Highland Crown

by May McGoldrick

  Isabella wasn’t waiting around for an invitation to help. “I need pitchers of cold water and clean cloths I can use for bandages,” she ordered. “And more light.”

  Hearing no response, she looked up and found the men staring at their employer.

  “The surgeon is coming,” he said curtly.

  “Do you see his arm? The wound must be cleaned of the blood to prepare him for your surgeon.”

  The hedgerows tilted to one side. “Have you any idea what you’re doing, woman?”

  She rolled up her sleeves. “I know what to do, and I won’t hurt him. I promise.”

  A long pause followed. Then, to Isabella’s relief, Searc ordered the men to go and send up the housekeeper with what she needed.

  He stood at the foot of the bed, and she saw his hand move inside his coat again when Isabella took the knife from Cinaed’s boot. Ignoring him, she used it to cut the sleeve from the injured arm. His shirt was already torn, and it took only a moment to remove it. She inspected the bandages on his chest.

  “Who are you?”

  She unwrapped the bloody strips from Cinaed’s arm. Her attention focused on the wound, but she was aware of the man watching her every move. For every question he asked, she had no doubt there would be ten more.

  “Who are you?” he repeated, sharper than before.

  His wife. She was Cinaed Mackintosh’s wife. The words wouldn’t leave her lips. What did she know about him if Searc didn’t believe her? He was owner and captain of the Highland Crown. His brig sank off Duff’s Head. But what else did she know? He was fast with a knife and braver than any man who ever lived. But that wasn’t enough. What if he asked when had they met? Or wed? Or anything else, for that matter?

  “Do you have a name, woman?”

  The housekeeper barreled into the room, carrying a pitcher and basin. A serving girl carried a candle and cloths. Isabella motioned to put them on a table beside the bed.

  “Could you bring him something to drink?” she asked the housekeeper. “And perhaps some broth, if the cook can manage it.”

  “And whiskey,” Searc ordered, sending the two women scurrying from the room.

  She held the candle where she could see the wounded arm better. Thankfully, the ball traveled through the fleshy part of his bicep. She carefully shifted the arm and peered at the bullet’s exit.

  “It missed the bone entirely,” she said, relieved. “The ball went straight through.”

  Wetting a clean cloth, she washed the dried blood from around the damaged flesh.

  “You can’t stay here unless you tell me this minute who the devil you are and what business you have tending to him,” Searc threatened. “For all I know, you could be the one who shot him. You could be a blasted spy sent here to meddle in my affairs.”

  Isabella recalled Cinaed’s warning that Searc would be no friend to her. “If you please, I know and care nothing about your affairs. Now you will kindly remain silent and let me focus on what I have to do.”

  She was pressing hard with the cloth near the wound, and Cinaed gasped. He blinked a few times, staring at the ceiling.

  “Your arm stays,” she whispered to him. “I’m cleaning it now.”

  “Isabella?” His head turned, and his eyes slowly focused on her face.

  “You need to lie still.”

  “Come closer.”

  She leaned over him.

  “Closer.”

  His voice was weak. She decided whatever he was going to tell her was for her ears only and not for the bulldog standing at the foot of the bed. But before she could speak, Cinaed reached up with his good arm. His hand slipped around the nape of her neck, and his lips closed on hers.

  His lips were parched and hot from the fever, the texture of his whiskers rough on her chin. Despite it all, her heart leaped, and she reveled in the touch of their mouths. His head dropped back too soon, ending the kiss.

  “Whatever you do,” he said wearily. “When our bairn is born, don’t name him Searc.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Respect was mingled with surprise,

  And the stern joy which warriors feel

  In foeman worthy of their steel.

  —Sir Walter Scott, “Lady of the Lake,” Canto V, stanza 10

  In the medical chain of being—the rigidly structured hierarchy of practitioners—the physician occupied the highest rung on the professional ladder, far above the lowly surgeon. In the British mind, conditioned as it was to the benefits of class structure, the system made perfect sense. If one wished to compare the physician with the surgeon, one might as well compare the archangel with the honeybee. But if the physician were a woman, Isabella learned long ago, she had no place in this order of beings, regardless of her education and her training. It was only due to the open-mindedness of her father and husband that she had practiced at all.

  Or so the men around her believed.

  Her life in medicine had taught her that the privileges of gender or title or even education, in some cases, were meaningless when it came to the ability to save a life. When it came to treating patients, talent and dedication and sincerity always took precedent. So as she looked over the shoulder of the surgeon Searc brought in to tend to Cinaed, she was relieved the man seemed to encompass all those qualities.

  Mr. Carmichael wore a perpetual frown on his face, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. But he immediately got off on the right foot with her when he arrived, removed his coat, and washed his hands before removing the dressings from Cinaed’s chest and arm. That alone set the man apart from most others. After that, as he stitched the wounds, his speed and deftness of touch impressed her even more.

  As the needle and hempen thread drew his broken flesh together, Cinaed never stirred. Isabella was thankful for that. He didn’t need to withstand any more pain right now. The healing process would be difficult enough, and she prayed once again that he could outlast the fever. Prior to Carmichael’s arrival, Isabella had removed the rest of Cinaed’s clothes and washed him with the help of a footman. That had helped cool him a little.

  Once he was done with the arm, the surgeon turned his attention to the chest wound. There was discoloration and swelling around the place where she’d stitched it. Cleaning it earlier, she knew exactly which sutures had burst.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night.”

  “And you removed the bullet?”

  “I had no choice. He was bleeding badly.”

  Searc Mackintosh had introduced her as Cinaed’s wife and then made a vague comment about midwifery. She couldn’t recall exactly if she’d told him that or if he’d made the information up.

  “You could have killed him digging about in his chest for a musket ball.”

  “I was sure he would die if I didn’t.”

  She could feel the surgeon’s searching gaze. But Cinaed’s sleeping face was also turned to her, and that sight buoyed her. Isabella couldn’t believe she’d found him on the beach at Duff’s Head only last night. Or was it this morning? The sequence of events, what happened and when, all swirled about in murky waters. Lack of sleep was catching up with her. She feared she’d soon forget her own name.

  “How was he shot?”

  She jerked around at the sound of Searc’s barked question. She’d forgotten he was still in the room. He hovered restlessly by the window, and Isabella was reminded of a similarly stocky vampire bat from the jungles of the Amazon. She’d seen it when Wombwell’s Menagerie came on tour to Edinburgh. A hideous-looking creature. It was, perhaps, wishful thinking on her part that he would fly out the window. If Searc were a vampire bat, he’d be more likely to clamp down on her throat and suck her veins dry.

  She’d narrowly escaped his inquisition when they’d first arrived. Cinaed had come to her rescue. Once again, she feared she would utter the wrong words and give herself away.

  “I did hear you say that the wound is from a gunshot. Did I not, Mr. Carmichael?”

&nbs
p; The surgeon had to be within the circle of trust, she surmised. If he weren’t, Searc would never ask such direct questions in his presence. She’d already learned the military barracks at Fort George and the soldiers stationed there were closely connected to life in Inverness. Even the whisper of a bullet wound could bring Hudson and his troops to this door.

  “Two wounds,” Mr. Carmichael stated. “One in the chest and one in the arm. The bullet that struck him in the chest is the one to worry about.”

  Searc’s eyebrows bristled as he scowled at Isabella. He had been trying to intimidate her since they’d arrived, and she hated to admit it, but he was succeeding. And she could count on one hand the number of people who’d successfully done that.

  “In all the years I’ve known the blasted scoundrel, he’s never been shot. You must be bad luck for him.”

  Isabella had a strained relationship with luck, to say the least. As a scientist, she’d always studied and worked hard and told herself she created her own luck. But as a woman, she’d come to realize that chance played an unavoidable role in people’s lives. But this was not the moment for philosophizing.

  She pointed to a scar near his hip. “This bullet wound occurred before he ever met me.”

  Searc glanced at the old injury and huffed.

  Isabella moved to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress and took Cinaed’s hand. Perhaps it was involuntary, or perhaps he was in the midst of another one of his dreams, but the strong fingers closed around hers.

  “We take care of our own.” Searc wouldn’t give up. “I need to know who shot him.”

  “He can answer for himself when he awakens,” she said tiredly.

  “You brought him here. You must know.”

  “I brought him here because he said you’re kin. He told me he trusts you and you would protect us and keep us safe until he heals.”

  She planted her elbows on her knees, clutching his hand, unwilling to let go. He had to heal. But what if he didn’t? Fever behaved unpredictably. It could kill him.

  Cinaed’s hand twitched. His face was turned toward the doctor. She studied the cords of muscle in his neck, the wide powerful shoulders that bore responsibility for others so selflessly.

  He would survive this. And he owed her nothing. Whatever she did for him in pulling him out of the sea, he’d returned tenfold in coming to her rescue at Stoneyfield House.

  His muscles twitched again, and the surgeon noticed it too. He paused until Cinaed’s breathing proved he was asleep.

  “I gave him some whiskey,” Isabella told Mr. Carmichael. “For pain and to help him sleep.”

  “You’ve done well by him.”

  She was glad to know there was one person in the room who could give her credit for doing the right thing.

  “You’re certain that nothing else was lodged in the chest before stitching it shut?”

  “None. I made certain of it.”

  The wound wouldn’t kill him. He’d be fine, Isabella told herself. But what about her? John Gordon was in the custody of the British authorities. She had no means of finding the girls. Each time she thought about it, the cold, sinking feeling of desperation that pervaded her body was paralyzing. It was even worse now than the days when they’d been hiding in that dank room in Edinburgh, fearing that any knock at the door or voice on the street meant imminent doom. At least the three of them had been together then. Now she had no one.

  “By the devil, where is the Highland Crown?”

  Searc’s tone was a sharp scalpel poking her wounds. In spite of her exhaustion, Isabella raised her chin defiantly. “That is for Cinaed to tell you.”

  “But you claim to be his wife. You should know.”

  “And you should know I’d never tell you about his ship, considering the … the special cargo.” Cinaed had blown up his own ship, and the explosions indicated he was carrying gun powder. A great deal of it. Searc’s interest told her he knew, or at least suspected, the nature of Cinaed’s business.

  His eyes were shining black stones beneath the hedgerows. “Is the cargo secure?”

  She wasn’t about to be the bearer of bad news. “You’ll need to wait.”

  “When did he arrive?”

  “Last night.”

  “You said he was shot last night.”

  Isabella let go of Cinaed’s hand and rubbed at the painful ache in her temples. They weren’t safe here. She wasn’t safe here. But she had nowhere to go. She couldn’t tell this man the truth, but she couldn’t lie either.

  “Where is the—?”

  “If you please…” the surgeon interrupted. “It’s critical that my patient receive our full attention now. I need Mrs. Mackintosh to assist me here in tending to the chest wound.”

  His request was direct and firm without openly challenging Searc’s authority.

  For a moment, the outcome hung in the balance. She didn’t know how close Carmichael’s relationship was with their host. When Searc jammed his hand into his jacket, she wondered if the surgeon was jeopardizing his life in standing up for her.

  Searc took a few paces toward the door, only to wheel and stomp back to the window. He was muttering incomprehensible words into the murky twilight. Then, abruptly, he turned and charged from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Isabella waited a moment before letting out a breath. “Thank you.”

  A slight nod was his only response. He’d already gone back to work on the chest wound. He was tying off the last stitch. He needed no assistance.

  “You use a continuous locking stitch,” she said absently. “The stitches are exemplary.”

  “So are yours.”

  She was speaking before thinking. Her unguarded observation only encouraged him to question her. It would be better to get the man talking about himself. “Where did you train, Mr. Carmichael?”

  “I served a five-year apprenticeship in Glasgow. Before I could be licensed as a surgeon, I needed further training. So I spent six months in Edinburgh.”

  Isabella suppressed her curiosity about where in Edinburgh he’d trained. She watched him collect his instruments.

  “Most of my practical training, however, came from working on several ships of the line during the war with Napoleon.” He used a wet cloth and dabbed the skin around the stitches, inspecting them all closely. “I did that for a decade.”

  Isabella wondered vaguely if Cinaed had a surgeon on his ship. She’d traveled several times between Scotland and the continent, but so much of that life was a mystery to her.

  “Why did you give up that career? It must have been lucrative during the war.”

  “It was … fairly. But I have a wife and three children now.”

  Her thoughts turned to Cinaed again and how much of his personal life she didn’t know about. Most seafarers must have families. He was a Mackintosh, but what did he call home? And did he have a woman or even a wife there?

  The memory of his lips pressing against hers brought back that momentary thrill, but she immediately buried it deep within her. Any repeat of that instant was beyond the realm of fantasy, and she understood his motivation for kissing her.

  “His fever?” the surgeon asked.

  “It came on today.” She searched for the right words. “He’s certainly overexerted himself since being shot.”

  He frowned, pressing the back of his hand to Cinaed’s temple. “I don’t recommend bleeding him. He’s already lost too much blood.”

  Isabella silently agreed. Treating fever commonly included cutting a vein and draining blood from the patient. In a situation where the fever was this high, a good doctor was expected to cut deeply and allow the patient’s blood to spurt into the air with every beat of the heart. Archibald had been a believer in the method, but she’d never seen evidence of its effectiveness.

  “Perhaps leeches,” Carmichael mused aloud. “Just to be safe.”

  She ran the back of her hand across her brow, brushing back an errant lock of hair. When a
feverish patient was too weak for bloodletting, leeches were considered useful. Rubbing the skin with sugar water, milk, or blood would persuade the leech to bite and suck blood until gorged. She was more open to such a controlled approach, but she still thought Cinaed would be better off without it.

  “Perhaps we should give my husband a chance to battle the fever on his own, without the loss of more blood.”

  Mr. Carmichael checked Cinaed’s pulse and brought his ear close to the chest to listen to the heartbeat. “Very well. I may send for the apothecarist to suggest a potion to help reduce the fever.”

  She’d had no faith in the potions she’d seen mediocre apothecarists produce in Edinburgh: tinctures, poultices, soups, and teas made with water or alcohol-based extracts of ground or dried herbs, animal bone, and whatever minerals the maker had at hand.

  “Why don’t we wait?” she suggested gently. “Considering his condition, the distinction between a medicine and a poison is hazy at best, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She’d read deeply on the subject when she was studying in Wurzburg and recalled Paracelsus declaring the only difference between a medicine and a poison was the dose. All medicines were toxic. It was cure or kill. And in her experience, very few apothecarists—even the good ones—took into account the particular patient when determining the right dosage.

  Mr. Carmichael pulled at his ear and began to say something but stopped. He turned his back and carried his instruments to the table.

  “Searc won’t be satisfied if I suggest we wait a few days to see how our patient does with his fever. As you’ve already seen, he demands answers and solutions. He wants everything to be done for your husband now. If he thinks I’m not doing the best job, he won’t hesitate to fetch another surgeon.”

  Isabella rubbed at the throbbing pain in her head. She wished she could explain to the bulldog downstairs that Cinaed was getting the best medical care possible. But it was impossible.

  “What do you suggest we give him?” the surgeon asked quietly.

  “Willow bark. Or the distilled water of the blackberry bush. Both are effective. Devil’s bit might be another good choice,” she added. “I’m certain they must have it here. The boiled root can be very powerful against…” Isabella stopped, realizing she’d said too much.