Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “Blast.” Coll turned to Isobel. “I got some down him but now he will not open his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s unconscious or half-drunk already.”

  “Jack. You need to drink this.”

  “Don’t want it,” he mumbled. “Don’t like.”

  “It’s the best brandy, and you know you like it. Here.” She took the cup from Coll and raised it to Jack’s lips.

  Jack took a sip. “Him,” he said, a bit more distinctly. “Don’t like him.” He sent the ghost of a scowl toward Coll.

  Coll chuckled. “That’s good, Sassenach, as I don’t like you.”

  “Well, I am sure you are both quite happy with that, then,” Isobel said crisply, even though all she wanted to do was lean her head against Jack’s and burst into tears. “But you will take another drink for me, won’t you? It will help it not hurt so much.”

  In this way, she managed to get several more swallows down Jack.

  “Why’s he here?” Jack asked, his voice slurring. “Wanna sleep.”

  “I know you do. And so you shall. Just take one more sip for me.” She tilted the cup up again, then stepped back and took away the pillows as Coll eased Jack back down flat on the bed.

  “You shoot me?” Jack asked Coll.

  “Nae, I did not. I stumbled upon you lying in the road, and I thought Isobel would not like me to leave you lying there.”

  As Coll turned away, Jack said quietly, “Thank you.”

  Isobel retreated to the corner of the room, unable to look and equally unable to move farther away. She could not leave him, no matter how hard it was to hear the muffled groans Jack made as Meg worked on him. But Isobel was thankful that Coll’s broad back blocked her vision of what Meg was doing to him.

  After a few minutes and a particularly loud groan from Jack, Isobel heard Meg say, “Thank goodness. He passed out.”

  At the sound of metal rattling in a dish, Isobel knew that Meg must finally have pulled the ball from Jack’s shoulder and discarded it. Isobel sagged against the wall, unsure her shaking legs would hold her up any longer. She heard the relief she felt echoed in Meg’s voice: “I got the wee beastie.”

  Isobel sank down on the chair at her vanity and propped her elbows on the table, leaning her head in her hands. Behind her she could hear Meg and Coll still working, their voices hushed. But at last Meg stepped back and went to wash her hands.

  Isobel hastened to the bed. Jack lay still and white as death, the dark hair framing his face in stark contrast. Meg had thrown a colorful knitted blanket across his lower half to keep him warm, but his chest was bare, exposing the bulky white bandage across his shoulder. Traces of blood still clung to his chest and stomach.

  Turning from the washbowl, drying her hands, Meg told Isobel, “I imagine he will sleep for a while. That’s the best thing for him. Do you have any laudanum?” At Isobel’s nod, Meg went on, “Good. Give him a spoonful if the pain gets too bad. He will bleed still, I think, so be sure to change the bandage frequently. Get broth down him whenever you can; he needs to rebuild the blood he’s lost. I’m going down to your stillroom and make up a few things to leave with you. A paste to spread on his wound when you change the bandage, and a tincture for the fever; I imagine he will get feverish.”

  Isobel nodded. “Is he . . . do you think . . .”

  “He survived my getting the ball out and the loss of blood, which makes me hopeful. He is young and healthy, and I know he’ll get good care.” Meg paused, looking straight into her friend’s eyes. “The biggest enemy now is infection. I washed the wound out and treated it, and the paste will help, too. But if it looks swollen and inflamed or starts to ooze pus, send for me. I’ll look in on him again before I leave. And I’ll come tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Isobel threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tightly. “Thank you with all my heart.”

  “Take care. And get some sleep yourself when you can. You’ll need your strength.”

  Meg packed up her chest and carried it from the room. Coll turned to follow his sister, but Isobel stopped him at the door, laying her hand upon his arm.

  “Coll. Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know, Izzy. I found him like that. He was on the burnside path just up from the Fraser croft. I don’t know how long he’d been there. A while, I guessed, by the amount of blood. Sorry,” he added as he saw her wince. “He came to when I hauled him up, but he was weak. He did not say much. And I was thinking only about getting him on that horse and back here.”

  “I know, and I am grateful for that.”

  “Isobel, there’s no need for thanking me.”

  “I need to say it.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “But, Coll, I want you to tell me. Who would have done this to him?”

  Coll shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But we cannot be certain it was on purpose. It could have been a poacher.”

  “Who mistook Jack for a deer? I think not.”

  “An accident, then. A gun went off, and the lad ran when he saw who he’d shot.”

  “Jack did not tell me, but I know he was stopped on the road when he came back from Inverness.”

  “How did you hear that? No, I know.” Coll heaved a disgusted sigh. “Gossip. A man sneezes in a tavern, and the next day every woman in Kinclannoch knows it.”

  “I heard the men were unhappy with Jack because he refused to give them something.”

  “Aye, but they would not have killed him for it,” Coll protested. “Izzy, you canna think one of—one of them shot him!”

  “You’re right; I can’t. But who, then? He is a landowner and an Englishman. I know there’s resentment.” She fixed him with a fierce gaze. “He is my husband, Coll. Who hurts him, hurts me. If he dies, I’ll not rest till I have found the one who did it. I may not be a man, but I am a Rose of Baillannan.”

  “I know you are.” Coll smiled faintly. “There’s no man on this land who wants to earn your ill will.”

  “Good. I want to make sure everyone knows it.”

  “They will. I promise.”

  “Will you listen about? Will you tell me if you hear anything?”

  “You know I will. A fellow makes an enemy of you, he’s an enemy of the Munros, as well.” He grinned. “They may not be scared of me, but only a fool doesn’t fear Red Meg Munro.”

  Isobel smiled. “Thank you. Will you do something else for me, then?”

  “Tell me.”

  “This is the second time Jack has been almost killed.”

  “Are you talking about that rockslide?” Coll’s brows went up. “Surely that was an accident. Rocks fall.”

  “I was sure it was an accident, too. Until this happened. Coll, in only two days Jack has almost died twice.”

  Coll frowned. “I will look at it tomorrow morning. And the place where I found him. If there is something to be found, I’ll get it.” He took her hand in his and patted it. “Don’t worry. Just rest and look after him.”

  Isobel nodded and walked back to the bed. She slipped her hand into Jack’s and once again smoothed her fingers across his forehead. Panic rose in her throat, but she forced it down. Pulling a chair over to the side of the bed, she sat down to wait.

  Afterward, Isobel would remember that afternoon and evening only as something of a blur. Hours dragged by in a strange blend of tedium and anxiety, broken now and then by laying her hand on his forehead to check for fever or to follow Meg’s instructions about changing his bandage. All the while, Jack lay still. Now and then he would shift in the bed, a movement that was invariably followed by a groan.

  Isobel had the servants bring in a cot for her to sleep on, but she could find little rest on it throughout the night. She must have fallen asleep, however, for suddenly she jerked awake, disoriented. She heard Jack’s voice, and everything came rushing back to her. She ran to the bed. Jack’s head was moving restlessly on the pillow, his hair sticking damply to his forehead. In the morning light, his face was flushed, and even as she placed her hand acr
oss his forehead, she knew what she would feel: Jack’s forehead was blazing hot with fever.

  The fever raged throughout the day and into the night. More than once Jack awoke and looked at Isobel without the least sign of recognition. Then, minutes later, as she walked across the room to pick up the bottle of tincture Meg had left for his fever, he barked, “Isobel! No. Watch out. The water. You’re stepping in the water.”

  She turned her head to see him pointing at the perfectly dry floor in front of her feet, his face creased in a frown. “But there’s no—”

  “You don’t know how deep it is. You don’t know. Be careful.” He struggled to push himself up on his elbow, wincing at the pain.

  “I’ll step around it,” she said hastily, edging along the dresser.

  He relaxed back onto the pillow.

  When she returned with the medicine, diluted with water, and raised it to his lips to drink, he looked at her as if she were a stranger bent on poisoning him and knocked her hand away, spilling the cup all over the blanket. With grim determination, Isobel called in Hamish to hold Jack while she forced the liquid into his mouth.

  She spent the long day at his bedside, repeatedly wiping his face and chest with a cool wet rag in an attempt to bring down his fever, until she felt as if her back would break from bending over the bed. Her aunt came in frequently, usually accompanied by Millicent, who stood a few feet away, wringing her hands and crying softly. Her aunt offered to take over Isobel’s nursing duties for a while, but Isobel shook her head. No matter how exhausted she was, she could not bring herself to leave Jack.

  As the evening wore on toward midnight, Jack became more agitated, and to Isobel’s alarm, his fever flared even higher. His face flamed with color, and he carried on a fragmented conversation with someone only he could see. Isobel continued her ministrations throughout the night, smoothing a cool wet rag over his face time after time, but she feared it could not counteract that heat pouring from his body.

  Hating to drag Hamish from his sleep to help her give Jack a dose of medicine, she woke her aunt and Jack’s mother to help her. When they were finished, Elizabeth once again offered to relieve Isobel for a few hours.

  “No,” Millicent said. “Let me.” She put her hand on Isobel’s arm and looked into her eyes. “You can sleep on the cot, and I will call you if he needs you.”

  Isobel cast an uncertain look back at Jack. She was not sure that she could sleep, but her brain was foggy and her back ached. It would help to at least lie down a bit.

  “Please, dear,” Millicent urged her. “I know I’m— I’ve never been the mother Jack should have had. But I can do this. I want to. And you know that I would cry for help at the first sign of trouble.” She gave a wry flicker of a smile, and for just an instant Isobel could see a flash of Jack in her.

  Isobel nodded. “Thank you.”

  Isobel managed to doze, floating in and out of consciousness, troubled by vague, restless dreams. It was almost a relief when Jack’s mother woke her.

  “I think he needs more medicine,” Millicent told her, her brow creased with worry. “He was better at first, but now he’s very hot and restless again.”

  Isobel nodded and made the mixture. He did not, she thought, seem quite as agitated as earlier, and they were able to get the medicine down him between the two of them. Isobel persuaded him to take a few sips of water as well. Millicent left, looking relieved, and Isobel settled down beside Jack’s bed to begin once more the routine of ceaseless waiting.

  She leaned her head against the mattress, trying to fight the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Meg had told her to be patient, but here, in the darkest hours of the night, Isobel found it hard to hold on to hope.

  “Isobel?” Something touched her head, and Isobel jerked awake. The room was light and she realized she must have fallen asleep. Her neck felt permanently crooked.

  “Isobel,” came the faint voice again.

  “Jack!” She shot upright and stared at him, stunned.

  His skin was not flushed, and his eyes were weary, but clear. “Isobel? Why are you sitting there?” His tone was vaguely puzzled. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Oh, Jack!” Isobel began to laugh, then her slightly manic laughter turned into tears. She leaned her head upon the mattress again and wept.

  “’S all right.” Jack patted her head weakly. “Don’t cry, Izzy.”

  She took his hand in hers and raised it to her lips.

  “’S all right,” he mumbled, and when she lifted her head again, she saw that his eyes were drifting closed.

  Isobel sat for a moment, watching him, as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Still holding his hand, she laid her head down again and slept.

  “Blast!” Jack, when he awoke a few hours later, was not only clearer of head, but also louder of voice.

  Isobel, who had been soaking in the sunlight at the window, turned and smiled. “Good day to you, too.”

  “What the devil happened?” Jack raised his head and started to push himself up, then grimaced and muttered an oath. His head dropped back to the pillow. “I feel as if someone shoved a red-hot poker through my chest.”

  “Do you not remember?” Isobel came back to him, reaching down to feel his forehead. It was far cooler than it had been, though still warmer than she would have liked. “You were shot.”

  “Shot!” His brows rose and he looked away, thinking. “I was riding home. I remember—something slammed into my shoulder, and I dropped the reins. Pharaoh reared—yes, there was a bang—I went flying.” He paused. “It’s . . . very vague after that.” Jack ran his hand over her face and back into his hair. “I’m weak as a kitten.”

  “That’s no surprise. You lost a great deal of blood. I didn’t know if you—” Her voice caught. “You must have been lying there for hours.”

  “Isobel . . .” He reached out to take her hand. “You’re not going to cry again, are you?”

  “No. Of course not.” She smiled determinedly. “I was . . . tired before.”

  He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “You have been taking care of me. I—I remember a little.” He looked a little fretfully toward the carpet. “Was there water on the floor?”

  “No.” She chuckled and sat down on the side of the bed, keeping her hand curved in his. “Though you apparently thought there was. You were delirious with fever.”

  “Everything seemed . . . a bit mad.” He frowned.

  “What else do you remember?”

  “About getting shot? Nothing, really. I woke up now and again. The sun was in my eyes. I think—yes, I tried to walk, but I fell. Was Coll Munro there?”

  “He found you and brought you home.”

  “I remember being on a horse; my shoulder hurt like hell every step he took.” He frowned. “That redhead—Meg Munro was here. Did she take the ball out of me?” His voice rose in astonishment.

  “Yes. And a very good job she did, too. She made the medicine as well.” Isobel went on carefully, “Did you see anyone? When you were shot, I mean.”

  “You mean the chap who shot me?” Jack shook his head. “Unless it was Coll.”

  Isobel made a face. “I do hope you won’t accuse him again. Coll did not shoot you. He brought you home; he saved your life. Would he have done that if he had just shot you?”

  Jack grunted softly. “I suppose not.”

  “Coll thinks it may have been a poacher. An accident.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You’re tired. You should sleep.” Isobel stood up, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’ll ring for some broth.”

  At the door, she paused and swung back around. “I told your mother and Aunt Elizabeth that you had awakened and were better. They were very happy to hear it. Your mother sat with you while I slept last night. I know she would like very much to come in and see you.”

  He looked at Isobel for a long moment, then sighed. “Very well. Send her in.”

  When Isobel left the room, Jack lay, looking
up at the tester high above him. He felt like a turtle on its back. An empty and weak turtle. He tried to squirm higher on his pillow and discovered that any movement set off the fire in his chest and shoulder. Clearly he could do nothing on his own. The thought galled him. It was bad enough that he had been carried back to the house by Coll Munro, but it shamed him even more to think of Isobel seeing him in such a state.

  When his mother tiptoed hesitantly into his room, he was swept with relief. At least he would not have to ask Isobel to help him sit up now; his mother could do that. “Thank God.”

  Millicent blinked at his unusually enthusiastic greeting, but hurried over to his bedside. “Oh, Jack, I have been so worried. I thought you would die, hating me, and I could not bear it.” Her eyes welled with tears.

  “Yes, I know. For pity’s sake, don’t cry about it. I don’t hate you, and in any case I didn’t die.”

  “You are always so cold.”

  “Mother, please. I need your help.”

  She gaped at him.

  “I cannot sit up by myself.”

  Her face cleared. “Ah . . . you don’t want to have to ask Isobel.” She stepped forward with a little chuckle and slid her hands beneath his head and chest. “You see? Sometimes having a mother about is not so bad.”

  With her help, and enough pain to leave him white-faced, Jack managed to sit up, and Millicent plumped up the pillows behind his back.

  “There now.” She patted his leg and sat down in the chair beside him, then launched into a description of her emotional reaction to his arrival, half-dead, at the house.

  “I am glad I provided you with some drama.” Jack’s wry smile took the sting out of his words.

  “Oh, you.” Millicent gave an airy wave of her hand.

  “What about everyone else?” he asked casually, straightening out a wrinkle in the sheet.

  “We were all amazed! Isobel had been worrying. I could see that. You know I notice little things that—”

  “Was she . . . surprised?”

  “Of course she was! Everyone was.”