Painted Trust Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  EPILOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Painted Trust

  Elsa Holland

  Painted Trust Copyright © Elsa Holland. All Rights Reserved.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  EPILOGUE

  THE PAINTED HEART ~ Prequel to Painted Trust

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  CHAPTER 1

  Edinburgh, Scotland 1889.

  Windswept clouds smudged the sky and a relentless, tenacious wind pressed against her front. Edith leaned forward, her body weight helping to propel her onward. It was as if the wind sought to halt her progress, as if it desperately tried to encourage her to turn back, to forget her plans and flee as far and as fast as she could from a city that held certain death. She’d run once before and it hadn’t worked; this time she would make sure that when she ran, she would run off the edge of the earth.

  At number forty-eight Surgeons Square, Edith closed her eyes and took a slow breath, then another, steeling herself for the task ahead. You can do this. She opened her eyes and before doubt made her change her mind, reached out and lifted the icy door-knocker hitting it against the glossy black wood.

  Three hard knocks vibrated through her hand and rang out down the street. It was a baton thumping on castle gates. It was a request for refuge, or perhaps, much like her heart, it was the sound of hope beating frantically against the odds.

  The door opened.

  Her breath hitched.

  This was it.

  An elderly man filled the doorway and from behind him came the familiar smell of astringents, a little sharp, a little pungent. The smell of anatomy, of sterilization and preservation, of investigations and dissections.

  “Miss Appleby?” The old man asked, face expressionless.

  “That’s correct.” Her hand clenched the handle of her valise as she held the old man’s gaze.

  The old man did not move aside as she expected but stood firmly in the doorway; not a promising sign.

  “You’re a bit young.”

  Nerves scuttled down her spine, was she too young? Had she overdone the credentials in her application? It was possible.

  Shrewd eyes watched her, measuring her against some private standard. Edith drew herself taller. She would not be interrogated on the doorstep. The wind pushed her coat against her back and tugged at her hat as one second ticked by, followed by another.

  The old man didn’t move.

  Neither did she.

  Edith held her gaze firm as her annoyance and concern grew. What if she never even got in the door?

  Another gust of wind battered against her. Her free hand flew up to hold down her hat until the flurry passed and still the old man stood there.

  Scots—they were ornery, stubborn and distrustful.

  She arched a single brow. “Perhaps I have the wrong address? Or perhaps you mistakenly believe it is your role to conduct final interviews on your master’s front step?”

  He registered her remark with an audible sigh. “I hope you have more where that came from, lass.”

  Backbone is what Dr Vaughn’s butler was relaying she needed if she intended to stay. The doctor’s reputation was brilliant, but as an employer, demonic. His inability to keep staff was what had gotten her this far, a woman with no contactable referees. Well, the old man had no idea, she’d already faced horror in the human form and survived, a bad tempered forensic surgeon would be a relief.

  Edith looked the man in the eyes. �
��Plenty, when required.”

  “We’ll see.” He stepped back and held the door for her to enter, and she let out the breath she was holding.

  A long escalating scream came from deep inside the house.

  They both stood still as the cry rang out. Edith on the portico, heart suddenly racing, and the old man waiting for her to enter.

  “Dr Vaughn is a forensic surgeon and anatomist?” Both those professions revolved around the dead. Working with cadavers was what she was comfortable with and, in her experience, the dead did not emit screams.

  “And surgeon. He is an eminent surgeon,” the butler replied.

  “He was.”

  “He is.” The old man must have seen the color drain from her face. His brow creased, and he looked at her as if she would turn tail and run.

  And maybe she should. She had little experience with live surgery.

  The tightness in her abdomen constricted further. “He retired from active surgery four years ago.”

  “He resumed six months ago. Why else do you think he needs someone like you?” The old man’s body tensed up as he spoke. “Will you be leaving?”

  Panic washed through her at the thought. She lifted her chin. Damn it, she had faced worse; far, far worse. This couldn’t be so hard, not after all her study and practice. She had read up on operating procedures till she dreamed of them. She could do this. Besides, she would only be assisting, handing over instruments and the like.

  Edith consciously relaxed her face and took in a deep breath. “I see. Well, it appears I have arrived just in time.”

  The old man looked relieved. It made his testing moments before a sham. Even if she had shown no backbone she would have been in the door.

  “Mr. Price, butler.” He reached out as he spoke, taking her small brown valise and ushering her inside.

  “And gatekeeper,” she replied.

  “And gatekeeper,” he agreed.

  The door clicked firmly behind her, leaving the wild wind and bleak sky on the other side, if not her troubles.

  CHAPTER 2

  Edith stepped inside the sparsely furnished black-and-white tiled foyer. On one side a large, gold-framed mirror sat above a glossy wooden sideboard, a solid chair at one end, and a single potted palm near the other. The other side of the room was clear.

  Stairs led to the private rooms above. From outside, she’d noted three floors. She assumed Dr Vaughn had the second floor, and staff, such as herself would occupy the third floor, and possibly the attic. The thought sunk in, she would sleep under this roof tonight, tonight and every night until either she was found, or when she run . . . for the last time.

  “We expected your arrival over an hour ago.” Mr. Price held out a hand for her hat and coat.

  “I walked.” She handed him her bonnet and started on the buttons of her coat. “I finally got comprehensible directions at the Old Thistle.” Her clean English accent sounded confident, though she still faced her biggest hurdle, the notorious and infamously difficult, Dr Anthony Vaughn.

  Despite her bravado, her hands shook, and her palms were clammy. Surgeon. She had skills aplenty for an anatomist, but her surgery skills were limited to those derived from books and practice on cadavers.

  The butler tsked as he hung her outerwear in the hall cupboard. “I’m afraid we’ll need you to get started immediately. I’ll see to your belongings until the doctor confirms you’ll be staying.”

  Her heart lurched.

  “Now? Perhaps I could change? Start tomorrow?” Perhaps she should forget this and try a run for freedom now; forfeit the documents she desperately needed to acquire here and take her chances?

  Another howl wailed through the house, this time as if the owner were passing the innards of hell through his vocal cords.

  Her heart beat faster. What if she failed? What if the doctor took one look at her, saw the extent of her inexperience and threw her out before she got what she needed? Tension settled back in her gut. A quick look at the front door brought Mr. Price’s thick wiry brows down over his eyes.

  The howls increased in volume, moving about the residence as if the wild winds had in fact slipped under the door and joined them.

  Double doors at the far right of the room flung open, hitting the walls on either side in syncopated thunder.

  Clap. Clap.

  Edith jumped.

  A stallion of a man strode into the foyer.

  She took an involuntary step back before she got control of her cowardly legs.

  That couldn’t be him.

  She flashed a look at Mr. Price, who had turned his attention to her belongings, totally immune to the doors and the man.

  Her gaze returned to the six-foot three inches of scowling stallion as the doors swung shut behind him. He stood, hands on tapered hips and his chocolate-colored hair oddly mussed. A remarkable and very delicious ripple trickled down her spine.

  Oh no; no, no, no. After years of being indifferent to men, now she found one attractive?

  She took another step backward and his scowl deepened, as if to warn her that one more retreat would see him unleash the hounds of hell.

  Her throat tightened as she swallowed, unless she could get the effect he was having on her under control, she would be in trouble.

  And confound it, no illustrations or photographs of him had accompanied his entries in the various medical journals she’d searched, but from the tone of his writing, from his views, Edith had always imagined a medico steeped in formaldehyde.

  Perhaps he was an assistant sent to check on her arrival?

  Her eyes darted over him in hope, though she didn’t honestly expect anything to deny what she already knew.

  He was the infamous Dr Vaughn.

  His apron and rolled-up sleeves both showed signs of blood, and his bearing shouted his position. He was the ultimate candidate for the Hippocratic Oath. A wielder of life and death in a body built to suture the two realms together.

  Confidence leaked out of her like a broken blood bag. This was not a man to manipulate, let alone try to fool, and yet she needed to do both to complete her task and stay alive. Her feet itched to take another step back.

  “You’re late.” His voice was a delicious rumbling sound that again challenged her concentration. He didn’t wait for a response but moved toward her, his eyes focused on hers, sending a shot of self-awareness through her body and pinning her to the spot.

  Her pulse thudded in her neck. Each step, each movement he took toward her was charged with the powerful beauty of a creature that had earned its elevated place in the world.

  “The train from London, Miss Appleby, arrives at ten eighteen. From platform to street a cab can be hailed in under fifteen minutes.” He stopped in front of her and that voice continued to rumble out of his chest, swallowing what little remained of clear, coherent thought. “The journey from the station to this practice is a further twenty-five minutes. By my calculation that makes you well over an hour late and surgery has been held up fifteen minutes. I have a man bleeding out on a gurney while you chose to take tea en–route.”

  He was a forensic surgeon, an extraordinary anatomist who went through bodies faster than hell was accepting souls. A man she was pinning all her hopes upon. Yet, despite the gravity of the situation she found herself in, and the vexation of the esteemed man surgeon in front of her, Edith struggled to make sense of what he was saying; the words were merely sounds rolling scrumptiously and alarmingly through her insides. Instructions to her arms, legs and torso went ignored.

  Immobilized, Edith stared up into mesmerizing steel-colored eyes, their silver shine like a scalpel under lights. Her breathing became irregular and choppy like the surface of a lake in a portending storm. How was she going to concentrate if she had to look into them all day?

  She opened her mouth to explain that she’d walked, that the Scottish accent had led to some misunderstandings of direction that she would never intentionally dally for tea en-route.

  But
instead, “You’re the Butcher,” landed in the space between them.

  Damn.

  His eyes opened in surprise at his nickname, then pulled together into a scowl.

  Double damn.

  Rallying, Edith pushed her shoulders back and lifted her head, which now contained a foggy and malfunctioning organ. “Or so I was told.” She sounded like an idiot.

  “Gossip is an unattractive trait, Miss Appleby. You will refrain from it whilst in my employ.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Your nickname is well-known, I read it in a journal.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Her brows came down and heat washed over her cheeks.

  “Nonsense? Are you insinuating I don’t understand what I read or that I couldn’t possibly read a medical journal?” Her hands made their way to her hips.

  The doctor leaned down to her. “I would think very carefully about what you say next, Miss Appleby. You are not registered with the British Nurses Association, nor have you had any experience in a hospital or field hospital. In fact, you stand before me on very thin credentials, and even those are concerningly difficult to verify.”

  Edith clamped her lips together, forcing herself to remain silent. She knew he was difficult, she should have been prepared to hold her tongue.

  He moved, placing a large hand between her shoulder blades. The touch scorched through the fabric of her dress, making her nerves jump. She needed to find a way to turn this around. Instead of directing her to the front door, Dr Vaughn propelled her in the direction of the double doors he had come through.

  “You’re not throwing me out?” She ventured, heart hammering in her chest.

  “Not yet,” he growled back.

  CHAPTER 3

  On the other side of the swing doors they started down a well-lit corridor of polished wood, no hall tables, no pictures on the walls and no potted ferns, none of the decorative features seen in other stately homes.

  Edith darted a glance at him as the doors closed behind them. “I expected to be working in an anatomical practice, that is what I excel in.” she tactically mentioned, taking a sideward glance at him. He remained focused on the destination ahead.

  “The advertisement said, ‘nurse for surgical practice.’” His tone relayed his irritation as he moved them with increased speed towards the double doors at the far end of the corridor.

  “But your reputation . . .” she walked faster.

  “Are we back to ‘The Butcher’?” He bit out.