by Pamela Clare
He took her arm, picked up his bag, pulled her along.
“No!” She tried to pull her arm free. “My family can’t afford that! We’ve a lease—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I will not—”
“Quiet, woman! Or maybe you’d like his grooms to hear you and send up the alarm?”
She glanced warily about, fell silent.
They rounded the corner of the stables.
Before them stood two men, dark, faceless.
Jamie heard Bríghid gasp, felt something strike him in the chest. He wanted to protect her, to put himself between her and these men but found he could not move. He looked down and saw the blade of a sword buried in the left side of his chest.
The blade was jerked free, and Jamie heard himself moan as searing pain shot through him. Something wet and hot ran down his skin—his own blood.
“Oh, sweet Mary, no!” It was Bríghid. She was kneeling beside him.
How had he come to be on the ground? Icy rain spattered his face. Bríghid was speaking, but he couldn’t understand her. She was talking to the two men. Their words made no sense. Gaelic.
“Cad tá déanta agat, a Rhuaidhrí?”
Ruaidhrí. He’d heard that name before. Her brother. Her brothers had come to save her. The irony of the situation would have made him laugh had he the strength for it. Had she known they were here, waiting?
“Tar liom, a Bhríghid! Caithfimid bheith ag imeacht! Fág an Sasanach mar atá sé!”
“Ní rachaidh mé! Faighfidh sé bás má imeóimid!” She touched his face. She sounded angry. “Jamie, can you hear me? Ruaidhrí, Finn, help me!”
A cold such as he had never known crept over him.
This must be what it is to die.
He felt no fear of death, no sadness that his life was over, only a sense of regret at having failed to complete his mission.
Forgive me.
Whom was he asking to forgive him?
Alec and Cassie. This would hit them hard.
Nicholas.
He felt Bríghid search beneath his coat, felt her press something against the wound. She was trying to staunch the bleeding.
“Bríghid … ” Pain engulfed him. He heard himself moan.
Then there was only darkness.
Chapter Six
Bríghid laid a cool cloth across Jamie’s forehead. He was burning up.
For three days, she’d fought to save his life. For three days, she’d wondered if she would be the death of him.
She’d known right away he was grievously hurt and had feared he would die from blood loss before she could treat him. She could have awoken the iarla, who surely would have called a real doctor to heal his friend. It would have been the best thing for Jamie. A wealthy man like the iarla would have precious laudanum to ease his friend’s pain and all manner of powders for fever and medicines to draw the sickness from the wound.
But revealing themselves would have meant certain death for her brothers and servitude in the iarla’s bed for her. They’d had no choice but to run. She’d tried to staunch the bleeding first, then had her brothers tie him to his horse. They’d traveled through the cold of night to an old, abandoned cabin not far from the ancient hill of Teagh-mor, where Bríghid and Ruaidhrí could hide.
At first, she’d worried he’d lost too much blood. He’d lain so cold and still on the bed, like a man already dead. Her brothers had argued over how to dispose of his body, until Bríghid had shouted at them to shut up before they invited Death into the cabin with careless words. She’d had Finn bring every herb and poultice she owned to the hideout, had sent Ruaidhrí outdoors to gather bog moss and bring fresh water from a spring. She’d cleaned the wound with whiskey and bound it with clean linen and poultice made of sweet violet leaves.
Then fever had set in, and the wound had become angry and red. While she considered herself skilled with herbs and poultices for everyday ailments—coughs, scrapes, the flux—she’d never before cared for a wound like this. She’d tried a draught of mayweed at first for the fever, for it was safest, but the fire in his body had raged on. Then she’d switched to seamsóg, fairy bells, which was stronger. It seemed to help, but it couldn’t cure the wound itself.
For that, she’d need a miracle. The wound was deep but narrow, and the whiskey clearly had not gone deep enough. None of her silly poultices could make their way so deeply into him. To reach the sickness, she’d need to cut him, make the wound wider somehow. But he’d bled so much already. And she had nothing, nothing at all, to ease his pain.
If he weren’t so strong, he’d likely have died already. And strong he was. Once the fever had set in, he’d become delirious, rambling and thrashing about. It had taken both Ruaidhrí and Finn to bind him to the bed so she could care for him.
He moaned in his sleep, turned his head from side to side. His brow was furrowed, his blonde hair wet with sweat, and she knew he hurt. She dipped the cloth in cool water again, wrung it out, and bathed his face.
She wanted to hate him, wanted to feel indifferent to his pain. He was English, and the English had never cared about the suffering they caused her people. If she was now in the odd position of trying to save an Englishman’s life, it was only out of obligation, the repayment of a debt. Besides, if he died, she and her brothers would be guilty of murder under English law. She’d be a fool to let that happen.
But try as she might to harden her heart, she could not ignore his suffering. These past three days, she’d relived every moment of that awful, terrible night. It haunted her, left her feeling confused, mixed up inside. Fear and rage, disgust and humiliation.
Shame. Desire.
Her feelings about the Englishman were the most confusing of all. Her cheeks flamed with fury and embarrassment when she thought of the things he’d done to her. He’d undressed her, kissed her again and again, thrust his tongue inside her mouth. He’d allowed her to see him naked, climbed on top of her, forced her legs apart, and pretended to …
Dear God, Mary and Joseph!
And if her brothers hadn’t come along, he’d have spirited her off to England, perhaps never to see home again. He wasn’t all that different from the iarla.
Even as the words formed in her mind, a rebellious voice answered. He was different. Hadn’t Jamie, though a Sasanach, tried to protect her? Hadn’t he been gentle when he could have been rough? Hadn’t he taken only kisses and caresses when he could have taken everything? Hadn’t he found her cross and brooch and returned them to her? Hadn’t he kept the iarla from laying his hands on both her and Ruaidhrí?
And if he had also kindled an unwanted, unwelcome yearning within her?
That sin was hers, not his.
Now he was fighting to stay alive. She didn’t want to care, but she did.
He strained against the ropes that bound his wrists to bed’s wooden frame, cried out. “Nicholas!”
“Rest, Jamie.”
She lifted the flannel from his wound. Ruaidhrí’s blade had struck closer to the Englishman’s shoulder than his heart, and for that she was grateful. She’d given up on violet leaves and had soaked the flannel in garlic juice instead, but redness from the wound was beginning to spread. If she didn’t stop it, the poison would reach his blood.
And he would die.
She knew what she needed to do, but she was afraid to do it.
The door to the cabin opened. Cold night air rushed in.
“God in heaven, what is that stench?”
“I hope you’ve brought more peat.” She was still too angry with her brother to look at him. “What we’ve got won’t keep the fire going through the night, and we must keep him warm.”
Ruaidhrí dropped blocks of dried peat by the hearth, walked over to the bed. “I once heard an old woman say you can save a man’s life if he’s on the brink by bindin’ him with a rope that was used to hang a man who survived the hangin’.”
She glared at him. “If you come by just such a rope, R
uaidhrí, I suggest you go hang yourself with it. For if he dies, you’ll have murdered a man, and God have mercy on your soul!”
She ignored the stricken look on her brother’s face, walked to the table, and began to sort through her herbs and ointments. Powder of horseradish she had, and lavender oil. She had oil of thyme, as well, and powdered holly berries. The bog moss was almost dried and ready for use. If only she had turpentine.
“How was I to know? He’s a Sasanach—”
She spun about, faced him. “I know what he is!”
“But—”
“You’ve hated the English your entire life, Ruaidhrí. Aye, and so have I. But maybe they’re not all evil. Besides, how much will your life be worth if he dies? Not a farthing!”
Ruaidhrí looked at her, his expression one of astonishment—and doubt. “What does he mean to you?”
“I already told you. He spared me. He helped me escape.” Bríghid turned back to the bed, ignored the probing tone in her brother’s voice. She had already told her brothers how Jamie had protected her, but she hadn’t told them everything. She hadn’t told them how Jamie’s kisses had ignited a fever in her blood or how his touch had made her skin tingle. She hadn’t told them how the feel of his tongue entwined with hers had made her knees weak, or how the briefest glimpse of his naked male body had made it hard for her to breathe.
“Are you sure that’s all he did?”
“If you don’t believe me, bring the midwife!”
Finn stepped in, shoulders hunched against the cold, his blonde hair hidden beneath a blue knitted cap. “What’s the shoutin’?”
“Ruaidhrí seems to think the midwife ought to examine me.” She turned her back on them both, tucked the blanket under Jamie’s chin.
“I didn’t say—”
“Don’t dishonor your sister, little brother, or you’ll have me to deal with.” Finn moved to the fire, warmed his hands. “If you hadn’t opened your bloody gob, Bríghid would never have been in danger in the first place. Now come and help me unload the cart.”
Finn and Ruaidhrí carried in what supplies Finn had been able to bring from home—the old oatmeal chest filled halfway, cheese, bainne clábair, butter, a few eggs, bacon, more potatoes, a jar of barm for bread should Bríghid get the time to make any, a large pile of peat for the fire.
Aidan had sent Bríghid a little straw cross he’d made. The innocent sweetness of his gift made her smile. She hung it over the doorway, an ache in her heart. Sweet Mary, how she missed him. He was staying with Muirín, who’d sworn to Finn that caring for the boy would help to ease her grief. A childless mother and a motherless child.
“There’s plenty of feed for his horse.” Finn stood beside her, held out a tattered book. “I brought this, too.”
“Oh, Finn.” It was her favorite—the story of Don Bellianis of Greece. Her brothers, Finn especially, teased her about reading chivalric romances—silly girl stories Finn called them—but she loved them. She’d read this one dozens of times and had been lured from dreariness and drudgery by the magic of its worn pages. She reached over, set it on the table. There was no time for reading now.
She dipped the cloth in the bucket of cold water, wrung it out, placed it back on Jamie’s forehead. She voiced the fear that had haunted her all day. “I’m afraid he’s dying.”
She felt Finn’s reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done everything you can.”
“No, not everything.” Her mind was made up. She stood, crossed the tiny room to where her cloak hung on a nail by the door. She hesitated, then unfastened her brooch. The dragon’s red eyes gleamed at her, candlelight glinting off the stones like tears.
It was all she had.
She turned to Finn, held out her hand. “Take this to Baronstown. There’s a doctor there who lives there just down the street from the cheeser. Trade it for turpentine and the sharpest knife he’ll give you.”
Her brother’s blue eyes opened wide. “Oh, Bríghid. You would sacrifice this?”
“For him?” Ruaidhrí indignant voice intruded.
“Do you know how afraid I was when the iarla started to undress me right there in front of his servants? My legs shook. I felt sick. I wished myself dead rather than have his hands on me. I thought he was going to rape me right there. But I didn’t fight, and I didn’t run because I thought I was protectin’ my brothers.” She heard her voice quaver, fought the tears that pricked her eyes. “That man stopped the iarla. He protected me. He saved you, too, Ruaidhrí. We both owe him a life debt.”
Ruaidhrí’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Take it, and go.” She took Finn’s hand, placed the brooch in his calloused palm.
“I’ll do it.” Ruaidhrí took the brooch. “Finn has already ridden half the night to get here.”
Bríghid shook her head. “But if anyone sees you—”
“It’s dark. No one’s going to be lookin’ for me in bloody Baronstown.”
“All right, but stay out of trouble, and hurry. Take his horse.”
His gaze met hers. “I’m doing this for you, not for him.”
“Ask the doctor if he’s got laudanum or anything special to fight a fever.”
“Aye.” Ruaidhrí walked toward the door, opened it, and was gone.
While Finn slept, exhausted, on a pallet of straw near the hearth, Bríghid tended Jamie. She bathed his forehead and chest with cold cloths, changed the flannel on his wound, coaxed another draught of seamsóg down his throat. All the while, she listened for the sound of hooves. But it wasn’t until just before dawn that Ruaidhrí returned. His cheeks and ears were red with cold, his fingers, too. Without speaking, he handed her a linen bag, then went back out to tend the horse.
Eagerly, she opened the bag. Inside was a small knife with a thin, sharp blade, a bottle of turpentine, a packet of some strange powder, and a smaller bottle that smelled of spirits.
Laudanum.
Relief, gratitude and feelings of guilt washed through her. She’d spoken harshly to Ruaidhrí, more harshly than she’d intended. She’d apologize when he came in, but now she needed to boil water.
By the time the water had begun to bubble, Finn had awoken, and Ruaidhrí had returned. He came to the hearth, warmed his red, cracked fingers over the fire.
“I’ll need you to hold him for me.”
They nodded.
Ruaidhrí peeled off his coat. “I told the doctor you’d cut yourself and the cut had festered. He said turpentine would likely do the trick if you mixed it with mustard flower. He wrote down his recipe for using the powder. It’s some kind of tree bark.”
She nodded, dropped the knife into the boiling water. She’d once heard a midwife say some doctors boiled their knives and was willing to try anything if it might help, though what it could accomplish she knew not.
“What in God’s name did you do that for?” Ruaidhrí gaped at the knife in disbelief. “Is that breakfast?”
She ignored him. The first thing she needed to do was give Jamie the tincture of poppy. It would dull his pain. She uncorked the little bottle, poured some in a spoon. Setting the bottle aside, she lifted his head gently with her free hand.
“Drink, Jamie.” She held the spoon to his lips, trickled the precious liquid into his mouth and sighed with relief when he swallowed. Just to be certain, she gave him a second, smaller spoonful.
Almost immediately, he seemed to fall into a deep sleep. His brow was no longer furrowed, and his breathing was deep and even.
She closed the bottle and went back to work. Despite what the doctor said, she’d always found horseradish to stop a creeping redness faster than mustard flower. She set powdered root of horseradish aside, and opened her little vial of lavender oil. The pungent aroma filled the air. She changed her mind, opened the thyme oil instead. Its heady scent tickled her nose, nearly made her dizzy.
She wasn’t sure how long doctors boiled their knives. She hadn’t thought to ask the midwife. If it were porridge, she’d know whe
n it was done, but a knife? She waited a few more minutes, growing more anxious with each breath.
Could she do this?
She had no choice. She owed the Englishman a life debt, and she would see it repaid.
She reached for her cross, muttered a prayer to St. Bríghid, to the Virgin Mother and to God. Then she lifted the cross from around her throat and walked to the bed.
“Oh, good God.” Ruaidhrí groaned.
“Don’t blaspheme.” Finn elbowed his brother.
She lifted Jamie’s head, slipped the thong over it and laid the iron cross against the tanned skin of his throat.
“Puttin’ that cross on a Protestant—that’s blasphemy!” Ruaidhrí protested.
“I wouldn’t have the cross if it weren’t for him. ’Tis only right I use its power to heal him.”
Jamie stirred as if he knew they were speaking of him, but continued to sleep.
She walked to the hearth and, using a wooden ladle, lifted the knife from the steaming water. The knife’s handle burnt her when she tried to hold it. She gripped it with the folds of her skirt, handed the ladle to Ruaidhrí. “Fill this with water, and carry it to the table.”
She walked to the bed and looked down at the man who now slept so peacefully.
She didn’t want to cause him pain.
She didn’t want to make him suffer.
She didn’t want him to die.
Ruaidhrí placed the ladle carefully on the table and joined her at the bedside. “What are you doing, Bríghid? You’re no surgeon. If he dies—”
“We shall both be to blame.”
Her brothers held Jamie’s shoulders fast to straw mattress. The ropes beneath creaked at the added weight.
Bríghid took the knife from the folds of her skirts and held it above the wound. Her hand trembled. She fought to steady it. He was just a Sasanach.
She pressed the knife slowly into the wound.
Jamie moaned.
Flesh parted. Foul, yellow liquid oozed forth as she pressed the knife deeper, made the wound wider. Blood spilled onto his skin, made it hard for her to see. But she had planned for this. When the wound was as wide as she dared make it and the blood flowed freely, she dashed to the hearth, removed a red-hot skewer from the ashes, dashed back. She hesitated only for a moment, then pressed it into the cut she had just made.