Ewan finished tying his banyan, concern pinching his features taut. “You’re sure the explosion already happened?”
“Yes. I saw him.” She put her fist to her mouth, nearly bent double in anguish. “God, he cannot die. He cannot.”
Mother wrapped her arms around Seonaid, making muted, soothing noises. “Hush now. Naturally, we shall send help.”
“No, he needs to come here. I think he’s burned and . . .” Shutting her eyes, Seonaid’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know what else, but I must tend him.”
She’d seen more, much more, but she couldn’t voice the horror for that would make it true. Other men died, their mangled bodies, some dismembered, strewn about the encampment. How could Jacques survive those kinds of injuries?
“I have to help him.” Seonaid swiped at her tears. “Don’t you see? It’s what I’m meant to do.”
“Ewan McTavish,” Yvette called from their chamber. “You’d better be astride a horse in ten minutes or find yourself another place to sleep.” Taking a cue from her mother-in-law, she added, “For the next six months.”
Alasdair’s initial chuckle stuttered into a strangled cough when Ewan hurled him a heated glare.
Father appeared in his doorway and exchanged a telling glance with Mother. However, she didn’t scold him for leaving his bed.
“Father, please.” Seonaid wasn’t beyond begging. “Tell Ewan he must go.” Whirling to Duncan, she implored, “You’re his war chief. You’ve seen severe injuries. Surely you know how imperative it is the wounded are treated directly. Tell him he must leave straightaway.”
No one told Ewan anything. He was laird, the McTavish chieftain. He ordered others about, not the reverse.
Nodding, Father rested his somber gaze on Ewan. “Ye need to go, for her sake, son. She’ll nae be able to live with herself if’n ye don’t and Devaux dies.”
He cannot die. I won’t permit it.
Ewan touched her bruised cheek. “Aye, for you, Seonaid. We’ll go.”
He swung his sea blue gaze to the other men. “Be in the bailey in ten minutes. Rouse a dozen clansmen to accompany us. We’ll need a wagon.” Rubbing his chin between forefinger and thumb, he added, “Gregor knows what is needed.”
“Aye, Ewan.” Duncan gestured to Dugall and Alasdair. “Get dressed, and then alert the men. I’ll meet ye in five minutes.”
Gregor was a healer too and, truth to tell, his skills exceeded hers in many ways. But he’d been shot when Isobel had been abducted and hadn’t yet fully mended.
Seonaid rounded on Ewan. “No, I have to go. Gregor’s still recovering. He can help Mother prepare things here.” Tension induced shivers shook her, and she hugged her shoulders. “Oh, and someone needs to send for Doctor Paterson too.”
“We can notify the doctor when we pass through the village.”
“I’m nearly my old self, lass, and a ride in a wagon isn’t goin’ to harm me.” Gregor’s eyes filled with compassion.
Though truly Ewan’s cousins by birthright, Seonaid, her sisters, and Dugall considered Alasdair and Gregor their cousins too.
“Nae lass, that I canna allow.” Leaning against Mother, Father shook his shaggy head. “I be guessin’ there be carnage I dinnae want ye seein’”
Mother nodded in agreement.
“Seonaid, put on a wrap, then meet Gregor in the salon. You can make a list of the injuries you think Monsieur le baron has, and Gregor can prepare accordingly.” Mother shoved her long braid behind her. “I seriously doubt we can have all ready in ten minutes.”
“I’ll alert the kitchen staff,” Kitta said, already dashing toward the stairs.
Mother cast a cautious glance to Yvette’s bedchamber. “Yvette, ma chère, might Ewan be permitted thirty minutes before he mounts his horse?”
“Only if he rides like the devil once he does,” Yvette called. “And I intend to question the others when they return to see if he did.”
Ewan nodded. “Let’s be about it then.” Halfway to his chamber, he hesitated. “Seonaid, if Devaux dies . . .”
Tears welled, but she bravely held them at bay though her heart disintegrated into a myriad of pieces and scattered, like particles of dust blown by winter’s wind. “Then bring him here. He has no family. No one to bury him.”
He stared at her an elongated moment, indecision warring in his gaze. “You understand what the explosion means. For him? His future?”
Confusion tempered the others’ countenances. She understood perfectly, even if they didn’t.
“I bloody well dinna.” Father scrunched his face and scratched his stubbly chin.
“It means,” Seonaid said flatly, “if Jacques does survive, then the remotest hope I’ve naïvely harbored that he might marry me has been obliterated.”
Chapter 23
Later that morning, Seonaid paced the battlement, as she had for the past two hours. Dense fog mantled the meadow and forest, and the sun hadn’t risen high enough, nor had the strength, to burn the low-lying cloud away. Squinting, she searched the misty horizon and strained her ears for the slightest hint of riders.
How far was it to Oakberry Quarry exactly?
She hadn’t thought to ask Ewan. Had Jacques mentioned the distance? He might have, but she paid meager attention to such trivialities when with him.
How could she when her very being became consumed with his presence? The timbre of his voice, his unique manly scent, the soft brush of his mustache on her lips?
Touching her fingertips to her mouth, she battled tears. Oh, if only she could kiss Jacques again.
One last time.
A chamber, medicines, and linens had been prepared for him, and Doctor Paterson had sent word he’d join Ewan’s entourage on their way back to the keep. If Jacques yet lived.
That knowledge, along with frequent prayers sent heavenward, enabled her to eat a partial piece of toast and sip a cup of tea. She’d need her strength for the extended hours of care she anticipated Jacques would need.
He was alive. He must be, else she’d sense it, wouldn’t she?
Surely God hadn’t permitted her to see him injured simply to allow him to die. No. He must have wanted her to help Jacques.
Her mantle and pelisse didn’t prevent her teeth from chattering, though her fraught nerves and taut stomach, knotted tighter than tangled embroidery threads, might be as much to blame as the frigid weather. One needed a robust constitution to endure Scotland’s winters.
Hunching deeper in her mantle, she strove to erase the horrendous vision from her memory. Tears pricked behind her eyelids, but as she’d stubbornly done each time they’d attempted to surge forth these past hours, she forced herself to think of something else.
Jacques playing the pianoforte.
Charging to her rescue.
Trailing his long, slightly calloused finger over her cheek.
Kissing her until they breathed as one and her knees came unpinned.
A disturbance in the distance sent several birds to wing. They circled high above the pinewoods raucously scolding the intruders into their domain.
Seonaid rushed to the battlement’s wall, and with one hand gripping the side, leaned between the coarse gaps in the parapets.
There, on Loch Arkaig’s other side, did shadowy specters slowly emerge from the heavy mist?
Yes! Riders, a wagon, and a curricle.
A curricle?
Doctor Paterson.
Jacques lived.
Bolting to the stairs, Seonaid’s heart lifted with joy.
He lived. Jacques lived.
As she tore down the flights of stairs, she yanked off her mantle and pelisse, then her bonnet and gloves. She didn’t stop to put the garments in her chamber, no time to waste, but tossed them onto a stuffed bench in the corridor beneath Ewan’s four times great-grandfather’s ugly-as-the-devil portrait.
Breathless, she ran into the great hall to find her mother and Kitta quietly sewing before the mammoth hearth, enormous eno
ugh that a man could stand upright in it with room to spare. A trio of charcoal boarhounds lay sprawled before the spirited flames.
“Mother. They’re coming. I saw them, and Doctor Paterson is with them. That means Jacques is alive.”
Seonaid ran to the mullioned window. Standing on her toes, her nose practically pressed against the glass, she searched the inner ward as she had as a child, waiting for Father or Ewan to come home.
“I’ll tell Sorcha to prepare hot water for Monsieur le baron and food for the men.” Kitta slipped from the hall.
Mother joined her at the window and after wrapping an arm about Seonaid’s waist, quietly asked, “Ma chèrie, are you up for this?” Her mother’s pretty, troubled eyes searched Seonaid’s. “If Monsieur le baron is as injured as you say—”
“Yes, Mother. I must do this for him. Surely you can understand.” Leaning into her mother’s comforting embrace, her familiar perfume a calming essence, Seonaid managed a weak upward turn of her lips. “Wouldn’t you do the same for Father?”
“Oui. Without hesitation.” Cupping Seonaid’s cheeks with both hands, Mother kissed her forehead, then leaned away a mite. “You truly love him, non? Why didn’t you tell me? Why do you insist on marrying someone else, then?”
She might as well have the whole of it.
“Because he cannot marry me, and I was foolishly determined to end my second sight. After last night, however, I’ve come to appreciate how selfish I’ve been.” She paused, as the truth of her words sank in. She had been selfish, unforgivably so. “Had I not had the vision about Jacques, I wouldn’t have known he needed help. If someday my visions cease, then it will be because God deemed it time, not because of my scheming.”
Standing on her toes once more, she scanned the courtyard. What took them so long?
A hound yipped in its sleep, drawing her attention and a small smile as well. Great, lugging beasts.
She surveyed the hall with new awareness, taking in its stone walls adorned with pennants, ancient shields, and hunting trophies. The minstrels’ gallery at the far end, the trestle table she’d dined at her entire life, and the dais where Ewan and Yvette sat for council.
What was le Manoir des Jardins like?
Certainly, it must be wholly different from Craiglocky.
She’d seen many magnificent châteaux in France, and to compare them to a Scottish castle was rather like comparing a silk wrap to a belted plaid. Only the owner truly appreciated the garment.
Truthfully, she hadn’t much considered the history of Craiglocky or Ewan’s pride in his castle. The place was drafty, dark, and lacked many of the niceties she’d enjoyed in Paris and London. Yet, she loved the castle and understood Jacques’s dedication to his home.
“Why can’t he marry you?” Scrunching her brow, Mother swept an elegant hand toward Seonaid. “You’re part French and speak the language fluently. You’re also gently-bred, intelligent, and would make a splendid baroness.”
“Jacques’s greatest desire is to save and restore his family home, and the only way he can do that now is to marry an heiress.” And still, she’d fallen completely, irrevocably, eternally in love with him. “He’s been entirely forthright about his intentions and hasn’t encouraged my affections. In fact, being an honorable man, he did his utmost to discourage them.”
Frowning, Mother stepped away, her confusion evident. “But the mine?”
Seonaid lifted a shoulder. “Was a risk that didn’t bear fruit.”
“Ah.” The single syllable revealed much more. “And if he recovers? What then, chérie?”
“He will recover.” Seonaid forced herself to speak the other words. “And I’ll let him go. Because I must, and because I’ve made the decision to go to America in the spring and stay with Yvette’s friends.”
“Non.” Mother shook her head as well as the finger she pointed at Seonaid. “I won’t allow it. It’s too far away.”
Seonaid hugged her mother. “Only until my heart heals, and then I shall come home. I couldn’t ever leave Scotland permanently.”
She would if Jacques asked her.
A ruckus outdoors announced the clansmen’s arrival. Seonaid hurried to the door, which Fairchild held wide open. Several tense-faced underfootmen and maids stood ready to lend their assistance.
Intending to meet the wagon carrying Jacques, Seonaid lifted her skirt and started out the door, but stalled in her tracks. Doctor Paterson trotted up the steps, his countenance grave.
He took her elbow and pivoted her indoors. Craning her neck at the plaid and leather-clad men clustered around the wagon, she reluctantly allowed him to tow her into the entry.
“Miss Seonaid, Monsieur le baron requires surgery, and I shall need both Gregor’s and your help.” He gave her a stern look. “Are you up to the task?”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded as Mother tutted in the background and the servants exchanged anxious glances.
He scraped a practiced gaze over her burgundy and cream striped morning gown. “Have you anything older? Something you won’t mind ruining? And you’ll need to cover your hair with a cap.”
“Yes, I’ll change at once.” She grasped her mother’s hand. “Help me, please. It will be faster.”
Doctor Paterson accompanied them into the entry, their rushed footsteps resounding off the walls. “Lady Ferguson, we’ll require several aprons, linens, as much light as you can provide in the chamber, basins, and a continuous supply of warm water.”
Without missing a stride, Mother nodded. “Seonaid saw everything readied, and our cook has been instructed to keep heated water on the stove.”
Fairchild stepped forward and gestured to a pair of underfootmen. “See to the candles and lamps at once.”
Less than five minutes later, attired in her faded green gown and her hair neatly hidden beneath a lace cap, Seonaid tied an apron at her waist as she fairly ran the corridor to Jacques’s room.
Nervous servants waited outside, ready to do as bidden, and Mother hurried inform Father of Jacques’s arrival before going below to oversee the men’s meal.
Taking a steadying breath and steeling herself for what she might see, Seonaid rapped once before pressing the latch.
Still, she gasped at the sight before her.
Jacques, his raven hair matted with congealed blood, lay on his stomach, his shredded shirt and pantaloons exposing a myriad of gashes.
God above, stuff protruded from some of the wounds.
Doctor Paterson barely glanced up as he waved her forward. He stood to one side of the bed. Gregor, his face creased with concern, the other.
“Monsieur’s back is the worst, though he has injuries to his front too. We set his dislocated shoulder at the camp, but didn’t wrap his ribs. I think at least two are broken. I need to clean and stitch the wounds before I can do that. I believe he is concussed as well, and truthfully, that worries me most.” Doctor Paterson did look at her then, sympathy in his kind hazel eyes. “We will do what we can for him, and the rest is in God’s hands and Monsieur’s will to live.”
Her feet leaden, Seonaid forced one in front of the other, slowly approaching the bed.
Only the slow rise and fall of Jacques’s back reassured her he yet lived. When she reached him, she held her breath and continued to the headboard, biting her lip upon seeing his battered face against the mattress.
Dear God.
She whispered in his ear. “Jacques, you’re going to be all right. You’re at Craigcutty, and the doctor and Gregor are here. I shall stay with you every minute. I promise.”
Gregor awkwardly patted her shoulder, and the doctor noisily cleared his throat.
Determined and resolute, she faced Doctor Paterson. “Tell me what to do. Where do I begin?”
He handed her a pair of scissors. “By cutting his clothing away.”
Four nights later, Seonaid jerked awake and bolted upright in the overstuffed chair beside Jacques’s bed. The lamp on the bedside table burned low, and a
fading fire snapped and sizzled.
The instant confusion and panic upon abruptly waking still thrummed through her.
Morning must be near.
Inhaling a calming breath, she wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth with her kerchief. Gads, she’d really been out. That was what came of barely sleeping, afraid to close her eyes in case he needed something.
Lest he die while she slept.
She swore he’d mumbled her name. The soft sound had roused her, but except for his chest’s rhythmic rise and fall, he lay unmoving.
Four days and nights, and he hadn’t stirred a bit. Not even when Doctor Paterson removed a three-inch-long shrapnel piece from his lower back.
Thank God, for that. She’d lost count of the number of stitches she’d sewn, the cloths she’d used to wipe Jacques’s blood, the tears she cried when no one could see or hear her.
Torn and pummeled by debris, Doctor Paterson said Jacques was damned lucky he’d suffered nothing more than three cracked ribs and the dislocated shoulder. And the nasty gash where something hit him on top of his head.
Yawning, she stretched her arms overhead, then uncurled her stiff legs, wincing as pinpricks rushed to the cramped limbs.
Infection was the greatest danger now. Careful not to disturb the bandage encircling his head, she laid the back of her hand against his forehead.
No fever.
She released her pent-up breath, yet her worry didn’t subside.
The longer he remained unresponsive, the greater the probability he’d sustained a serious head injury. Unable to help herself, she framed his uninjured jaw with her fingers and kissed his forehead. Rough stubble rasped beneath her hand as she tenderly caressed his gaunt face.
“You must wake up, Jacques. Please, wake up.”
After she turned up the lamp and drank cold tea to rinse the foul taste from her mouth, she picked up Rob Roy. Wiggling her shoeless toes, she flipped through the pages, searching to where she’d left off earlier.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 20