Kilts & Kraken

by Cindy Spencer Pape

  Mrs. MacDonald smiled again. “Thank you. I was with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea. Before that, I’d learned what I could from books and the local healers. My husband was a soldier in India, and wounded shortly after our marriage. I nursed him for three years.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  A groan came from the bed, and Geneva turned her full attention to her patient. The big, brawny man lay on his back, his head tossing restlessly back and forth. His face, too rugged to be considered handsome, was pale and bruised, with a tinge of coppery beard-shadow. A neatly stitched cut ran from his left eyebrow to his hairline, and his long, fair hair had been pulled into a messy braid, giving him the look of a felled Viking. After checking and approving the stitches, she laid a hand on his brow, finding it unusually cool, not raging with fever as she’d expected. “Has he been conscious at all?”

  Mrs. MacDonald stood off to the side, out of Geneva’s stream of light, her hands folded at her waist. “Not really. His eyes opened once this morning and he muttered something unintelligible.”

  “Was it in English? If he fell from a boat, he could be a sailor from nearly anywhere.” Gently, Geneva pulled back the sheet to reveal a torso showing more bandages than skin. Blood seeped through the white gauze on his chest in several locations, indicating a continued loss of blood that worried her. “I assume these cuts were stitched, as well?”

  “Of course. I packed the worst of them with peat moss and honey. Not scientific, I know, but our village healer has had great results with that combination.” When Geneva didn’t complain, the older woman gave a small sigh. “As to his speech, I couldn’t tell. I thought I heard the word tor, but it may have been Thor, or even door. Sorry.”

  Geneva pulled her stethoscope from her bag. “You’ll get no grief from me for using natural remedies. Not unless they’re of the more revolting variety. Mosses and honey both have recorded success at preventing infection.” Geneva had studied at Lovelace College for Women, the newest school at Oxford University, under the most modern practitioners, but also had access to centuries of recorded knowledge through the Order. Muslim and Hindu doctors had documented things hundreds of years earlier that British physicians were only beginning to rediscover.

  She also sensed the tendrils of power radiating from this man, weak though they were. “Who are you?” Why wasn’t he mending? There had to be an internal head injury to account for his continued unconsciousness. That didn’t bode well.

  “Let’s change these bandages so I can take a look at the wounds.” Geneva fetched the kettle from its hob on the fireplace and poured boiling water into the basin. Before she’d put the kettle back, Mrs. MacDonald was there, handing her the bar of lye soap and diluting the water with a touch of cold from the pitcher on the table.

  “Perfect, thank you.” Both women washed their hands. Together they removed the bandages one by one and Geneva inspected each jagged cut.

  “Some were from being smashed on the rocks at the shore, I think.” The nurse rolled a new bandage onto the man’s shoulder. “Others, like this one, must be bites from the creature itself.”

  Geneva believed it. The wounds were horrific, some obviously deep enough to have caused internal damage. “Did you actually see this monster?”

  Mrs. MacDonald bit her lip and shook her head. “Hamish did. He drove it to the fish market in the village in our cart.”

  “Fish market? You mean it’s to be eaten?” Geneva’s stomach lurched. So much for having a look at the thing to see if it was infected or injured. The Order wouldn’t be happy to lose out on such a find.

  “It will feed the entire village for weeks.” Mrs. MacDonald peeled the blanket back further, exposing the fact that the patient wore only a pair of smallclothes, cut away to reveal his legs and hip. “The most worrisome injury, other than his unconsciousness, is the shattered pelvis. I have some…sense of these things sometimes, and I can feel the bone fragments sticking out. If he lives, it will take a miracle to allow him to walk again.”

  Gently, Geneva palpated the swollen purple skin over the man’s right hip. “Dear Lord, you’re right. If he were conscious, he’d be in excruciating pain. Can you hold his shoulders, Mrs. MacDonald? I’m going to try to line up the bones and I don’t want his body to jerk around.”

  “Of course, Doctor. Call me Alice, please. I don’t get many off-island women to talk to, especially ones who can discuss science and medicine instead of fashion.”

  “Geneva.” With that, a new friendship was formed.

  It took all of Geneva’s strength and skill to realign the man’s shattered hip. When she was done, she bound his body as tightly as a babe in swaddling, and prayed it would be enough.

  “All we can do now is tend him and hope that since he’s strong and healthy, his body will decide to heal itself.”

  “Will you be leaving? Hamish can drive you to the ferry to the mainland, or we can teletext your father from my study.” Teletext was the most modern way to communicate long distances—short messages over wires running the length and breadth of Britain, and now, even to the isles and the Continent.

  Geneva looked back at the man in the bed and bit her lip. There was something about him that tugged at her—maybe it was only that he didn’t seem to have anyone else. “Not today. It will be easier to take care of him with two of us.” Dr. MacLeod could handle any emergencies that cropped up at her practice tomorrow morning.

  A sigh of relief escaped Alice’s lips. “Thank you. Maggie—that’s Hamish’s wife and my housekeeper—believes him to be a monster himself since he washed up with the kraken.”

  “Is that why I haven’t seen her?”

  Alice nodded. “Yes. She’s refused to leave her cottage, though she’s sent Hamish over with food. At least in that respect, we shan’t have to fend for ourselves.”

  “I take it your gifts tell you no such thing?” Geneva laid her stethoscope on the table with the bandages and instruments.

  “No. My only sense of him, beyond the pain, is a profound loneliness. He has power of some sort, but he’s not an evil man, just a sad one. Perhaps that’s why I went to Fergus for help. Had I married your father, we might have had a son around this one’s age, with a similar aura of magick. I’d hate to think of such a child alone and sad.” She stroked a hand across the patient’s temple before moving to the door. “Let me show you your room, and where you can wash up while I make us some tea. I’m sure Maggie will send over luncheon in a bit, but I could use a cuppa right now, and I’ve some nice shortbread.”

  Geneva allowed herself a happy little hum. Tea and shortbread sounded like manna at that moment. “Lead on, Alice. You’re a woman after my own heart.” While they ate, she could find out if Alice knew anything about giant squid.

  * * *

  The darkness tried to drag Magnus back into its depths and he had little will to fight. It was comforting, this darkness, warm and free of pain. You’ve struggled enough, it seemed to whisper, let go.

  He would have, but for another voice, one not as subtle but far more sweet. “Come now, sir. Open your eyes for me.”

  Magnus tried. The rich, feminine voice held the soft burr of a lowlander, with educated overtones. How had such a one come to his island? How had he not known? He was laird of Torkholm, and all who came here had to be approved by him.

  “Who are you, sir? Won’t you at least wake and tell me your name?” Soft, cool fingers stroked Magnus’s forehead.

  He moved his lips to answer the lass. From the silkiness of her touch and the sweet scent of her leaning over him, he might have thought her an angel, but he knew better. Dead in battle or not, he’d have never ended up in Heaven. A valkyrie, perhaps? The Valhalla of his Norse ancestors was a far more likely fate for him than the vicar’s pearly gates.

  “His heart rate and breathing are weaker,” the sweet voice said. “I’m worried, Alice. He didn’t wake at all last night. Though his wounds haven’t festered, he seems to be losing strength.”

>   “He’s in God’s hands,” said another female voice, a little older, a little deeper, and oddly familiar. A door opened and closed, but he still felt the touch of strong, feminine hands, the fingers laced with his own.

  At long last Magnus was able to unglue the lashes on one eyelid. The light in the room blinded him for a moment, but his vision adjusted and soon he was able to see. A woman sat by his bedside, her flowing hair the color of his favorite roan stallion. Her fingers tightened on his as she realized he’d woken. “T-Torkholm,” he gasped between lips as cracked as a mud path on a hot day.

  The lass—pretty in a strong, country sort of way—pressed him down when he tried to sit. “Your hip is injured. Don’t move.” With her other hand, she held a water-filled sponge to his lips. “Only a little to start with.”

  The cool liquid felt wonderful on his parched lips, but a single sip was all he could manage. He blinked again, this time both eyes focusing on her. “Magnus Findlay.” His name seemed to be dragged from his lips. Pain seared through him from more places than he could name, and he’d never once felt this weak. What was wrong? Why hadn’t the island healed him, as it always did?

  He blinked again and the answer swam into focus, for a moment at least. This was a strange room—one he’d never seen before. Magnus sagged back against the woman’s arm, and let her ease him down to the pillows. The darkness began to close in again. One thought registered, ringing through his brain.

  He wasn’t on Torkholm. He was going to die.

  Chapter Two

  “Home.”

  Geneva leaned over her patient, straining to hear his words. Through the course of the day, Magnus Findlay had continued to weaken, though his bleeding stopped and there was no sign of infection. She’d been on Mull for twenty-four hours now, and the only changes in his condition had been this gradual dampening of his strength, and his few brief moments of wakefulness. Most terrifying to her, his magickal aura had weakened, as well. She’d only ever seen that before when a patient was lost.

  “Must. Go. Home.”

  “To your island, my lord?” She tried to get him to converse, to stay awake long enough to get some nourishment into him. “You want to return to Torkholm?”

  “Must.” He slid into unconsciousness again, and Geneva gripped his hand.

  “Stay with me, Magnus. I mean Lord Findlay.” She’d confirmed his identity via teletext with the Order. One Magnus Robert Findlay, age thirty, was indeed Baron Findlay of Torkholm, a small isle about thirty miles southwest of Mull. According to the Order’s sources—likely Debrett’s, as he was a peer—he was a widower, the last of his line and had no living relatives. Torkholm was not on teletext lines, so she couldn’t contact a servant or friend. That there was no one she could summon to what might be his deathbed was the main reason Geneva had stayed. Alice couldn’t sit with him every moment, and no one, especially someone who’d fought such a valiant battle, should have to die alone.

  His haunting blue eyes, piercing and sad, had nothing to do with her decision.

  Geneva wiped his brow with a cool cloth. He wanted to go home to die. That was what he was asking for. His face was so gaunt and pale that she didn’t think it would be long. Perhaps by the next morning he would be gone.

  It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and the sea was mild. Alice entered the room, her footsteps almost silent.

  “Alice, do you think we can find a boatman willing to go to Torkholm?”

  “I imagine we could,” Alice said. “It isn’t that far, though I’ve never had reason to go there. I’m sure Hamish can find someone. Do you want to send for his kin?”

  “I want to take him home.” It sounded stupid, but she couldn’t shake the notion that it was the right thing to do. “He keeps saying he must. If that’s his only dying wish, I’d like to honor it.”

  “I see.” Alice bit her lip. “Perhaps—”

  Hamish tapped on the door to the sickroom, holding his faded grey cap in his hands. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but there’s someone comin’ up the drive.”

  Throwing open the curtains, Alice and Geneva looked out to see two kilted behemoths, one dark and one ginger streaked with gray, climb out of a delivery wagon. They made their way up to the door and the ginger wiped his hand on his kilt before he knocked.

  “Aye?” Hamish barked when he opened the front door.

  “We heard you’ve a man here.”

  They’d moved away from the window, preventing Geneva from seeing which man spoke.

  “We’re looking for a big fair-haired gentleman,” the other said, his tone more educated and surlier than the first. “Washed up on shore, and wearing the Findlay plaid. Is he here?”

  “What’s it to you if ’e is?”

  Alice winced at Hamish’s rudeness and left the sickroom, Geneva a few steps behind.

  “Gentlemen,” Alice said. “How can I help you?”

  The big redhead stared at her as if stricken. He was easily twice Alice’s weight and nearly twice her height, with bright blue eyes, much like those of their patient.

  His friend, even larger, and no more than thirty, elbowed him and bowed to the ladies. “We’ve come in search of our laird, who was carried off by the giant squid two days ago. We’ve been checking in villages and islands hither and yon before hearing rumors that he may be resting here.”

  “Aye.” The big one swallowed and bobbed his head. “That’s right. Magnus Findlay is his name. My nephew.”

  “He’s here,” Alice said. “But I’m afraid our news isn’t good.”

  “Is he dead?” His deep voice cracked on that last word.

  His dark-haired friend stared down at the floor, jaw twitching. “We thought he would be when the monster dragged him under and away. We’d hoped to find him, at least, and lay him to rest on Torkholm.”

  “No.” Alice stepped up and patted the redhead’s hands. “He isn’t dead, not yet anyway, but I’m afraid he’s not doing well.”

  “Best get him back to Torkholm quickly.” The dark-haired man took a step toward the sickroom. “Once he’s home, he’ll be fine.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m Doctor MacKay,” Geneva said loudly. “I think you need to prepare yourselves for the worst. Your laird may not survive the trip.”

  The younger man snorted. “Is that the best they can do here? A daft lass playing at doctoring?”

  “Leave her be, Quentin.” The redhead looked away from Alice, finally, and studied Geneva. “Are you a real physician, lass? With papers and all?”

  She drew herself up to her full five feet seven inches, but was still dwarfed by the two men. “I am.”

  “Can you help him, Doctor?” The entreaty in his voice nearly broke her heart. “Help us get him home alive?”

  “It was his wish,” Geneva said. “When he’s woken today, the only thing he’s asked is to go home. Have you a boat big enough to keep him warm and dry on the journey?”

  The dark one gave curt nod.

  Geneva ignored the rude one and looked to the older man. “Is there room for me on board?”

  “You’re not thinking of going with them?” Alice gave her a shocked glance. “Coming here unchaperoned is one thing, but traveling in a boat with three strange men?”

  “Five, with the crew,” the one called Quentin said.

  “I have to, Alice. If I go, to tend him during the voyage, he’s more likely to last long enough to see his home.” It had become important to her, to grant this one last request and if nothing else, to see this through to the end. Something about the man simply…drew her.

  “I suppose I must go along.” Alice crossed her arms over her bosom and glared at the redheaded man. “Is there room on this boat of yours for all of us?”

  “Aye, lass. You won’t take up more space than a new lamb, yourself. We’ll make room.”

  Alice’s rosy complexion flushed further, whether at being called lass, or being told she was small as a lamb. She poked him in the chest. “Now introduce yourselves proper
ly, do you hear? Keep your voices down. We’ve an invalid in the house.”

  He flushed, his pink skin clashing with his orange hair. “Sorry, ma’am. Rannulf MacAuley, steward of Findlay Castle at your service. This young lout is Quentin Findlay, who manages the home farm and the fishing fleet for the laird.”

  “Pleased to meet you. My name is Mrs. MacDonald, and you’ve already met Doctor MacKay. Now, can I get you gentlemen something to drink while Doctor MacKay takes you in to see her patient?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but no.” MacAuley bowed his head to Alice and turned to Quentin. “Go tell Gordon to bring the boat around. Where’s the nearest dock to here, begging your pardon, ma’am, or a good place to anchor and send out a dory?”

  “We’ve our own small dock around the point,” Alice said. “Hamish can go with you to navigate. Geneva, how soon can Lord Findlay be readied to move?”

  “With a stretcher, or barring that, a stout door? Half an hour.” They’d need to get some clothing on him, perhaps give him a small dose of laudanum to prevent him from waking en route and injuring himself.

  “Aye, there’s a plank in the barn we used for Captain MacDonald, rest his soul,” Hamish said. “You’re sure you want to go, missus?”

  Alice nodded. “If Geneva is going, then I am too.”

  “Best pack a bag. The boat won’t travel after dark, so we won’t get you back until tomorrow.” MacAuley held out a hand to Hamish. “I’ll look after them. You have my word.”

  “See you do.” Hamish shook MacAuley’s hand and trudged toward the door, glowering over his shoulder at Quentin. “Come along. No dawdling.”

  Quentin stomped off after him and Geneva smothered a laugh.

  “May I see my nephew now?” Again, MacAuley asked Alice, not Geneva. They went into the sickroom, and MacAuley paled nearly to the shade of his nephew. “Holy Christ, I never thought to see him like this.”