She was tired and hungry. She was overwhelmed, annoyed, and trying desperately not to be afraid. Anger bloomed in her breast, fierce and hot. With a curse—she’d learned that from Edward as well, or perhaps Louis—she gritted her teeth as she bunched her fist and swung at the man who held her.
She hit him square in the eye. He reeled back with a surprised cry. “Doctor? She’s more a prizefighter!” he wailed, and the others laughed like jackals scenting prey.
Eleanor realized she’d made a grave mistake. The soldier’s eye was swelling. Hitting him hadn’t helped—it had made things worse. The faces around her changed, grew sharper and more dangerous, all pretense of harmless fun abandoned. Her hot anger turned to cold sweat. The rude comments and suggestions grew louder, more obscene. They touched her, plucked at her hair and her clothes, and kept on throwing her bag.
She spun, moved sideways, tried to find a safe spot to stand, but the pinches and pokes came from every direction. They were taller than she was, broader and stronger. Fear made her sweat, closed her throat with panic.
A hard pinch on her bottom made her gasp, and she bunched her fists again, lashed out at the grinning faces, but now they were smart enough to stay out of reach, fending off her blows, laughing at her.
She thought she’d grown immune to rude comments at medical school, had learned to stare down bullies who imagined a woman was easy prey. The crude, cruel jokes she’d endured from male students had hardened her and had made her realize that showing hurt feelings wouldn’t stop them. It made the teasing worse. And Edward had teased her, had known what to say to hurt most. She’d learned to face them all, her expression flat and impassive, stare them down until they grew bored and went away. But these men weren’t going to go away. There was nowhere to go. She wondered how long it would take to reach Arras. She straightened her spine, tilted her chin up.
“I want my property back,” she said in clipped tones, looking around, fixing every man in view with a determined glare. “Now!” she insisted when no one moved to obey.
The blond soldier caught the bag. He gave her a slow, cheeky grin and held the bag above his head. She’d have to jump to reach it. “You’ll have to pay a forfeit for it. I want a kiss for luck. In fact, you can give us all a kiss,” he said, and a cheer went up. He puckered his lips, leaned closer. Hands shoved her forward, pinning her arms at her sides. She dug in her heels and turned her head away, but they only pushed harder. “Stop,” Eleanor gasped, as frightened as she was angry now. They called out obscene encouragement as the blond man’s lips came relentlessly closer. She shut her eyes and struggled to free her arms, wondering if she could kick him without falling. If she fell to the floor, they’d never let her up, they’d—
She was in trouble.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Let her go.”
The three words cut through the boisterous laughter like a bayonet. The men around Eleanor froze and stared at someone standing behind her. The blond’s pucker turned to a gape of surprise. The hands on her fell away, and the space around her opened and she could breathe again. The raucous soldiers stepped back and fell silent.
She turned to look at her rescuer. It was the grim-faced Scottish sergeant from the platform. He stood behind her, taller than most of the recruits, his eyes cold as he glared at them.
“You—” He pointed at the blond. “Give her back her bag. The rest of you go and find places to sit or stand at the other end of this carriage. Make it quick, or I’ll have ye all on report.” He sounded like a headmaster addressing unruly schoolboys.
The blond looked at his boots as he handed the bag back to her. “We were just having a bit of fun, Sergeant. No harm done.”
Eleanor hugged her medical bag tight against her chest, her hands shaking, her heart pounding. She kept her eyes on the sergeant. His cap shaded the glittering ice of his eyes, making him even more menacing. His frown deepened.
“Fun? Is that what ye call it? Were ye raised without manners, Private? Is that how ye treat women wherever it is you’re from?”
The blond blushed to the roots of his hair, his eyes downcast. “Manchester,” he mumbled. He shifted, and looked up at the Scot. “It’s just that—she says she’s a doctor.”
The sergeant’s expression didn’t change. He hadn’t even glanced at her yet, but suddenly she felt safe. She’d seen him care for the wounded soldier on the platform, watched him perform magic. “What of it? If a shell hits ye, ye’ll be glad of a doctor, any doctor, to save ye. Now go on, go find a space at the other end of the carriage.”
The man looked at the Red Cross brassard on the sergeant’s sleeve, dirty and worn, tattered and stained with grime. His jaw dropped for a moment, then flapped, as if he intended to ask a question. “Go,” the sergeant growled, cutting him off before he could speak, and the private turned and marched down the car to join his fellows.
Only then did Eleanor turn to him. “Thank you,” she said, straightening herself, clutching her bag. She had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. He tipped his down to look at her, the brim of his cap casting his eyes into shadow. The corners of his mouth were flat and hard, his jaw tight with disapproval or anger. She felt her skin flush. She knew she was a mess, her hat askew, her clothing rumpled. He was staring. Was her face dirty? She resisted the urge to smooth a hand over her cheek to check. She probably couldn’t have looked less like a doctor if she tried. But she was a doctor, even if the altercation had left her worse for wear, and she surely couldn’t look as bad as he did. She lowered her gaze, letting it run over the length of his body. He had the powerful, long-legged build of a Highlander, the quiet, canny strength of one, sure of himself and proud. She’d learned to identify Highland men in Edinburgh by those characteristics alone, even before they spoke. He might not be wearing a kilt, but his origins were as distinctive as the rugged land that bred him, hard and spare and cold. But there was beauty in the harsh Highland landscape, a kind of magic, and this man certainly had all of that. He stood stiffly before her, silent now, his hands in his pockets, looking as if only his tattered greatcoat held his long limbs upright, like a carapace, or a splint. His eyes were sharp with disapproval still, but now it was all for her, not the recruits. It put her on her guard, and she raised her chin. “I could have managed.”
His face softened slightly. One eyebrow rose into the shadow of his cap, and his lips rippled before he schooled them back into a stern line. “Aye, but it was the men I was worried about. What do ye weigh in at? Seven stone or so?” The flicker of amusement in his expression faded as quickly as it had come. “Sit down,” he said, indicating an empty seat with a jerk of his head—there were quite a number of empty ones now, thanks to him. She slid across the wooden bench until she was pressed against the window. He folded his big body onto the seat opposite hers, angling his knees to form a barrier across the aisle, making a safe space for her. He cast one more scowl at the men who were watching him, chastened and solemn.
“Ye shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“There was no room in the other carriages.”
He frowned again. “I meant in France. Ye shouldn’t be in France, or on this train at all, heading toward the front.”
“Because I’m a doctor?” she demanded. “I have a legitimate reason for being here.”
He folded his arms. “Have ye, now? I ken you’re a doctor. I heard ye say so on the platform, and to the lads here, but you’re not wearing a uniform, and I doubt very much you’ve got a commission or permission to serve.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “Husband or brother?”
“What?”
“I’m guessing you’ve come to visit someone. Someone wounded, no doubt. So is it your husband or your brother?”
She tightened her hands on the handle of her bag. “Neither. He’s—” She pursed her lips. Louis wasn’t a friend, either, really, not of hers, anyway. “He’s in hospital at Sainte-Croix.”
> “Not a hospital—a Casualty Clearing Station. Number forty-six.”
She felt hope rise. “Do you know it?”
He glanced out the window, though the landscape was invisible, dawn still an hour or two away. The sky was cloudy, more gray than black, even now. There would be no glorious sunrise, it seemed, just a lighter gradient of gray to mark the coming of the day. She could see his reflection and her own in the glass as he scanned the bare fields.
“Aye, I know it.” He looked back at her. “They don’t get a lot of visitors. The officer in charge doesn’t encourage it. Do they know to expect ye?”
“Um, no.” At least, the itinerary her ladyship’s secretary had prepared made no mention of whether they knew she was coming or not.
“Then how will ye get there? It’s four miles from the station at Arras. The chaplain usually comes if he knows to expect someone, but not otherwise.”
“I expected there’d be a cab.”
He looked at her as if she were a helpless kitten stuck up a tree. “A cab,” he drawled. “No. There are no cabs. Not even a farmer’s cart. There’s a war on.”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes, I know. I can walk if I have to. I’m used to that. Four miles isn’t so far.”
He glanced at her feet. “It’s too far in those fancy wee boots, and too dangerous for a civilian. Ye need someone who’s going that way to take ye.”
She bit her lip. “And you—are you going that way?”
“As it happens, I am.” He was silent for a moment.
“Then will ye—will you take me?” For an instant she had fallen into the familiar Scottish brogue, unintentionally mimicking him. His lips quirked as he noticed, and she wondered if it was that or the double meaning of take me that amused him. She cast about for something else to say, a way to change the subject, to hide her mistake. “Are you—” She looked him over, took in his ragged uniform again, his scuffed boots, the Red Cross brassard. “Are you a doctor?”
He grinned again, and this time it pleated the corners of his eyes and mouth for a second with genuine amusement. “Nay, I’m a stretcher bearer. We fetch and carry for the doctors. We go out into No Man’s Land and find the wounded, administer first aid, and carry them back to the medical officers at the aid posts. From there, they end up at Casualty Clearing Stations like number forty-six.”
He held out his hands. They were big and dark and long fingered, the knuckles and wrist bones raw and knobby. They were also blistered and scratched, covered with small scabs and scars. Dirt had been ground into the lines in his skin, like the hands of Yorkshire sheep farmers or of coal miners. “Ye can tell a bearer by his hands. The wooden handles of the stretcher leave blisters. Bullets split the wood, and the splinters go deep into your flesh, or the wet makes the wood crack and swell, and it pinches your skin.” He pointed to a jagged scar along the outside of his thumb. “A soldier bit me once, mad with pain.”
She looked at the injury, saw the teeth marks, and winced. “Where I come from the farmers use lanolin on their skin,” she said.
“And where’s that?”
“West Yorkshire.” She saw no recognition in his eyes, unlike when he’d spoken to Private McKie at the station. “You were—kind—to Private McKie, the soldier at the station.”
He looked out the window again. “Part of my training. Keep them calm, don’t let them panic. Talk to them, soothe them. They rest easier that way, don’t think about—” He stopped.
“What, death? Will he die?” Eleanor asked in horror.
He shrugged. “According to the tag on his tunic, he has shrapnel buried in his hip and thigh. There’s splinters of bone from the soldier beside him in his jaw, and before the bearers got to him, there was a gas attack.”
“Poor man.”
He raised his brows. “Poor man? He’s one of the lucky ones. That’s a Blighty, the kind of wound that gets ye sent home and out of the fighting for good. There’s a chance he’ll survive, even with all that. I’ve seen men hurt worse who made it.” He was silent for a moment. “If he does live, he’ll remember the way it felt the very moment when that shell landed, the way everything looked and felt and smelled. He’ll never forget, and he’ll feel it all over again whenever it rains or snows, and in the middle of the night. His loved ones will cry over the scars, flinch at the sight of him, recoil at his touch. The only ones who’ll understand will be men who’ve been here, those who can share the memories and their own wounds.” He fell silent for a moment, his eyes on the invisible world beyond the window again. “Still, some men, many men, pray for such wounds. I can’t tell ye how many times I’ve found a wounded lad on the field, and that’s the first thing he’ll ask me—‘Is it a Blighty?’ His leg might be gone, or his guts spilling from his belly, but that’s what he’ll ask.”
“What do you say?” she asked.
He fixed his gaze on her. “I lie. I tell them they’ll be home before they know it. I suppose that’s true enough, in a way, if you’re of a religious mind.”
“Are you of a religious mind?”
He looked at her as if she were daft, his eyes widening—gray eyes, still cold as the sea, or some Scottish loch, perhaps. “Here? No. I was raised in the kirk, and to believe in God, o’ course, and I suppose I’ll go back to it on Sundays when I’m home again. If I make it home again.”
Eleanor stared at him, her belly cleaving tight against her spine now. He sounded resigned, bone-weary.
She frowned, and he caught her look, held it. “Have I shocked ye? That’s why ye shouldn’t be here. You’ll see things you’ll never forget, things ye can’t fix, doctor or no’, and they’ll give ye nightmares.”
“You can’t fix them, either, but you try.”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
He scanned her face. “Ye want to know why I’m a bearer?” She nodded, and he flashed a quick, humorless grin. Even that made him look younger, handsomer, quintessentially Scottish. Her heart pitched sideways in her chest a little. She waited for him to speak. He sat back and folded his arms over his chest.
“All right, then. For one thing, I’m six-foot-five, and strong enough to lift a heifer. They choose the biggest, brawniest men. Carrying a wounded man who’s soaked to the skin with mud and water is hard work, and if they’re unconscious, they weigh even more—deadweight. I was chosen for the job, plucked out of the infantry, trained to find wounded men on the battlefield, to stop bleeding, give morphine, bandage wounds under fire, and get them back to where a medical officer can do more.”
She felt breathless looking at him, this big Scot with scarred hands and guarded eyes. Who, she wondered, when this war was over, would soothe him, fix his nightmares? He probably had a pretty Highland lass at home, a wee wife in a neat little cottage waiting for him, watching a long, dusty road that skirted high hills and deep lochs, hoping to catch sight of him marching home to her, mad with joy, her wee house, her arms, her bed, full of him again at last.
“What’s wrong with him?” the sergeant asked, shaking her out of her reverie.
“Who?”
“The lad you’re going to visit.”
“Broken leg—his femur. He’s a pilot.”
He winced. “Those lads take daft chances. And what can you do for him?”
“I’ve come to take him home.”
She saw his jaw tighten. “Lucky chap.” He looked hollow for an instant, hopeless. She did what he’d done with McKie, and began to talk.
“I’m Eleanor Atherton.”
He hesitated. “Fraser MacLeod,” he said at last.
“And where are you from, Sergeant MacLeod?”
“I doubt ye’d know the place. Have ye been to Scotland?”
“I was at medical school in Edinburgh.”
“I mean the Highlands.”
She tilted her head. She had, but she wanted to see t
hem through his eyes the way he’d made McKie see Glasgow. “Tell me about them.”
He shut his eyes. “The air is so clear and cold ye can hear a blade of grass bend in the wind a mile away. It smells of heather and pine and peat, clean. There’s no blood or rot or gun grease—unless of course there’s a hunt. It’s fine territory for game—grouse, red deer . . .” She watched the fine blue veins in his closed eyelids, the shift of his eyes beneath them as he scanned the scene in his mind. The furrow between his brows eased. Perhaps he’d sleep. It would do him good. He was haggard, and his skin was gray with the need for it.
“Where was your home? What’s it called?” she asked.
“Glen Carraig, MacLeod territory. My kin have lived there for four hundred years.”
Eleanor had no idea where the Athertons were four hundred years ago. “Do you come from a large family?”
“Five sisters and two brothers—both too young to fight in this war, thanks be.”
“No wife?” she asked.
He opened his eyes, looked at her, his gaze sharp and curious, gauging her reason for asking. She felt her cheeks grow hot, and she quickly babbled on.
“I can’t imagine growing up in such a large family,” Eleanor said. “I have just one brother.”
“Is he the pilot you’re going to see?”
She realized that she’d been staring into his eyes, listening to every word, and she’d forgotten about Louis, and the war, and the whole rest of the world. “No. Edward—my brother—is stationed at general headquarters.”
“Then the pilot is your sweetheart?” he asked, bolder than she was.
She blushed in earnest now. “No. He’s a friend—well, he’s a friend of my brother’s, at least. A viscount.”
“Ah, rich, titled, and brave as the devil. And lucky.” He looked at his hands again. “If there aren’t any delays, we’ll be in Arras in few hours,” he said. “We have priority on the tracks, since we’re bringing up troops. They make hospital trains wait, but fresh soldiers and munitions are important.” He said it bitterly.
The Woman at the Front Page 9