Gayle Wilson - Anne's Perfect Husband

“It may stay in place for the next forty years, and if it does, you will die an old man, peacefully in your own bed. Or it may shift tomorrow and pierce your heart. In that case…”

He paused, and Ian finished it for him. “In that case, I won’t die an old man, peacefully or otherwise.”

McKinley let the silence build a moment, but he didn’t deny the truth of what his patient had said.

“I should advise you to avoid the kind of physical exertion you recently engaged in. That may not be the life you would have chosen for yourself, Mr. Sinclair, but it is life,” the doctor said. “And much preferable to the alternative, I should think.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Ian said, fighting the disappointment of a ridiculous hope he hadn’t even realized he had been harboring.

“I take it your brother doesn’t know.”

“I prefer that he never does. What good would it do?”

“He is very anxious about you. Since you have not told him the truth, he quite naturally feels that your convalescence has been unnecessarily slow.”

“And no doubt certain that your well-known skills could remedy the situation.”

“I would that they could, Mr. Sinclair,” McKinley said.

“So do I,” Ian admitted with a smile. “However, since they can’t…And not one of us is guaranteed even one more day, of course. That is a lesson I saw demonstrated quite effectively in Portugal. I have simply received notice to live each of mine as well as I can.”

“I have no doubt that you will. What do you wish me to tell the earl?”

“That he isn’t rid of me yet,” Ian said. “It is, after all, nothing less than the truth.”

“I’m sure he’ll be relieved,” McKinley said. And then, as his patient reached for the bell on the table beside the bed, “Don’t bother the servants. I can see myself back to the parlor. If you have need of my services in the future, do not hesitate to send for me.”

As the door closed behind the physician, the eyes of Ian Sinclair focused on the fine plaster ceiling above his head. The verdict had been nothing he hadn’t known, he told himself.

There were things in his life he regretted, but the actions that had led to his being wounded were not among them. And he would therefore deal with the consequences of them without complaint. It was better, however, that he deal with them alone. He had always known that. Better for him. And much better for his family.

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