Mary stood and moved to my side. With tender hands she passed my child into my arms.
Through a shimmer of tears, I stared down into the red face. It was the face from my dreams. With an unsteady finger, I traced the curve of the jaw, the soft round of the cheeks, the length of nose and the outline of the lips.
“Ye ha’ a braw wee laddie there, Meara. He has a coo’s lick like his father but those eyes are yers, lass – already green as the sea and a sign of honour.”
I nodded and felt my throat tighten at her words, unable to look away from his round, green eyes. He settled in my arms and stared right back at me. Dark, wet curls clung to his head and whorled up from his brow. Raising a tiny fist to his mouth, he slurped and sucked, his eyes never leaving mine.
Mary retrieved a cloth and bathed his face and body. He squirmed and his face crumpled, but he did not cry out. Finishing his bath, Mary wrapped him in a white blanket and I cradled him close.
As I stared in wonder at my child, I felt a cloth, warm between my legs, as Mary cleaned me.
Deirdre moved to my side and bent close. Her eager eyes roamed my son’s face.
“He’s perfect. Truly perfect,” she said in a voice of velvet awe.
Her eyes glowed with a strange intensity. Suddenly uneasy, I pulled him away, clutched him too tightly to my chest. Soulless eyes narrowed as her glance slid back to me. She watched me for a moment then, without moving her head, her eyes slithered back to my baby.
“We ha’ a fine lad here, Meara. Wait til yer Uncle Sloan sees him.” The words crept down my spine and I felt the fine hair on my body stand on end.
I shook my head, pressing back into the pillows. “Nay, he willna...”
“Deirdre would ye be so kind as to tell Janet that Meara’s had her bairn and I willna be down for a time?” Mary interrupted, choosing her words with care. “Meara needs a few stitches and I havena finished bathin’ her.” She smiled sweetly at the pinched and angry face of my aunt. “Unless o’ course you’d like to finish here and I’ll help Janet wi’ the meal?” She offered the shining needle to my aunt, her eyebrows raised in mock innocence.
Deirdre’s eyes widened and she stole a glance at my nether regions. Beads of sweat popped across her brow and what little colour she had, drained from her face. Without a word, she swept from the room, slamming the door with a resounding ‘thwang’.
“Useless cailleach!” Mary muttered as she continued with her ministrations.
I smiled, pressed my face to the curve of my son’s naked shoulder and inhaled his new baby scent. His essence wrapped itself around my heart and as his soft hair brushed my cheek I felt as though my chest might burst with happiness.
Mary peeked around my knees, “Ha’ ye a name for the lad, Meara?”
I looked at the angelic face. His hair was beginning to dry, curling softly about his tiny ears.
“Aye, Mary. Do ye think Duncan will be pleased if I name him for our fathers? I’d like to call him Heath Robert MacLeod.” The name rolled off my tongue.”Heath,” I repeated softly.
“That’s a good name, Meara, a strong name. Duncan’ll be proud, lassie. Now, ye need a suture or two so how about ye try to feed the laddie while I tidy ye up?” Heath loudly sucked on his own tongue and nuzzled at my breast as though he understood what Mary had said.
Biting my lip against the burn of the needle, I released the ribbons that fastened my nightdress. I didn’t know what I was doing and fumbled as I changed Heath’s position. Then I offered him the tip of my nipple. He sucked fiercely on the side of my breast, then the underside before finally latching on, lips wide. An ache filled my breast as he suckled, his dimpled fingers clasped around one small ear. A liquid swallow followed each humming breath and I smiled, running my fingers through the dark curls. “You have an appetite like yer mama, wee one,” I whispered.
I gazed at my son, watched his chin move up and down. With each blink, his eyes stayed closed a little longer. I stared, unable to look away until his eyes remained closed and his milky lips drooped with satiation.
Mary secured a soft cloth between my legs. Then she helped me out of the damp nightgown and slipped a fresh one over my head. Drawing the blanket back into place, she patted my knee then poured fresh water into the basin and washed her hands, “Now, I’d like to take a peek at those arms, lass. I dinna trust that one and ye no want to catch the fever.”
I stretched my legs straight. A laughing gull cackled nearby and I looked toward the window, my glance skidding to the ruined frame.
“Hannah.” Her name slipped past my lips in a moan of anguish. How did I forget my sister?
Reality rushed at me, tearing at my heart like a buzzard ripping at carrion.
Mary bustled to my side, and wrapped me in her arms. Her lips brushed the top of my head. “I ken, Meara... I ken... I’m so sorry, lassie,” she murmured against my hair.
I pulled away and peered up into her face. “Is she...?”
But I already knew the answer as Mary stared back at me, eyes brimming with tears. “Aye, Meara, Rabbie found the poor wee child on the morn.”
I pressed my face into Mary’s shoulder, “The Lord so is cruel. Has He not taken enough?”
Mary rubbed circles across my back, stroked my hair and let me cry.
“She was goin’ to have a bairn too, Mary” I sobbed, as my sister’s rounded belly taunted my mind.
“Aye, lass. Rabbie brought her to me. She must ha’ thought there were no other way.” Her voice hardened, “Bluidy bastard.”
“I failed her, Mary. I failed my sister. I promised to...” The door banged open and Deirdre stumbled into the room. Her hair was dishevelled, her face flushed and her fingers tapped fitfully. “Janet’s havin’ her bairn the now, Mary! She’s askin’ for ye.”
Mary looked back at me, eyes wide, questioning.
I rubbed my swollen eyes with my sleeve and cuddled Heath close. “Go to her, Mary and give her my love.”
“Och, dinna fash, Mary, I’ll stay wi’ my daughter,” Deirdre breathed, voice creamy, eyes fiery with an unsettling light.
Glancing uncertainly from Deirdre to me, Mary bent and kissed my brow, “I’ll be back soon, lass, and I’ll tend to yer arms then,” she whispered in my ear.
With a flurry of skirts, Mary scurried to the door, anxious to get to her daughter. I watched as she disappeared through the opening. The warm-bread scent slowly dissipated as though it had never been.
The room was suddenly loud with the silence.
I watched warily as Deirdre closed the door and I felt my stomach tighten with the dread that always seemed to wait for me.
She glided to my side. I looked up into twin pools of black, ablaze with an unholy hunger.
I pressed back into my pillows as her fingers reached out like individual honed daggers.
THIRTEEN
May 2 1809 England
An Unwilling Patient
“He is fine-looking, Rachel, but you mustn’t forget, ‘e’s a married man.” The woman heaved a sigh, hot beneath the heavy shroud of her nun’s habit, and pushed the white cloth of her wimple back from her face. A film of perspiration had gathered into beads that clung to her upper lip. Using one meaty hand, she fanned at her cheeks. Then she stuck out her bottom lip and directed a blast of air up onto her flushed face.
The young woman she spoke to stared at the unconscious man, her violet eyes wistful. “Would that I could,” she murmured, tucking a golden ringlet behind her ear. Then she carefully smoothed his hair back from his pale, angular face. With a gentle finger, she traced the sickle-shaped scar that spanned the left side of his scalp.
“It seems as though his wife has forgotten about him though. Why hasn’t she bothered to answer our letters? It’s been weeks now, Sister Emeline,” she pouted. “If my man was in the hospital, I’d never leave his side. She should be ashamed of herself!”
“Now then young miss, you mustn’t judge,” Sister Emeline scolded as she pointed to a stack of lett
ers on the bedside table. “He has several letters from her. I’m certain she loves ‘im. Something must’ve happened to keep her away.”
Rachel picked up the letters and shuffled through them, her nose wrinkling at the dark stains that marred some of the envelopes. “Who is this one from, Sister?” she asked, holding one out. “The handwriting is different.” She eyed the letter, winged eyebrows knitted.
Emeline rounded the bed, hampered by the diaphanous habit and the weight that rolled beneath. “Rachel, you mustn’t go through his personal belongings! He’ll tend to them when ‘e wakes. His wife’s name is Meara and this says D. McBain.”
With pouty lips, Rachel grudgingly passed the letters into Emeline’s outstretched hand.
The nun piled the letters on the night stand beside the young man’s blood-stained leather sporran, the pouch where she’d found the letters. She kept the unopened letter and studied it. This letter had arrived at the hospital weeks ago. At that time no one had known whether the young man would live or die. The handwriting was different from the others and Emeline was just as curious as Rachel as to the contents but she was certain it was not from his wife and did not feel she should open it.
Emeline jumped as the letter was snatched from her hands. She looked up into Rachel’s teasing face. “Now, Sister, it’s not nice to go through his personal belongings,” she mimicked.
Emeline blushed a deep crimson.
Rachel reached over, patted her shoulder, “Sorry, Sister, just teasing of course,” she smiled. “Daddy’s waiting for me but I’ll be back tomorrow and I’m bringing my sister along to help.”
She whirled away, not waiting for a reply. Shining hair bounced almost to her cinched waist as she sashayed down the aisle, past the row of beds that lined both walls. She was well aware of the effect she had on the men that occupied these beds as her amethyst gown rustled against her swaying hips. The room came alive with a chorus of male voices as she smiled and waved at each patient.
“Good afternoon, Rachel!”
“Are you coming back tomorrow, Miss Rachel?”
“I’ll see ye on the morn, lassie!”
A spark of envy flickered in Emeline’s chest but she doused it quickly. Rachel was beautiful and the patients loved her. She might be spoiled but she volunteered her time to comfort the injured men. She read to them, chatted with them and wrote home to their families, lifting spirits all round. Emeline had to admit, she really did like the younger girl.
She glanced back at the man lying motionless in the bed. Her voice was gentle as she smoothed the sheet, “Wake up soon, Duncan MacLeod. Somewhere your wife is waiting for you.”
Then she ambled down the aisle, pausing here and there to check that her patients were comfortable.
******
Duncan didn’t move, kept his eyes closed.
He’d heard everything the two women had said, smelled the cloying scent of jasmine that one of them wore. Where was he? The one named Rachel had said he’d been here for weeks! How could that be?
He concentrated; summoned memories from his sluggish mind. The last thing he remembered was dragging himself back into Corunna with the rest of his ragged troop.
They had seen their ships waiting for them in the harbour, their towering masts a welcome beacon. Joyously, they’d marched toward them, energy renewed, spirits high. No one complained about the bitter cold, their empty, shrunken bellies or their frost-bitten feet. Death and destruction were left behind in the muddy quagmires of the pillaged hamlets.
As he had marched, Duncan had slipped Meara’s handkerchief from his sporran, pressed it to his face. The scent of wildflowers still lingered. Her exquisite face was clear in his mind, the laughing green eyes, the tousled curls and the sensuous lips curved in a saucy grin. Soon he would be home. Soon he would take her warm, pliant body into his arms and inhale her sweet scent. Soon he would take her and love her again. And she would love him back. Soon.
But Napoleon was not finished with them and pursued vigorously. They had been forced to turn and defend and he had lost track of Ranald.
The clang of cold steel drowned out the screams as the French sabers hacked a bloody path through a forest of writhing humanity. Slipping his dirk from its sheath, Duncan had advanced on the enemy, a boy no older then Rabbie. Duncan’s stomach rolled with self-loathing as he raised the blade to strike. He saw the fear in the boy’s eyes and watched it change to smug satisfaction just before a flash of metal blinded him and seared into his skull. When he opened his eyes the world had turned red. Something warm and sticky ran steadily down his forehead, streamed into his eyes. The staccato pop of artillery fire bit at his ears and tore into his leg, knocking his feet from under him. Gritty mud clogged his mouth and nose, muffling the screams he realised were his own.
He flinched at the vivid memory as the screams faded in his head.
His injuries had been bad then, bad enough to put him in a hospital. And bad enough that he had no memory of the past weeks! And where was wee Ranny? Had he survived? Was his cousin perhaps here, in the very same hospital? He felt a sick fear in the pit of his belly. The women’s accents told him he was in England. Lord! Meara was still at Duntulm waiting! He had to go home!
He waited until he heard no sound close by then tried to open his eyes. His lids fluttered, inconceivably heavy. What was wrong with him? He wiggled his fingers against the bed then opened and closed his fists with jerky, feeble movements. An attempt to lift his arms proved futile. They lay as stiff as a trout that had lain in the bottom of a boat for hours. Sweat cloaked his body and the sheet clung to his chest from exertion. As he swallowed, he flinched at the pain that knifed through his throat. Had the French cut his throat after he’d fallen?
He moved his toes easily enough but when he tried to shift his legs, fire seared through his left thigh. His moan was low, but audible. He froze, waited for someone to discover he was awake. Seconds passed. Again he fought to open his eyes.
This time his efforts were rewarded. He squinted as light stabbed at his eyes. Blinking against the brightness, his surroundings slowly swam into focus and he took stock of his surroundings. The room seemed to be some kind of medical ward. A sheet draped him from his feet to his chest. A curtain hung at the end of the bed. It had been pulled around on one side to meet a second that hung at the head. Duncan rolled his head to the right, his neck protesting. Through a space between the cloth barriers he glimpsed more hospital beds. To his left a blank wall met his stare.
The medicinal odour of cloves, lye, camphor and laudanum drifted up his nostrils. They masked but did not quite dispel the sour stench of piss, vomit and rotting flesh. He wondered how much of that stink came from beneath his own sheets.
Gingerly he lifted the sheet and peered down. Rib bones and hip bones jutted against his skin. How long had it been since he’d eaten? His right leg, though skeletal, appeared unscathed. But when he peered at his left leg, a low whistle played across his teeth as he sucked in his breath. He closed his eyes and braced against the sick sensation that made him feel as though he were falling through space. He breathed heavily for a minute then looked back down. The skin was crimped together in a raised white line that slashed the entire length of his thigh. Around the scar the skin was stretched tight, shiny and red. He explored the raised seam with hesitant fingers and winced. What a mess! Dropping the sheet, he peered through the curtains.
He focused on the night stand where a bowl and pitcher set next to a long, snake-like tube. Evidently they had been using it to get nourishment into him which accounted for his ragged throat. His glance moved next to the pile of letters stacked by his sporran. His chest tightened, squeezing his heart, as his gaze fell upon the familiar handwriting.
He closed his burning eyes. Meara’s face floated against the backdrop of his darkened lids. His memory stirred and visions of their wedding day played through his mind. Eyes, the colour of the loch water in the sunlight, hazed with desire and heavy with loving, as she moved beneath h
im. He remembered the soft sounds that slipped from her, the sharp intake of breath as she gasped his name. He remembered her face; the way her eyes had danced when she had impishly asked if they could do it again and the way her hair had curtained them both when they had. He felt a tightening in his groin and the sheet lifted. He smiled to himself. Ah weel at least everythin’s still workin’ down there! he thought.
Dragging his lids open, he eyed the letters – so far away. Mustering his paltry strength, he stretched his hand toward the table. His fingers quivered and his arm dropped like a stone. He ground his teeth together in frustration then punched his arm out again. He succeeded in reaching the table this time but his fingers merely glanced off the top and fell back to the bed.
Beads of sweat peppered his forehead. He lay still, panting heavily, thoroughly disgusted with himself.
Christ! He was weaker than a foal just wrested from its mother’s womb!
Sucking a long breath, he clenched the bedclothes and pulled, groaning softly. Long unused muscles bunched in his neck as Duncan drew himself to a sitting position. A slick river of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades and ran from his brow. Pain stabbed, like a red-hot poker, through his damaged thigh. Air puffed from his nostrils as he inched his legs sideways and slid them from beneath the sheet to dangle them over the side of the bed.
The sunlight was not kind. It was much worse than he could have imagined. His left flank lay shrivelled and scarred beside the unblemished right leg. Grimacing, he squeezed his eyes tight and turned his face away then forced his eyes open and looked back. He was alive. He was alive and he would keep his promise.
He turned his focus on the stack of letters and stretched his hand out, his progress slow, gradual. His fingers touched the edge and he leaned a little farther from the bed, resting his weight on the night stand.
His head made a soft ‘thud’ when it hit the gleaming floor.
The night stand, however, did not land so quietly. It toppled, everything on it clattering to the floor.
Duncan lay unmoving, his cheek mashed to the cool floor, his head aching, his leg throbbing. A small carved dolphin lay just in front of his nose where it had fallen from his sporran. The tip of the dorsal fin was missing. A tightening started inside Duncan’s chest. He remembered the dolphin falling from his mother’s hands and cracking on the floor. He remembered his father bursting into the room and yelling his mother’s name. He remembered the accusing look in his father’s eyes as he stared at Duncan, who still clung to his mother’s silent form. And he remembered five crosses in the cemetery instead of three. He took the dolphin in his hand, smoothed a clumsy finger over the polished wood and remembered his mother’s blue eyes, her brilliant smile as she scooped his small body into her arms and carried him into the sea. His throat hurt and he swallowed hard.
Megan Denby Page 18