some medicine into your arm, or maybe your backside, but-"