Charlotte felt a strange current skitter through her veins that made her shiver. He was making her sound like she had some sort of magical power over him. “I didn’t give you direction, Mr. Rutledge. I deceived you. Ignored you.” She rolled her shoulder with a wince. “Disobeyed you.”

“You tolerated my less than honorable conduct with a grace I didn’t deserve.” He was looking at her now with an intensity that was making her pulse do strange things. “And then defended me. Like my very own Jeanne d’Arc.” There was an odd note of reverence in his statement, and another shiver streaked through her, even as she told herself that it was the historic maiden, not herself, who held his regard. To think otherwise threatened to scatter her wits beyond repair.

“Jeanne d’Arc was burned to death at the stake for her visions of St. Michael,” Charlotte tried, aiming for levity and failing miserably. “I have no such aspirations, I can assure you, Mr. Rutledge.”

“Flynn,” he said, moving closer to the side of the bed again. “Call me Flynn. And I will call you Charlotte. I think it’s about time we got that part right, don’t you?”

Charlotte hesitated. “From a professional standpoint, I’m not sure that—”

“I ripped your shirt in two. Strict professionalism might be compromised.” He gave her a wry smile.

Charlotte felt herself flush to the roots of her hair. If he was trying to make her laugh or put her at ease, he wasn’t doing any better at levity than she had. Because all she could think about now was just how much she might want to do just that to him.

And not while either one of them was insensible.

“Very well,” she managed. “Flynn.”

The smile abruptly disappeared, and his eyes fastened on hers. He reached out, and his finger slowly traced a path down the side of her cheek. It was such a gentle, tender gesture that it made Charlotte want to burst into tears. It was only the fierce burn of her shoulder that kept her from reaching up and catching his fingers with hers as if that could keep him here forever.

“So you won’t make me leave?” she whispered raggedly.

His hand suddenly dropped, and he averted his eyes from her face. “Of course not,” he said curtly, stepping away from the bed. “You should rest. Probably for a few days. And for pity’s sake, stay off the scaffolding. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood, and I have no desire to scrape you off the floor if you get light-headed at the top.” He retrieved the remaining lantern from the washstand and made his way to the door.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said quietly.

“It was nothing. I’ve stitched up more individuals than I care to remember.” He paused in the doorway, though he didn’t turn to look at her.