1919

"The first time we made love," Saoirse read aloud from one of her aunt's diaries, "he tried to take me from behind, like an animal..."

She cleared her throat, on the verge of a giggle. Aoife had been a prolific diarist her whole life and a bookshelf in the library-cum-study was dedicated entirely to her journals.

"But I held him to me," Saoirse continued, in a mock-sensual fashion, "held his body against mine and kissed him on the lips. 'Lie down,' I told him. He did. I sat astride his hips and guided his big rough hands to my bosom. He rose to suck on my breast like a babe and a fire began to burn at my core. I felt him underneath me, too, coursing with arousal. I do not know which words to choose henceforth...Alas, I can think of none that can prettily convey the truth of the matter: my Eachann had a great big – "

Saoirse stopped short. Beside her, James flipped his notebook shut, glancing her way. They'd fetched some journals from the study and sat on the settee so they could keep an eye on Sorley while examining the mystery of his existence.

"Go on, then," the doctor encouraged her.

She felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck. "I'm not sure you want to hear the rest."

"Saoirse, please." Mischief glinted in his eyes. "I am a trained physician. I don't shy away from anatomical descriptions."

"All right."

Her thumb found the row where she'd left off but seeing the crude detail her aunt had gone into, Saoirse squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to shake the mental image out of her brain.

"Oh, I can't!" She discarded the diary and buried her face in her hands. "This is my auntie, for crying out loud! My poor eyeballs..."

James reached for the journal, chuckling. "Your aunt could have passed an anatomy examination with this," he said as he skimmed through, page after page. "It goes on forever!"

Saoirse slumped on the settee, her head thrown back as she stared at the ceiling. "I envy her, really," she whispered.

"You and me both," James replied, almost absent-minded.

Saoirse stole a glimpse in his direction. His white, creamy cheeks and his slim, smooth fingers roused a tingle in her spine. She strained to suppress it, feeling filthy in the company of such a sweet, innocent youth. Not only was he a few years her junior, but he'd also never witnessed any of the war horrors that had become so ingrained in her flesh.

The youngest of four brothers, James had been made to stay at home and finish his medical studies, despite a staunch desire to join his peers in serving his country. A cautionary measure which had paid off when all three of his elder brothers never came back from the Western Front. The Mortimer bloodline still had a chance to prevail, except, well...

James had fled the good society of Edinburgh once his studies no longer retained him there and settled instead in the little coastal town of North Berwick. His friends in the city – those few who had returned from France – could hardly bear him in their midst, nor could he bear himself.

This self-imposed exile also served to keep him away from all the 'suitable' girls his family were very keen on introducing him to. James didn't care much for marriage, or girls, and while everybody else surmised grief, or embarrassment, Saoirse and her aunt had argued otherwise among themselves over tea.

Still, he had the fullest lips, red like strawberries, and Saoirse was tired. She couldn't even remember when she'd last had a strawberry. Must have been that summer, since Aoife grew some in the garden. Thoughts swam in her weary mind, consciousness slowly slipping as vivid dreams engulfed her.

James turned his head and his mouth closed in, unobstructed. Their lips met briefly, somewhere between trance and truth, but in another instant, he was pushing her away. Resurfacing to reality, Saoirse gasped for breath and jumped to her feet away from him.

"I'm sorry, forgive me," she mumbled, "I don't know what's come over me..."

But she covered her mouth, because she did know what had come over her.

It had been five years since her husband had left their home for the last time, four since his passing. In all that time, Saoirse had not taken another man to her bed and the abstinence, mingled with wretched melancholy and lonely exhaustion, had made her desperate.

So desperate, she'd lunged for a kiss from a man she strongly suspected to be queer.

"I should go," James said, gathering his coat and hat, "do my rounds."

"Yes, of course." Saoirse walked him to the front hall. "I do apologise, that was – "

"No, don't." He had a pitiful smile on as he twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. "It's...it's my fault, too, I..." He gulped. "You must know, Saoirse, I never meant to confuse you, I do genuinely enjoy your company, only – "

"I know," she interceded, "I do know, James, which is why I hope you'll accept my apology – "

As he was about to, a sharp scream resounded from the front room and they both rushed in to find Sorley up on his feet, crying and shrieking.

"Sorley!" James called out to him. "Sorley, man, it's Dr Mortimer, you're all right – "

Though as the doctor tried to approach the wounded man, Sorley shoved him aside, knocking him over.

"James!"

Saoirse crouched by the doctor crumpled in a corner of the room. He'd fallen with a worrisome thud but he swatted her off, directing her to pacify the perplexed patient instead. Sorley staggered around the room, groaning and growling. She stood herself at a safe distance in front of him.

"You're all right," she told Sorley in the most soothing voice she could muster. "Hey, listen to me..." His eyes flicked to her fingers beckoning him. "You're all right now, you'll be okay. I've got you, you're safe."

He took a cautious step forward. She dared to inch towards him, too, holding up her hands to show she meant no harm.

"I've got you, big guy. You're with Sister Saoirse now, you'll be safe. Upon my word," her voice began to tremble with emotion, "you will be safe, if it's the last thing I do."

Her palms cupped his tear-stained cheeks and he folded in her arms, taking her to the floor with him as he sobbed at her chest.

*

Sorley couldn't recall how he'd ended up injured or at sea and didn't remember anything before that, either. He didn't even know his own name, let alone aunt Aoife or Dr Mortimer.

"I'm sorry," he told the latter once they'd all sat down with cups of tea, "did I hurt you?"

"No, not in the slightest."

Sorley fidgeted with the little teacup in his hands, as if he didn't know what to do with it. Saoirse relieved him of its burden and the grateful smile he gave her broke her heart. He looked pitiful, wrapped up in a kilt that was dropping off his shoulders, his head bandaged and his big, round eyes, black as coal, fogged over because of the pieces missing from his memory.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked him. "I could fix you some breakfast. I know I could use some."

"I – yes, thank you, I am hungry."

Surprisingly enough, he remembered manners and it made him that much more endearing.

"Stay put," she instructed him, "Lie down if you like. I'll bring the food over."

He stretched on the settee as soon as she stood up and James followed her into the kitchen.

"We need to take him to a hospital," he muttered.

"No, we do not."

"Saoirse, this is serious. His head wound must be worse than you expected."

"With all due respect, doctor," she busied herself with pots and pans, "I do believe I've seen more head wounds than you. Unless he's running a fever – which you have confirmed he's not – there's nothing a hospital can do that I cannot. Besides," she turned to look him square in the eye, "no one must know about him. Aunt Aoife willed it so. Why that is, I have yet to find out, but until then, we do as she says."

James knew better than to question her extensive experience – or aunt Aoife's immortal wisdom.

"All right. But if anything happens, you ring me right away and I'm driving him to Edinburgh. Understood?"

"Yes, yes, now go on," she ushered him away. "You're already late for your rounds. Tell those nosey chatterboxes I have a cold – or better yet, make it a highly contagious disease. That'll keep them away if they're feeling curious."

"I'll think of something," James conceded. "Take care, Saoirse."

The doctor left her to her breakfast preparations and when she brought it to Sorley on a tray, she found him snoring softly. Smiling, she left the tray on the low table before the settee, pulled the kilt up to his shoulders and sat on the floor, watching him as she ate.