by Baker, Katy
His gaze was clear and honest but she’d fallen for that once before. "How do I know you're not spinning me a line?” she asked. “How can I be sure you're not lying to me right now?"
"Ye dinna," Finn replied with a shrug. "Ye must follow yer heart."
Eleanor looked at him sharply. Follow her heart? That was exactly what Irene MacAskill had told her before Eleanor had stepped through the archway.
"I... I...don't know," she stammered. “I’m not sure what to think. What to believe."
Finn stepped closer. "I'm sorry, lass," he said softly. "I'm sorry ye were dragged into this. I canna change that now but I can swear that I will find a way to get ye safely home." He placed a finger under her chin and gently lifted her face to look at him. Eleanor found herself gazing into those deep eyes and a tingle went through her. "Do ye trust me?"
Her breathing quickened. Something subconscious answered that question. "Yes," she found herself saying. "I trust you. I must be crazy, but I do."
A sudden smile broke over his face. "Good. This camp will soon move and the army will ride into battle. When that happens I will find a way for us to slip away in the confusion. Until then ye must play yer part.”
"My part? What do you mean?"
"Prove yerself useful to Lord Stewart," Finn replied. He crossed to the door and picked up a bundle that he must have dropped when he first came in. "Put this on. Whilst yer outland clothing may be acceptable in yer own land, here yer attire is a little...unusual... and will only draw unwanted attention."
Eleanor took the bundle. She untied it and shook out a long, copper colored dress. Glancing down at her skin-tight jeans, coat and boots, she realized that Finn was right. She needed to blend in and right now her clothing made her stick out like a sore thumb.
"Okay," she said, drawing in a breath. "Fit in. I can do that. Well, here goes."
She indicated for Finn to turn around and when he had his back to her she began stripping off her clothes. She felt awkward and vulnerable as she stood there in her underclothes but Finn was a perfect gentleman, resolutely staring at the wall and saying not a word.
Eleanor yanked the dress over her head and wiggled until it settled over her body. It was a perfect fit, hugging her slim waist and then flaring out down to her ankles. The arms covered her all the way to the wrists and the neckline was high enough to only show the barest slip of skin at the base of her throat. There were no zips, only a row of hooks on the back that Eleanor struggled to reach.
"Could you help me?"
Finn glanced over his shoulder, an uncomfortable expression on his face.
"I can't do up the back. Would you mind?" She gathered up her hair and held it out of the way for him.
Finn cleared his throat and for a moment looked scandalized that she would request such a thing but, perhaps realizing there was no other option, he stepped behind her and began fumbling with the hooks on the back of the dress. As he leaned down to get a better look, she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck and a shiver went through her. His fingers brushed her shoulder, the lightest of touches, but it sent goose bumps all the way down her arms.
"It's done," he said softly.
She turned around and found him so close that she almost bumped into him. Her stomach did a little flip. Jeez, what was wrong with her?
Finn's lips parted and for a moment he looked as though he would speak but then he cleared his throat and stepped back. Rubbing at the stubble that covered his chin he said, "Come. Lord Stewart wants to see ye.”
Eleanor swallowed. "Right."
Finn led her from the room and up a winding staircase. At the top was a wide landing with four doors leading off. Finn knocked on one of these.
"Remember to go along with all I say or do," he said softly. Then he grabbed her arm roughly, pushed the door open, and dragged her inside.
“I’ve brought the lass as ye asked," he snapped in an annoyed tone of voice.
Lord Alasdair Stewart was the only occupant of the room, which seemed to be a private study. Up here, the windows were a little wider and Eleanor could see the valley spreading out below. Lord Stewart had his back to them, putting an object into a cupboard against the far wall. Eleanor only got a brief glimpse of it but it appeared to be some kind of metal implement with a long handle and a pattern of swirling metalwork attached to the end. It looked like the branding irons used to mark cattle. Stewart placed it into the cupboard carefully, as though it was precious, and then turned to face them.
Finn turned suddenly pale, his eyes fixed on the closed door of the cupboard. Alasdair Stewart watched his reaction closely and Eleanor thought she detected a slight hint of triumph in the lord’s cold eyes. She glanced between the two men.
What is this? she thought to herself. What’s going on between these two?
Finn pushed Eleanor towards Lord Stewart hard enough to make her stumble.
"If that will be all, my lord?" he said in a tight voice.
“Aye.”
Finn spun on his heel and marched to the door. He didn't look at her and Eleanor forced herself to ignore him as he passed. She heard the door close behind him and she was left alone with the man who had become her captor.
Alasdair Stewart didn't speak for a long moment and merely stood looking at her, his eyes flicking over her new clothing, his expression calculating.
"What do ye think of my hound?" he asked suddenly.
The question was so unexpected that for a moment Eleanor floundered, caught off guard.
"You mean that lout that dragged me here?" she replied making her voice haughty. "What do you reckon? He’s a brute and a mannerless oaf and I would thank you to keep him away from me!"
She snapped her mouth shut and glared at him, hoping she'd said the right thing. Finn had told her to follow his lead and he’d acted hostile towards her. Perhaps she should do the same. Stewart watched her for a moment.
“Aye, well, I dinna have the luxury of gentle servants, I'm afraid. My hound will have to do."
He shuffled over to a chair by the fireplace and slumped into it with a groan. A grimace of pain twisted his face and now that she saw him closer, Eleanor realized there were dark circles under his eyes.
"Why did you ask for me?”
"Is that how the master is addressed in yer homeland, my lady? Perhaps it is ye who is the mannerless lout. Ye will address me as ‘my lord’."
Eleanor drew a deep breath through her nostrils. “I’m sorry. Why did you send for me, my lord?"
"Ye claim to be a physician." He pulled up the kilt of his plaid to reveal his left thigh. A blood-stained bandage was wound around the meat of his leg. "Fix my leg and mayhap I will believe ye.”
Eleanor heard the implied threat. Fail to fix it and it will go badly for you. She walked over to Stewart and knelt by his side. He leaned back in the chair, watching her carefully as he stretched out his injured leg. The bandage was dirty and who knew how much bacteria and other nasties were on that piece of material.
Gingerly she peeled away the bandage and tossed it into the fire. Beneath it, the top half of Stewart's thigh was a mess of crusted blood.
"I need water and a cloth.”
Stewart waved to a dresser in the corner on which sat a pitcher of water and a large bowl with a cloth draped over the side. Eleanor fetched it, poured some of the cold water into the bowl, and began gently wiping away the blood and grime from Stewart’s leg. Stewart grimaced in pain but made not a sound as she worked. Soon the water in the bowl had turned red.
She cleaned it diligently and was finally able to get a look at the wound. A slice had been taken out of Stewart’s thigh, the cut clean and straight as though made with a sharp implement—a sword at a guess. The wound had been crudely stitched but now they were pulled tight over the swollen, shiny skin that had turned pink and sore with infection. It didn't yet smell, much to Eleanor’s relief. Gangrene had yet to set in but if she was to save this man's leg, perhaps his life, she had to act quickly.
<
br /> "Who patched you up?" she muttered. "It looks like a butcher has been at you."
"Angus," Stewart growled. "Both my physicians were captured by the MacAuleys. Just one more thing I owe Logan MacAuley for, along with this slice out of my leg."
"Well, the stitches need to come out, I’ll have to drain the wound, clean it and then re-stitch it. And I’ll need some supplies."
Stewart leaned forward and bellowed, "Get in here!"
A man Eleanor didn't recognise entered.
“Lady Stevenson will give ye a list of things she needs,” Stewart said. “Ye will find them and bring them immediately. Understand?"
The man nodded. “Aye, lord."
Eleanor reeled off a list of supplies, substituting some of them—such as antiseptic—for what she hoped were sixteenth century equivalents.
The man left and Eleanor busied herself by heating water in a pot on the fire.
“Do you have a knife?”
Lord Stewart's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Eleanor rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to stab you with it. I need to take your stitches out."
Lord Stewart unsheathed the dagger at his side and held it out hilt first. Eleanor took it and dropped it into the pot of boiling water.
"Why are ye doing that?" Lord Stewart asked.
How was she supposed to explain about bacteria and infection to somebody from this time? "It’s something we do in my homeland," she said. "We find if we clean the apparatus first it speeds healing."
There was a knock on the door and it opened to admit the guard, arms laden with the supplies Eleanor had requested. She nodded at the side board and he placed them where she indicated, giving Lord Stewart an odd look. He waved the man out irritably.
Eleanor inspected the sheet she’d asked him to bring. Yes it was clean, obviously freshly laundered, and would do for bandages. There were several needles and some strong thread along with a pot of honey and a bottle of whisky. She dumped the needles and thread in the boiling water alongside the dagger.
When she was satisfied it was sufficiently sterilised, she fished out the dagger and knelt by Lord Stewart.
"This will hurt. There's nothing I can do about that."
"Just do it," he growled.
Eleanor pressed the tip of the dagger under the first of the stitches and quickly sliced it. Stewart grunted in pain but said not a word. Eleanor quickly pulled out the stitch and then worked on the others. Pus and blood began oozing from the wound. She used the dagger to make a small incision at one end of the wound, and it began to flow more freely. Good. It would allow the infection inside to drain away.
"Hold that to your leg," she instructed Stewart, handing him a piece of the sheet she’d sliced off. "Use it to catch the blood but don't let it touch the wound. I'll be back in a moment."
Dropping the dagger back into the boiling water she took the bottle of whisky and pulled out the cork with her teeth. Alcohol could be used as a disinfectant and she hoped this local brew would do the trick. Returning to Stewart's side she gently probed the wound to check that all the infection had drained and then tipped the bottle of whisky all over it, flushing out the last of any nastiness.
Stewart hissed in pain but Eleanor ignored him, all her attention fixed on her work. As often happened when she was doctoring, she clicked into autopilot and her focus narrowed to only her patient and the problem in hand. A calmness came over her and she no longer saw a sixteenth century warlord who was holding her prisoner, or a grimy manor house in the middle of nowhere, she saw only an injury and the things she needed to do to fix it.
Having flushed out the wound, she took the needle from the pot of boiling water, threaded it, and then quickly stitched up the wound with small neat stitches, leaving it open at one end to allow any further infection to drain away. Lastly, she smeared it with honey as an antiseptic and wound a clean bandage tightly around the leg.
When she was finished she rocked back on her heels and looked at Stewart. His face was pale and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"You need to rest," she said. "If you move around too much on that leg you will reopen the wound and it will never heal properly. And keep your leg raised to reduce the swelling.”
He snorted. "Rest? In case ye hadnae noticed, we’re in the middle of a war, woman. Rest is the last thing I will be getting." He waved at the whisky bottle. "Any left in that?"
She handed him the bottle of whisky and he set it to his lips and knocked it back, guzzling the liquid as though it was water. When he was finished he dropped the bottle to the floor with a thump and sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If you begin to develop a fever you must let me know immediately,” she said. “Do you have any basil or garlic? It will help bring down fever.”
He scowled at her. “Do I look like an apothecary?”
She sighed. So much for gratitude.
He struggled to his feet and limped to the door. Eleanor heard a muffled conversation from outside and Stewart returned a few minutes later.
Finn followed him through the door. He didn’t look at her but scowled at Stewart instead. He held a half-eaten chicken leg in one hand.
“Aye?” Finn demanded. “What is it this time?”
Stewart glanced at Eleanor and she quickly schooled her expression into one of disdain, as though she wasn’t pleased to see Finn at all.
“Ye’ve done well, Hound,” Stewart said to Finn. “For bringing me such a prize. Lady Stevenson has a rare talent. I would hate that talent to be squandered. An army camp isnae a safe place for a lady, as ye know well. I am placing ye in charge of the lady’s welfare whilst she is our guest. Ye will see that no harm comes to her and that she doesnae try to leave.”
Finn’s scowl deepened. “I am no nursemaid,” he snapped.
“Ye are whatever I say ye are!” Stewart growled back.
For a moment Finn’s eyes blazed. Then he lowered his gaze and nodded.
“Aye, my lord.”
“Good,” Stewart replied. “Escort the lady back to a guestroom.” Stewart turned to Eleanor. “Ye will be my guest at dinner tonight, my lady.”
It was clearly not a request. Eleanor’s stomach tightened. Dinner? With this guy? She bit down the refusal that tried to spill out of her mouth and nodded.
With a dismissive wave Stewart turned away and Eleanor followed Finn out of the room. He pulled the door shut behind them and led her down the corridor. Only when they’d turned a corner did he speak.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
“Fine,” she replied. “I treated his leg wound, that’s all.”
Finn let out a long breath. “He thinks ye are valuable now. Stewart treats people well as long as they are of use to him.”
Like you, you mean? Eleanor thought.
They reached the end of the corridor and Eleanor was surprised when Finn turned left instead of right.
“Where are we going? He told you to escort me back to my room.”
“Ye are a guest now, remember?”
He led her up a rickety staircase that creaked alarmingly under Eleanor’s feet and stopped outside a door. “I think ye’ll find this more to yer liking.”
He opened the door and Eleanor followed him inside. She halted, blinking in confusion. This was no bare room used to lock up guests. Instead this was a sumptuous bedroom with thick rugs on the floor, a large, canopied bed and freshly-swept fireplace. It was exactly the kind of thing she might have booked for a night in a swanky hotel.
“Well,” she breathed. “There’s an eye-opener if ever I saw one.”
“There are still a few guestrooms in the place worthy of the name,” Finn said.
She nodded. “I could almost believe I’m not a prisoner. Almost.”
“It’s some hours until the evening meal tonight,” he said. “I will send somebody to draw ye a bath.”
The evening meal. He meant dinner with Stewart. Oh hell. The thought of s
pending the evening in the company of that man made her feel queasy.
Finn strode to the door but paused with his hand on the handle. “Until tonight.”
Eleanor swallowed and forced a nod. “Until tonight.”
With that, he strode out. Eleanor slumped down on the bed, breathing deeply to clear her thoughts. For the second time that day she was left alone in her room, a prisoner in Stewart’s household. But this time she didn’t give in to despair. This time she had something she hadn’t had the first time. This time she had hope.
She’d proven herself useful to Lord Stewart. He’d not thrown her in a cell or given her to the brothel. That was good. It was a start. Now all she had to do was win her freedom and find a way home. The thought was a daunting one but it wasn’t as terrifying as it ought to be. Not when she had Finn to help her.
Chapter 8
Finn shut Eleanor’s door behind him, locked it, and went in search of his squad. Hand-picked by Finn himself from the ranks of Stewart’s forces, they were just about the only people Finn trusted in this god-forsaken place.
He found two of his trackers, Rob and Donald, exactly where he knew he would: playing dice in front of the kitchen fire. The two lads, neither older than seventeen, leapt to attention when he walked in.
“Is it true, sir?” Donald asked. “Did ye find a noble lady in the woods? A MacAuley spy?”
“Ye listen to too much gossip, lad,” Finlay replied with a frown. “Aye, I happened across a traveler on my patrol but she isnae a MacAuley spy.”
Donald seemed a bit disappointed by this. “Oh. Are we going out scouting? Do ye want us to go get the others? Duncan will probably be in the brothel by now but I can—”
“No patrol tonight,” Finn cut in. “We have a more important duty. We’ve been tasked by Lord Stewart with keeping the lass safe. Donald, ye will arrange food and a bath for her then guard her door. Rob, ye will go and drag the others from the brothel and tell them to report to me before the evening meal. Over the next few days I want eyes and ears everywhere. Anyone mentions the lass, I want to know about it.”
The two lads nodded and scrambled to their assigned tasks, leaving Finn alone in the kitchen. He breathed out slowly and thought back over the last few days. His life had taken a very sudden and very unexpected turn.