The look in his eyes was dangerous. Victoria bit her lower lip, taking another step backward. She didn’t want to bring him any weapon at all, much less a dueling pistol that wasn’t very accurate.
Quietly, she hurried from the room and found Mrs. Larson standing near the front door. “It’s Dr. Fraser. Shall I let him in?”
Relief rushed through Victoria, and she nodded. Paul Fraser had been a family friend since they’d arrived in Scotland. He’d been particularly close to Juliette and had written to her all during the years he’d studied medicine in Edinburgh. Although Victoria had only spoken to him on a few occasions, she trusted him implicitly. And more important, she needed him to look at Mr. Smith’s leg.
“Wait a moment,” she murmured, searching for a cloak to cover her nightclothes. Only when she was covered from throat to ankle did she nod for the housekeeper to allow him in.
Dr. Fraser’s dark blue eyes were bloodshot, his face darkened from soot, while his hair hung in a wild dark tangle. He looked like a man who’d come straight from a battlefield with blood covering his hands. He called out an order behind him. “Bring them in!”
“‘Them’?” Victoria whispered.
“I have men needing shelter from the cold. I’ve put a few patients in your barn, but these are more critical. They won’t be surviving the night in a tent. Will your mother mind, do you think?”
“She’s in London with my sisters.” Victoria hung back against the wall, pulling the cloak tighter around her. The idea of filling the house with wounded men bothered her, but neither did she want someone to die because of her cowardice.
“Good. We’ll set up a space in the parlor, and—”
“No. Not there.” Somehow, she managed to find her voice. “I-I’ve another patient in there. Mr. MacKinloch brought him in earlier after he was shot. He’s… English,” she finished.
Dr. Fraser’s face narrowed. “Aye, so your footman said. What do you ken of him?”
“Very little. I suppose he was a gentleman caught in the wrong place. He nearly bled to death after a boy shot him.”
The furious look in the doctor’s eyes made her retreat another step backward. Victoria wondered what she’d said, but it was clear he believed Mr. Smith was somehow involved in the burnings.
“He had nothing to do with what happened to the crofters,” she insisted.
“Strathland hired Englishmen to burn the crofters’ homes and drive them out,” Dr. Fraser said coolly. “He might have been one o’ them.”
She wanted to protest no, but the words wouldn’t come out. The anger in his eyes made her shrink away. In her heart, she didn’t believe it. The wounded stranger had been blunt in his demeanor, but never once had he tried to harm her. Somehow, she felt the need to protect him.
“I want you to heal his leg,” she said in a voice that belied her true fears. “Only then will I allow you to bring other patients into the house.”
“You’re nae understanding what’s happening out there,” Dr. Fraser argued. “These men are dying. Some of them with wives and bairns. You can’t be expecting me to help a man who might have caused it.”
“I expect you to tend a wounded man who caused none of their troubles. Or you will not use this house.”
Without waiting for an answer, she ascended the staircase, beckoning for Mrs. Larson to follow her. And when she reached the sanctuary of her room, she buried her face in her hands, wishing that all of them would go. Go away and leave her in the solitude she needed. She couldn’t bear to think of the hurt people surrounding her, invading the place she called home.
Asking her to be braver than she really was.
“Help me to get dressed,” she ordered Mrs. Larson, choosing a simple gown. The gray high-waisted garment did not flatter her, but she wanted to remain as invisible as possible.
Only belatedly did she remember that she’d left the black lace corset on a chair beside the wounded Mr. Smith.
Dr. Paul Fraser wiped his hands on a damp linen cloth, studying the wounded man who lay still within Victoria Andrews’s parlor. In the past three months, he’d treated so many burn victims, he never again wanted to smell the odor of charred flesh. The agony they’d suffered made him only more determined to bring down the Earl of Strathland. Hundreds of men, women, and bairns had been driven off their land, and countless others had died. All for a flock of damned sheep.
But this new patient wasn’t a farmer or a fisherman. His clothing was unusually fine, though the colors were plain. The brown wool tailcoat fit the stranger’s form as if it had been cut especially for him.
But who was he? Not one of the Strathland factors, nor a local landowner. Paul had never seen the man before.
English nobility. He’d stake his life on it.
“Where’d you find him?” he asked the footman, Mr. MacKinloch, who was lurking behind the door.
“Near Loch Monel,” he answered. “His servant was dead, too.”
From the tension in the patient’s body, Paul suspected the man was listening to their words. He didn’t for a moment believe that the stranger had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Men didn’t come to Scotland in the middle of winter for no reason.
“He’s someone important,” Paul observed, examining the gold ring upon the stranger’s finger. “This is a signet ring.”
“I asked my kinsmen, but they didna know him. He’s no’ a Sinclair, either.”
Paul opened up his bag and chose a scalpel. “Send for Mrs. Larson.”
The young footman did, and when he’d gone, Paul sensed a quiet presence behind him. With a glance, he spied Victoria standing at the door. “Planning to assist me, were you?”
She shook her head, retreating from them. It surprised Paul that she’d attempted to defend the man, as shy as she was. He didn’t doubt for a moment that the stranger was somehow connected with the Earl of Strathland. The question was, how?
“MacKinloch told me the stranger was shot in the leg,” he prompted, hoping she would reveal more.
“Y-yes. He was bleeding so badly, I sewed the wound shut. His name is Jonathan.”
“And his surname?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. I’ve been calling him Mr. Smith.”
If the man had refused to give his true name, then he had something to hide. Paul kept his tone quiet as he examined the wound more closely. “Why is he here?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Of course the stranger would never admit the truth. Not if he was intending to drive more crofters off the land.
God above, he was so tired. If he closed his eyes for a second, he’d sleep for the next year. He’d spent hour after hour tending to the wounded, but so many had suffered and died. He’d rescued a four-year-old girl from one of the burning homes, only to have her die in his arms an hour later.
Men like Strathland deserved to burn in hell for what they’d done. And if this man was involved…
Paul’s fist clenched as he struggled to gain control of his anger. As he stared at the wealthy man lying unconscious, he could almost smell the money. Men like this one knew naught of what it meant to go hungry.
But could he use the stranger to help the clansmen? Could he bargain with the Devil, demanding a ransom to feed the hungry survivors this winter? Fate had granted him an opportunity, and he’d not ignore the advantage. He’d fight for the weak, even if it meant facing the worst of consequences.
To begin with, he needed to gain the man’s attention. And he knew of one definite way to bring the man out of his stupor, if the stranger was indeed feigning his unconscious state. “I might have to remove the leg,” he lied. “Would your father have a saw I could use?”
The blood drained from Victoria’s face. “You will not cut off his leg in my house. He-he’s not that bad.”
With that pronouncement, the stranger opened his eyes and glared at him. As Paul had suspected, the man had heard every word. “I would prefer that you leave my leg on, Doctor.”
“Most men would.” He eyed Victoria and opened up his bag. After choosing a pair of scissors and a scalpel, he handed over the tools and instructed, “Boil these and bring them in the pot of water. Don’t be touching them. I also need strong soap and water for my own hands, if I’m to help this man.” His mother, a fey wife, had claimed that dirt attracted evil spirits. She’d sworn that boiling water would drive them off. Though it might be superstitious blethering, Paul had lost fewer patients than his colleagues. He hardly cared whether dirt caused the faeries to snatch men’s souls, but he’d clung to the homespun wisdom, in case there was a grain of truth in it.
He pulled back the dressing and studied the wound. “A bonny shade of pink thread,” he remarked to his patient. “Did you pick that out yourself?”
The stranger glared at him. “I was hoping for purple.”
Paul studied his patient. Intelligent green eyes stared back at him, as if assessing his character. “While she’s away, there are some things we should be talking about.”
“Like why you’re invading her household with wounded men?” The so-called Mr. Smith propped his head up with one hand and stared back at Paul. “How would her parents feel to know that you’ve taken possession of their home like this?”
“The same as they’d feel about their eldest daughter harboring a traitor,” he countered.
“I’m not a traitor.”
“You haven’t given your full name to Miss Andrews. You were shot, and I don’t doubt you have ties to Lord Strathland.” He stared at the man, hoping for any reaction to the name. There was none.
“I own land here, not that it’s any business of yours.” The stranger stared up at the ceiling. “But if you’ll fix my leg, it will be worth your time.”
Paul recognized the promise of money, but it wasn’t his own wealth he was interested in. There were dozens of families who needed it more than himself. Before he could voice a reply, Victoria returned with his instruments in a steaming pot of water. She set it down on the carpet beside the stranger, while Mrs. Larson followed with another basin and soap for him to wash. He scrubbed at his hands, keeping the shirtsleeves rolled up, while the two women retreated.
“How is your sister Juliette?” Paul asked Victoria while he snipped at the thread holding the wound closed. The young woman hadn’t answered any of the last three letters he’d sent, and her silence bothered him. It was as if he’d offended her somehow, and he didn’t know what he’d said.
“Juliette is in London with my mother and sisters,” Victoria answered. Paul grimaced, wondering if Lady Lanfordshire was seeking husbands for her daughters. There was no need for that, not when he’d proposed to Juliette twice already. She hadn’t said no… but neither had she given a reason for her reluctance. They’d been friends since he’d first laid eyes upon her… more than that, if he were honest.
If she didn’t care for him, she would have refused, he reminded himself. Once she returned, he was all the more determined to win her heart.
Paul concentrated on the stranger’s wound, opening it up. Thankfully, it was a small-caliber bullet and had missed the artery. It had only gone through the outside of the man’s thigh, and likely he’d survive. Yet, from the tightness of the skin and inflammation, this man would have a painful night ahead of him.
“You decided to stay behind again, did you?” he remarked to Victoria, inspecting the wound for any stray bullet fragments. “I wouldn’t say that was wise. I’ve warned the men to stay away from the house and leave your family alone, but I’ve no control over Strathland’s men.”
He knew Victoria had not left the house since the moment she’d arrived. Her shyness was different from most women, almost crippling in the way it kept her indoors. Though he’d heard of such conditions in his medical studies, he lacked the training to help her. The human mind was more complicated than any of them could have guessed. And if he attempted and failed, Juliette would blame him for it.
“I’ll be fine,” she answered. Paul made no reply, but he intended to ask more of the MacKinlochs to keep a close watch over her.
The stranger’s face tightened with pain, and Paul extracted a bit of torn clothing from the wound. “I’ll keep this open and let him bleed for a while to reduce the pus. When you sew it up too soon, it’s harder for the wound to heal.”
“I can’t let him bleed to death,” Victoria argued.
“Not all night,” he agreed. “But for a short time it will help.” With a sardonic glance toward his patient, he added, “I can give him sutures out of purple thread, if you have any.”
Victoria moved to the far side of the room while he continued to let the wound drain. When she was out of earshot, Paul lowered his voice and spoke to the wounded man. “I have other men who need my help.”
“Don’t bring them in here,” the stranger warned. He gritted his teeth as he sat up. “You might think nothing of taking over Miss Andrews’s house, but there’s no need to bully her further.”
“These are men’s lives.”
“And she’s an innocent.” Fury darkened the man’s face. “Use the other rooms for your field hospital. Not this one.”
“You’re no’ in a position to be giving orders,” Paul reminded him. Still, the icy tone to the man’s voice spoke of one who was accustomed to obedience.
Nodding toward Victoria, the stranger dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Don’t frighten her.”
Paul glanced over and saw that Victoria had picked up a black scrap of fabric. She folded it and tucked it away into a sewing basket. Though she had spoken not a word, he studied her more carefully. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, and her movements suggested that she didn’t want to be noticed. When Paul glanced back at the stranger, he saw a man who was trying to shield her in the best way he could. Which made no sense at all, given that they’d only just met.
“There are some unpleasantries she has no need to witness,” his patient said.
Paul’s opinion of the man shifted, but he still didn’t trust him. “I’ll put them in the dining room this night.” Though the stranger’s wound was already inflamed and draining, the true test would come later, to determine whether the inflammation worsened. Turning back to Victoria, he said, “If he begins shivering, come and fetch me quick.”
Her eyes widened, but she gave a nod. He didn’t need to say more for her to understand what that meant.
“Do you have anything for his pain?” she asked.
Paul wanted to laugh. Though he’d acquired small quantities of medicinal herbs from the Royal Botanical Gardens on his last visit to Edinburgh, he didn’t possess nearly enough. “It depends on what he’s willing to pay for it.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Dr. Fraser,” Victoria chided. “If you have medicine that will take away a man’s pain, then you should not be asking for money.”
“I’ve a tincture of opium that cost me dearly,” Paul admitted. “I had planned to use it for one of the crofters, but if he pays me for it, I can get more. Cain Sinclair can arrange it.”
Mr. Smith revealed his waistcoat, offering, “These buttons are gold. Take them as payment.” His face had gone paler, and Paul saw that the blood from his bullet wound was now running clear. He nodded to Victoria. “Bring me the thread now, and I’ll stitch him back up.”
“Please, Doctor,” came a child’s voice. Paul turned and saw a small boy standing at the doorway. “Could you come and help me mother? Sh-she’s bad off.” The child’s eyes held fear and Paul nodded. It took every ounce of his physician’s training to remain stoic, for he knew the woman was going to die. Her wounds were beyond help, and all he could do was attempt to make her passing more comfortable.
“I’ll be there in a wee moment, lad.” Paul took the threaded needle and began stitching up his patient’s leg. Once he’d tied off the sutures, he changed the dressing on the wound. From his bag, he withdrew the tiny vial of opium and handed it to Victoria. “Put a few drops of this in his tea. Not too much, o
r he might never awaken.”
After he’d given it over, he used the scissors to snip off the promised buttons. They weren’t worth a great deal, but he might be able to get more opium or laudanum. With the war going on, it was getting more difficult to buy medicines.
He excused himself from the pair of them, but before he could go with the boy, the stranger asked, “Your mother was hurt?”
The boy’s brown hair flopped as he nodded. “In the fire, sir. She was burned and… she’s crying.” Small fists clenched as if he were trying to hold back his own tears.
Mr. Smith caught his gaze, and Paul said nothing, letting him draw whatever conclusions he would. Then the stranger sighed and lay back upon his pillow. “Go to her. I’ll manage on my own.”
Feeling as if he’d been dismissed, Paul left both of them, still wondering who the stranger was.
Chapter Five
“TAKE THE opium and follow the boy,” Mr. Smith ordered, pointing to the medicine he’d just paid for.
“But it’s yours,” Victoria protested. “Dr. Fraser said—”
“I know what he said.” As he steeled himself, his green eyes regarded her. “Give it to the woman.”
A hard knot formed in her throat, and she understood then. He didn’t want the young boy to watch his mother suffer. Victoria tightened her grasp around the vial and took an unsteady step forward. She wasn’t at all eager to find out exactly how many wounded men, women, and children had occupied the house. The idea of facing the blood and burned flesh sickened her.
“Shall I bring the rest back?” she managed, swallowing hard.
Mr. Smith ignored the question and continued, “If there’s any left, distribute it among the others. No doubt I’ll regret this decision later tonight.”
He closed his eyes and lay back upon the bed, his hands gripping the coverlet. In the dim light of the room, her form cast a shadow over him. His face held sharp angles, with bristled cheeks and the mask of pain tensing his features. In the brief moments she’d known him, he’d spoken with a sharp tongue, almost mocking in his demeanor.
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