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brown fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat. Reaching down, he took her by the wrist and pressed the coin from his pocket into her hand.
    She looked down at the gold sovereign in her palm. It represented more wealth than she had ever in her life seen at one time, and it burned her flesh as if it were still molten from the coin press.
    Her fingers closed around it, and she looked up at him. He was smiling at her, and she hated him. She hated him because she could use the money—oh, she could use it and now more than ever—and she hated him for knowing that, knowing she could use it, and for pitying her and thinking she'd be grateful. And she hated him because in some way that she only dimly understood she wanted him to like her, wanted him to want her, wanted him, and he could never be hers.
    "I don't need yer charity, ye bloody bastard!" she cried, and she flung the coin at his face.
    It struck him on the cheekbone and bounced to the floor. She stood looking at him, shocked at herself, at what she had done, and then she whirled to run.
    He grabbed her waist. She cried out as his arm wrapped around her bruised ribs. Something sharp seemed to stab right through her lung and a wave of pain washed over her, so intense that her vision blackened. Swaying dizzily, she bent over, clutching her middle, and moaned deep within her throat.
    He had let her go immediately when she first cried out, but now he touched her shoulder. "My God, Delia, what is it? Are you hurt?"
    She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. "'Tis my ribs. I think they're busted."
    "Here, can you straighten up?"
    She nodded and straightened slowly, but the pain stabbed at her again and she gasped. He moved his fingers over her midriff, and she sucked in a sharp breath when he touched the sore spot.
    "Has someone been beating on you?"
    She bit her lip and nodded. "My da belted me a good one. He was the worse for drink."
    "Take off your bodice—"
    She gasped, backing away from him. "Oooh, ye men, ye're all alike, ye are. I hate ye all!"
    "For God's sake, Delia, I'm a physician. I can't examine you properly with your clothes on. If your ribs are broken, they'll need to be bound up."
    She had done it again, made a fool of herself in front of this man. More than anything she wanted to be away from here, from him; away, away, so that she could forget all this had ever happened.
    But he was a doctor, and he wouldn't let her go until he was satisfied he had ministered to her needs. "All right, I'll take it off," she said reluctantly. "But ye have t' turn yer back whilst I do it."
    His brows went up and she thought he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead he turned his back on her, going over to the gateleg table where his physician's implements were laid out. He shook a few dried leaves from a jar and began to crush them in a mortar and pestle. As he worked, the muscles of his arms bunched beneath the thin shirt and his shoulders flexed, pulling the satin cloth of his waistcoat tight across his broad back.
    "Take it off, Delia," he ordered, not bothering to turn around.
    Delia started guiltily and flushed as if she'd just been caught with her fingers in the honey jar. Her hand shook as she unraveled the laces of her bodice and pulled it over her shoulders, letting it drop from her bare arms to the floor. Then she pulled her shift from beneath the waistband of her petticoat, drawing it over her head. This, too, she let fall to the floor. She stood in the middle of the room, naked from the waist up, and though the fire still burned brightly in the grate, her skin tightened and pimpled as if with a chill.
    Ty turned around, taking a step toward her. Then his eyes dropped to her bare breasts and for the briefest moment his step faltered.
    She tried to cover herself with her hands, but she was too well-endowed. She had never felt more naked in her life. And she was more naked than she had ever been in her life, for she always slept in her shift and bathed in it