by Mary Daheim
A grey-bearded man with a heavy limp came out to stare at her. He would have been more surprised to see an expensively dressed young lady of the court at his door if he had not already watched what had seemed like half of Scotland conduct a raging battle in front of his farmhouse earlier that day. To further disturb his unvaried pattern of life, a nobleman now lay gravely wounded inside on a straw pallet.
“I’m Mistress Fraser,” she announced, all but pushing him aside. “Where is my husband?”
The man jerked with his thumb in the direction of the pallet, but Dallas was already hurrying across the room. A pitiful peat fire smoldered on the hearth, providing the only light inside the poorly furnished croft. A stoopshouldered woman was stirring something in a pot which hung over the fire. She looked up when Dallas came in but said nothing.
On the pallet, under the watchful, anxious eyes of Cummings, lay Iain Fraser. He was stripped to the waist, and a dirty bandage covered most of his chest and back. His eyes were closed and his face was dirty from blood and sweat.
“Mistress Fraser!” cried Cummings, low and relieved. The usually composed and efficient Cummings had lost his aplomb. He had never thought he could be so glad to see his lord’s wife. And the last place he’d expected to see her was in this miserable crofter’s hut.
Dallas had knelt down by the pallet. “Cummings, tell my escort to stay outside. And get me some plantain weed, I saw some by the corner of the house.”
Cummings jumped to his feet, glad to be doing something useful. Dallas had thrown her cloak onto the dirt floor. She looked at the taut, lean face of her husband, deathly pale beneath its tan. His breathing was slow and painful, but at least he was still alive. She got to her feet, took off the brown riding hat with its elegant trim of pheasant feathers, and turned to the woman who had continued stirring her pot.
“I need fresh water. Is this the only bandage he’s had on so far? Has he taken anything to eat or drink? Has he been conscious at all?”
The verbal barrage was too much for the old woman. She stared at Dallas, trying to remember the first question. “I’ve water in this bucket, mistress, drawn today. Aye, that’s the only bandage. ’Twas his shirt—we had naught else.” She stopped and gazed phlegmatically at Dallas.
“Very well,” said Dallas, deciding she’d heard enough. It was all too clear that Fraser had not opened his eyes since being wounded. Working briskly, she pulled up the brown serge of her riding habit and ripped at the fine taffeta petticoat. She should have had sense enough to bring bandages, but the question of whether Fraser lived or died had blotted all else from her mind. Very carefully, she began to undo the old bandage and found that she could not budge Fraser without help.
“I’ll have to wait for Cummings,” she said to herself, then turned back to the old woman. “Get me a bowl. And have you any mouldy bread?” She remembered Marthe’s old cure for a variety of skinned knees, bruises and scrapes.
The woman had gotten out a much-chipped piece of crockery and a pestlelike mixing implement. “Mouldy bread?” She wrinkled her brow. “Aye, I save the crusts for the birds and such.” She didn’t need to add that every other crumb which hadn’t turned stale was saved for herself and her husband.
Cummings returned with the plantain which Dallas mixed in the bowl with some ash from the peat fire. The woman had rummaged through a cupboard to find the mouldy bread. Dallas had Cummings help her raise Fraser up from the pallet, and soon the ragged, blood-stained bandage was removed.
But Dallas was perplexed. “Where’s the wound?” she whispered.
Cummings bit his lip. “In the back, madame,” he informed her, almost as ashamed as if he’d struck the blow himself. Carefully, he turned Fraser over onto his stomach.
Dallas stared at the oozing red hole. Her eyes met Cummings’s unhappy gaze. “In the back?” she breathed.
He nodded. “I found him facedown in the burn.” He spoke very low so that the woman could not hear. “It was after the battle. He would have drowned in another minute.”
Her mouth set in a tight line. “If I could ever be sure who had committed such treachery .... Cummings, do you know?”
He shook his head. “Like you, madame, I can only harbor my suspicions.”
She made no further comment but set about cleansing the wound. Rubbing the ash and plantain mixture gently onto Fraser’s flesh, she then applied the mould and finally had Cummings help her wrap the fresh bandage around her husband’s body. Soon Fraser lay back on the pallet, his face wiped clean, the dark hair brushed back from his forehead. Dallas sat back on the dirt floor and prepared to take up her vigil.
Some time later, after Dallas had asked Cummings to send Will and the other men back to Aberdeen, the old woman spoke hesitantly. “I have some barley broth, madame, if he wakes.”
“He will,” Dallas replied staunchly. “But it may not be until the morrow.” She glanced back at Fraser, noting that his breathing seemed easier.
Dallas was not conscious of sleeping that night, but she must have, for just as the first light of dawn crept in between the cracks in the hut’s walls she found herself curled up on her cloak. Cummings snored softly in the corner, and over by the hearth the old couple slept side by side.
Later, after the early morning mist had begun to clear, she ate some broth and a corncake at Cummings’s insistence. She must have dozed again, for the next thing she knew, Cummings was walking through the doorway with a pail in his hand. The crofter and his wife were nowhere to be seen.
“I was watering the horses,” he explained. “Barvas is stabled out back with your mount and my own. Our hosts are outside, counting their sheep and chickens to make sure the soldiers didn’t steal anything.”
Dallas only half-heard what Cummings said. She was watching Fraser closely, noting that his forehead was still beaded with sweat. “We must change the bandage again.” She stood up and launched another assault on her petticoats while Cummings politely turned the other way. Once the old bandage was off, Dallas saw that the wound was beginning to pucker around the edges and that the swelling had gone down some. Reaching for more of her plantain and ash mixture, she was startled when Fraser stirred in Cummings’s arms.
“He’s moving,” she whispered.
Cummings looked down at his master’s face. “Aye, madame! Sweet Christ, his eyes are opening!” Fraser’s lids flickered for just an instant and then he fell back as limp as before.
Dallas clamped her mouth shut to hide her disappointment. Then she resumed ministering to the wound and putting on another bandage. Though they watched hopefully throughout the next hour for a further sign of recovery, Fraser remained motionless.
“Stretch your legs out a bit, Cummings,” Dallas said. “You’ve been here longer than I have.”
“I’ve already been out once or twice today, madame,” Cummings replied. “You had better get some air yourself.”
Dallas shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll go after you get back.” Cummings hesitated but then agreed. In his absence, Dallas rummaged through the cupboards, looking for something to eat. She had no real appetite but felt vaguely weak and knew she should take some food to sustain herself. The larder was pitifully low, revealing only a couple of eggs, some black bread and a few apples, one of which she took out and rubbed against her skirt.
Munching on the apple, she went to the door and looked out. The sun was high in the sky; it must be close to noon. She could see Cummings across the hollow, exercising Barvas. The crofter and his wife were digging for something in a little garden patch about a hundred yards away. Potatoes, Dallas decided, and turned away from the door to toss her apple core onto the dead ashes in the hearth. She was wondering whether or not to use the remaining water in the wooden bucket for washing her face when she heard a noise. She turned quickly and saw Fraser struggling to lift himself from the pallet.
“Iain!” She flew across the room, dropping down on her knees beside the pallet. “Don’t move! You’re very ill!”
He was still feverish but his eyes were alert. “Dallas? Where in Christ am I?”
She pushed at him gently, moving him back onto the straw. “You’re in a crofter’s hut near the Hill of Fare. You were wounded during the battle, remember?”
His eyes flickered darkly. “Not during,” he breathed. “After.” And his eyes closed again as he fell back into a deep sleep.
Dallas and Cummings kept up their watch for the rest of the day, but Fraser did not wake again. In the morning his fever seemed to be gone. Stiff and sore, Dallas got to her knees, noting that the others still slept. Then, Fraser rolled over onto his side and opened his eyes. “What the devil are you doing here, Dallas?” he asked quietly, and she was astonished to see a hint of the familiar mocking smile.
“I—I was told you were wounded,” she whispered back. “You think I’d let you die here by yourself?”
“So you had to protect your investment, eh, lassie?” he grinned.
Dallas was too relieved to be angry with him. Yet his initial question was well put: Why had she come? There were many women at court, trapped into marriages of convenience, who would not have ridden like a whirlwind and nursed a wounded husband in the meanest of circumstances. They would have wept ostentatiously, wondered what they had to wear for mourning, and sent a servant to handle the situation.
But compelled by both fury and fear, Dallas had flown to Fraser’s side. Why? The question could not be put aside. And the answer was as clear as it was startling: Dallas loved her husband.
It had been one of those discoveries which she had managed to avoid confronting in her typical, practical approach to life. In the first place, it simply wasn’t possible. Dallas had vowed never to face rejection again—and never to love any man. What she had felt for Fraser—even in the beginning, and finally under that golden Highland moon at Inverness—she had dismissed as foolishness, misplaced romanticism or a too-active imagination.
It had been relatively easy to deny her feelings as long as she and Fraser were apart. Even after Inverness, she told herself those impassioned moments had meant nothing to him; she had merely been convenient and surprisingly willing. In the weeks which followed, she had scarcely seen Fraser as he joined the other men in preparing for battle. Indeed, it had almost appeared as if he were trying to avoid her.
So if she had given her heart away, she had managed to keep her pride. Dallas would not let Fraser know how she felt. Why, she thought, looking at those lean, sharp features and the hazel eyes, he would probably have a relapse from laughing at her!
So she merely shrugged. “I shouldn’t wish you dead, certainly. All in all, you’ve been most conscientious in living up to our bargain.”
Fraser fingered the black stubble of beard on his chin. “Oh, aye, we’ve both done our part in that.” He sighed and laid back with his hands behind his head, wincing from the pain such a movement caused him. “I could eat something. In fact, I may be starving to death. How long have I been here?”
“Two days. The old woman made up some fresh okra soup last night. I’ll heat it for you.” She started to rise but Fraser reached out to put a hand in her hair. Dallas was astonished by the firmness of his grip. He started to say something, changed his mind, and shook his head. “You look a fright, Dallas.”
“You don’t look so grand yourself, sir,” she threw back at him. Then as he dropped his hand she put her head down on his chest. The thick, uncombed hair tumbled across the bandage as she felt his arms go around her. “Fie, Iain, I’m so glad you’re better! You frightened me witless when I first came here!”
He said nothing for a long time, savoring her softness and the faint smell of jasmine which still clung to her hair. Dallas felt an odd sense of being at peace. She had no urge to offer Fraser resistance, and though she would not confess her love, his arms made her feel contented. The important thing, she told herself, was that her husband was alive. Her long vigil was over and she was so weary ....
Fraser continued to hold her quietly and listen to the steady rhythm of her breathing. It had, in fact, grown a little too steady. “Dallas, are you asleep?” he whispered.
“What? No, no, truly ....” She raised her head, moving slowly out of his arms. “Well, I am tired, what would you expect, sleeping on this damnable dirt floor when I’ve slept at all?” She stood up and looked at him peevishly. In the corner, Cummings let out one final snore before he began to awaken.
He was overjoyed to find his master conscious and in full command of his faculties. The two men spoke together in low voices while Dallas stepped over the old couple to stoke the dying fire.
Later, after Fraser had eaten the broth and some bread, he slept again. That pattern continued for the rest of the day, short periods of wakefulness, a bit of food and then an hour or so of sleep. Dallas busied herself by trying to comb her hair and straighten out her clothes. She went outside for a while, helping the old woman gather eggs and pick some late vegetable marrow from the garden patch.
The following morning Dallas awoke to find Fraser sitting up on the pallet, scratching himself vigorously. “Where in God’s good name can a man take a bath around here? I seem to have attracted some companions in this place.” He crushed two of the offenders beneath his bare heel.
“The burn, I suppose,” Dallas replied drowsily and saw her husband’s eyes harden. “I’m sorry, Iain, but you can’t walk that far anyway. Maybe they have a tub some place around here.”
“Never mind. And I could walk that far, if I had to.” As if to prove it, he stood up, carefully flexing his leg muscles. “A trifle weak, but not as bad as it could be.” He began to walk slowly around the small hut. “Later today, I’ll test my strength on Barvas. Will you join me, madame?”
“You’re daft, Iain. You mustn’t ride so soon. Besides, it’s going to rain.”
But he did go out that afternoon and Dallas went with him, marveling at the pleasure she found in his company. Clever! she had chided herself. How could I have been so stupid! But, still, she would keep the truth to herself, no matter how difficult it might prove.
The rain held off during the hour they rode through the hollow and over to the burn between Corrichie Moor and the Hill of Fare. Cummings had insisted that Fraser wear his shirt, since his master’s had been used for bandages.
They kept their horses to no more than a canter. Fraser did not sit as easily in the saddle as usual, but his endurance seemed quite remarkable to Dallas. When they reached the spot by the burn where he had been attacked, Fraser reined Barvas in. “See, that is where I stopped to drink.” He stared down at the rocks as if they could reveal to him the identity of his assailant. “It was a clever plan, at the start,” he said, as much to himself as to Dallas. “By placing me in command of that traitorous first company, they were sure I’d be killed either by Gordon or Stuart men. When that didn’t happen, and when James discovered he’d have to force the rebel troops to resume fighting or lose the day entirely, he devised yet another method of getting me out of the way.”
Dallas shivered. “What will you do when you get back to Aberdeen? Will you confront James?”
Flicking the reins, Fraser turned Barvas around to head back towards the hut. “I’m not going back to Aberdeen. Much as I’d enjoy being there in person to show James that his scheme failed, I’m off to Beauly. It’d be pointless for me to return to court for a while. From Beauly, I’ll join my crew on the Isle of Lewes and make ready to sail as soon as I’m recovered. And,” he said with his crooked grin, “I may make some inquiries about my parentage.”
Dallas felt strangely hollow inside. “You aren’t fit to travel for days yet. We could go somewhere else nearby, there must be a Fraser house that would give you hospitality.”
He smiled to himself at her use of the word we. “Nay, Dallas, I’m better off away from here just now. And you must return to court. I need you there to look after my interests.” He slowed Barvas so that she could bring her mount alongside his. “James may try something els
e, perhaps to put me to the horn or confiscate my lands. You might not be able to stop him, but I know you’d try.” He grinned at her as they wound their way around the Hill of Fare.
“I don’t think James likes me any better than he likes you,” Dallas responded. “He all but gloated when he told me you were dying and, I must admit, I wasn’t very gracious about it.” She bristled at the memory of Lord James actually refusing to get her an escort. “The weasel-faced little arse-hole,” she breathed. “When will you leave?”
They could see the hut now, with its curl of peat smoke rising from the stone chimney. The old woman was out in the front, chasing her chickens. “On the morrow,” Fraser said.
“No! That’s too soon!” Dallas protested. “You can’t go so far alone!”
Fraser’s tone was reasonable. “Oh, yes, but I won’t go the whole distance at once and I know this country like the back of my hand. Cummings will escort you back to Aberdeen. In fact, it might be best if you went this afternoon.”
Dallas’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I won’t go. If I can’t go with you, then at least I’ll stay here until you’re ready to leave.”
He knew it was useless to argue with her, as useless as it was for Dallas to try talking him out of leaving in the morning. And, of course, he was pleased that she wanted to stay with him. The rest of the day passed quietly, with Fraser making what few preparations he could for his journey, and in the evening he told Dallas about Beauly and the surrounding countryside. When it was finally time for bed, he offered her the pallet.
“I’ll stay where I am, thank you,” she replied, spreading her cloak out on the floor. “I’ve no mind to take up with those infernal lice.”
Once again, he didn’t argue. Cummings was already bedding down in his accustomed corner while the old couple finished cleaning up from the sparse evening meal. Fraser stretched himself out on the pallet. “Actually, Dallas,” he whispered so that the others couldn’t hear, “there’s room for two.”