He looked quite taken aback. She must be gentler with him. Had he always been so literal-minded or was this a symptom of some kind? She had no books on the topic of war trauma. She wasn't sure there were any. The understanding of emotions did not seem to be included in any of Edmund's medical texts. Not even Childbirth and the Practices of Midwifery, which really ought to have some grasp of female emotional concerns if anything did.

She was going to have to make this up as she made her way, with Mr. Bing's help. She had little to go on but her own experiences with men in the medical tents, and Mr. Bing, and sadly, Edmund.

However, Mr. Worthington was ready to be done with them. "Cannot ride?"

Gemma exchanged a glance with Mr. Bing, who shook his head firmly. "Not if you don't want yon beastie to come up lame, permanent-like. That lad needs a long rest on a pile of straw. You're lucky he didn't split a hoof on the limestone. It's everywhere in the dale, sometimes only just under the sod. You think it's just a wee bit o' stone, when it's really the breadth of a barn."

"Iceberg."

Gemma and Bing glanced at each other and looked back to their visitor. "Iceberg?" Gemma said curiously.

"Sea ice," he said slowly. "Hiding … under the surface. Large as castles." He looked up at them rather defensively. "My youngest sister — likes to know things."

Gemma understood immediately that here was a man who not only loved his sister but listened patiently to her when she nattered on about the secret life of sea ice.

I like him. She shouldn't, for he was a patient. Still, perhaps it was better to like a patient than to dislike one. Not that it mattered to her duty of care.

"And it is in London that you reside? What part of town?" She asked with airy familiarity, although she'd never been to the city herself. She had a good reason for asking, although she wasn't planning to tell him why.

"Worthington House." He looked discomfited. "Worthington Square."

His family had a city square named after them? How very grand. Yet his clothing was well-worn, even his boots. Very mysterious, this Mr. Lysander Worthington.

She began to lift the bowl without thinking and winced as her wrist reminded her. Before she could set it down, it was lifted from her hands. Mr. Worthington stood so close she could feel the warmth of his body on her skin. Suddenly rather dry of mouth, she could only gesture toward the pan. He carefully poured the giant bowl of beaten egg into the sizzling pan. Then he stepped back.

She was grateful for that. Unfortunately the room seemed suddenly much more chilly.

Standing about dream-weaving? There's work to be done, Gemma.