“She needs easing in the worst way. Hurry, Duncan.” Graham had never felt more useless in his life. He prayed Gretna would know of some way to ease Mercy’s suffering.
Scuffling through the underbrush yanked Graham away from his musings and forced him to his feet. He drew his pistol and pulled back the hammer. “Who goes there?”
“Stand down, man,” Marsden called out as he breached the line of trees. “All appears quiet. It is my hope Lord Crestshire shall bring news of the same farther out.”
Graham lowered his pistol and returned it to his belt just as Duncan reappeared with the swollen skin of water.
“I didna fill it tight, but it should support her head well enough. Can ye lift her without throwing her into more distress?” Duncan held the skin aloft, staring at Mercy, fear and worry creasing his brow.
“I dinna ken.” Graham shook his head. He leaned down beside her and whispered, “Duncan made ye a wee pillow, m’love. It should help with your pain.” He watched for any reaction, any sign she had understood him.
Mercy ignored him, just kept fingering the damp cloth against her eyes and crying out.
Graham looked to Duncan. “Get ready. When I lift her, she’s certain to set to thrashing, but it is my hope that once she feels the cool of the skin, she’ll calm down.”
As soon as he slid his arms beneath her shoulders, she fisted her hands and fought him, wild and flailing as the cloth fell away from her swollen eyes. Graham’s heart ached with every pitiful strike, not even closing his eyes as she slapped and clawed at him.
Duncan yanked away the folded blanket and slid the water skin in place, nodding to Graham to lower her.
Graham eased her down, then hurried to soak the cloth for her eyes and draped it across her face.
The cooling worked as planned. Mercy calmed almost immediately, nuzzling her head against the water bag and clutching the wet cloth back against her face. Even her crying ceased, and she grew still. Whether sleeping or unconscious again, Graham didn’t know, but at least she seemed at peace and breathed.
“Praise God,” Duncan whispered.
“Aye,” Graham replied. “I’m also thankful He gave me such a wise brother.”
The rest of the night and through the following day, Graham stayed by Mercy’s side.
Head propped in his hands as he sat beside her pallet, the sound of approaching horses jerked Graham awake. Duncan was already on his feet with pistol drawn, and Crestshire stood beside him.
“Marsden’s on watch. He’ll see them and report,” Crestshire said.
Graham rose from the ground, drew his pistol with one hand, and his dagger with the other. “Help him. I dinna wish them close to Mercy. I’ll stand guard over her.”
Both men took off toward what sounded like a large group, the thundering hooves growing louder by the minute.
“’Tis safe!” Duncan’s shout echoed back through the misty gray of the woods still shrouded with the gloaming before sunrise.
“Put away your guns, Graham MacCoinnich! I’m a coming to ye!”
Graham exhaled and bowed his head. Gretna had arrived. If anyone could help Mercy, she could. He holstered both pistol and dagger. “Over here!”
A glance down at Mercy told him it was time to switch out the water skins again. Whenever the water bags warmed too much, Mercy grew restless. He feared she’d gone feverish. Her flushed coloring didn’t bode well, but it disturbed her when someone touched her so, he didn’t ken for certain. But Gretna would know. Some said her talents even surpassed Elena Bickerstaff’s when it came to the healing arts.
An unholy crashing through the woods soon revealed Gretna stepping high and fighting through the underbrush, cloth sacks over both shoulders and clutched in both hands. “Where is she?” she asked, still gasping from her struggles.
“Here.” Graham motioned toward Mercy who was growing more agitated. “We’ve been keeping skins of spring water beneath her head. Seems to help with the pain.” He knelt down, lifted Mercy’s shoulder, and slid a fresh, cool water skin in place of the warm one.
She didn’t fight him as much now. It seemed as though she finally understood he meant her no harm. He moistened the cloth and pressed it to her face. Looking up at Gretna, his voice cracked, weariness and worry threatening to break him. “Help her, Gretna. I beg ye.”
Gretna piled her supplies to one side, then crouched over Mercy, making soft cooing sounds as she flitted the lightest of touches across Mercy’s face and head. Her gaze swept down her curled form and across Mercy’s bruised arms and hands. She turned a concerned scowl on Graham. “I’m glad ye killed the bastards for what they did to your fine lady.”
“Tell me ye can help her.” Graham fisted his hands and sent up the thousandth prayer that Gretna would ken what to do.
“They battered her so,” Gretna said softly, her grim look striking fear into Graham’s soul. “Alexander said the sooner we get the two of ye to the king, the better. But she canna travel yet. ’Twould kill her to do so.” Gretna’s mouth tightened as she rose, went to her bags, and started rummaging through them. She paused in her digging, frowning down into the bag. “And her dying would no’ be an easy one, Graham. She would suffer badly.”
“We will no’ travel until ye deem it safe for her.” Graham paced back and forth at the foot of Mercy’s pallet. “I dinna care if I spend the rest of my life in these godforsaken woods as long as Mercy lives.”
Gretna nodded. “Verra well then.” She pointed at the small pot of water at the head of Mercy’s bed. “I need a fire and a great deal more water. Then I’ll need your help to give her the deep healing rest she needs.” She stole a glance around the woods, then took a step toward Graham. “But ye mustn’t be alarmed by anything I do, and I beg ye—keep what I do to yourself for my own safety, ye ken?”
A leeriness swept across him. He’d heard the rumors about Gretna but assumed they were just lies spun by vicious women jealous of Gretna’s status in the clan. Everyone loved her. Well…most loved her. A select few hated and feared her, fueling their envious wickedness with accusations of witchery. Alexander had put his fist down on the rumors, but the ugly lies persisted.
“Graham—d’ye hear what I’m asking of ye?”
“Aye, and I dinna care what it takes. Save her.” Graham scooped up a spare water skin as well as the discarded one that had grown too warm for Mercy’s head. “I’ll fetch the water and build ye a fire. What else d’ye have need of?”
“I’ll need ye to help hold her once I’ve made the tonic, then I want ye to sleep. Ye look like hell.” She nodded toward his shoulder. “Once ye’ve rested a bit, I’ll be ridding ye of that bullet and cauterizing the wound. Have ye even washed it? Those bandages look filthy.”
Graham glanced down at the bandages. He’d been so caught up with Mercy, he’d forgotten about the wound. “Duncan cleaned it with whisky. Burned.”
“I promise it didna burn nearly as bad as it will when I get hold of ye.”
“Take care of Mercy. Dinna worry after me.”
Gretna waved him away. “Then fetch that water so we can get this healing started.”
The area seemed more peaceful now with Gretna’s arrival, more ordered. Controlled. Graham hurried to the spring, knelt at the water’s edge, and splashed his face before tending to the water skins. The sound of footsteps across the pool drew his attention and made him reach for his gun. “Who goes there? Speak now or be shot.”
“’Tis me, brother,” Duncan said as he shoved aside the bushes and scooped up a handful of water to drink. Swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he grinned at Graham. “Alexander not only sent fifteen clansmen but twenty of Crestshire’s guard from Fort William, too.”
Thirty-five men to guard them. The knotted muscles across Graham’s shoulders eased up. He gave Duncan a smile. “I hope they brought supplies. Gretna says it could be days ’til it’s safe to move Mercy.”
“Three wagons,” Duncan replied. “One filled with Gr
etna’s supplies, the other two for the men. I’ll set them to hunting for extra meat.” He glanced up into the woods toward camp. “I ken it might take a fair spell or so for her to get Mercy strong enough to travel, but she needs to make haste. Crestshire’s captain said the Campbells and the king’s guard have already arrived at Fort William and merely wait for the king’s order to carry on with the attack.”
Graham submerged the leather water skin at the base of the trickling waterfall, watching the bag as it slowly filled with water. “Do ye no’ find it odd that the king sent the men first to Fort William and ordered them wait until he signals to attack? It doesna make sense. If the royal went to the trouble of sending the mix of Campbells and king’s guard, why did he no’ unleash them immediately?”
Duncan splashed water on his face and rubbed it across the back of his neck. “I’m telling ye, brother. The man’s giving his goddaughter a chance to tell her side. Marsden said her father had been banned from court, remember? What king will ban a man, then take that same man’s word for gospel—especially when it comes to a clan war whose cost could be avoided when resources are needed in the colonies against the French? King William willna risk England’s battlefront on this side of the sea. He doesna want this fight.”
What Duncan said made sense, but that didn’t change the fact that Mercy was too weak to travel. Graham finished filling the bags and stood. “We’ll leave here when Mercy’s able. Not before.” He gave Duncan a grateful nod. “Thank ye, Duncan. Please see to everything for me, aye? I ken I can trust ye whilst I’m busy tending Mercy.”
“Done without asking, brother.”
As Duncan disappeared into the woods, Graham hurried back to Mercy. The area had changed dramatically in the short time he’d been gone. Gretna had set the place straight, cleared it free of soiled linens, tossed aside cups, and extra water skins. She held out both hands for the water. Nodding toward Mercy curled on her side on a clean, straightened pallet, she scowled as she hefted the sacks of water over to a large boulder she’d turned into a makeshift table. “She didna take to cleaning her up well at all. Poor lamb. She doesna ken what she’s doing.” Gretna heaved out a heavy sigh. “But the strength she had fighting me is a good sign. She’ll need that strength for healing.”
“Aye.” It pained Graham to admit it. “There hasna been a glimmer of her escaping that hell she’s trapped in since it all happened.”
Graham propped his hands against the boulder and stared at all the items Gretna had strewn across it. Bundles of dried herbs. Knobby looking chunks of roots. A particularly pungent pile of something impossible to identify. Several small knives. Twine. A stone mortar and pestle waited in the center of all the mysterious items.
“What is that?” Graham pointed to the hairy chunk of something Gretna snapped off into the tiniest of pieces and placed into the mortar. “Almost looks like a body. Arms. Legs. Even a knob for a head.” He must be delirious from weariness.
“Mandrake.” Gretna spared him a sharp glance, then set to grinding the root into a pulp.
“Witch’s root?” The words escaped him before he realized it. So, the rumors had been true. Graham decided then and there he didn’t give a damn if Gretna was a witch or not. Her helping Mercy was all that mattered. “Forgive me. I misspoke.”
Gretna’s jaw tightened, and she didn’t look up from her work. “Aye. Witch’s root it is. But ’twill help your lady along with the henbane, makings for laudanum, and a few other ingredients I managed to acquire.” She stopped pounding the pestle into the mortar and looked up at him. “Dinna judge me, Graham. ’Tis merely herbs that aid in healing. ’Twill make her sleep deep enough that her mind can heal and no’ feel its terrible pain. ’Tis no’ the work of the devil. I swear it.”
Graham reached out and laid a hand on Gretna’s arm. “I trust ye, Gretna. Ye’re a good, kind lass that would never hurt another. Dinna fash herself over those red-arsed hens and their clacking tongues.”
Gretna smiled and motioned toward a patch of ground she’d rid of leaves and brush. “I thank ye for your words. Now build me a fire so we can steep this and get it down her.” She shifted with another heavy sigh as she pounded the mixture even harder. “Me thinks we’ll be keeping her buried in the deep rest for a few days, and then we’ll see.”
“We’ll see what?” Graham dreaded hearing the answer aloud.
“We’ll see if we can raise Mercy up out of her hell and get her to speak to us. That’s the only way we’ll ken for certain if she’ll ever be right again.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It had been nearly a sennight. Graham lowered himself to the ground beside Mercy’s pallet and leaned back against the tree shading her. Almost seven days of the vile tonic’s healing. He set his feet apart, propped his arms atop his bent knees, and didn’t give a rat’s arse if anyone looked up his kilt.
Whenever the noxious herbal had run its course, they would force another dose down her throat and send her back to her peaceful darkness. Mercy always fought them. He’d begun to doubt she’d ever escape the prison of her pain.
Eyes burning with weariness, he scrubbed his hands across his face. Such doubts brought madness. He refused to allow them. Maybe today would be the day she returned to him. Thank God above Duncan had thought of the cool water. Gretna had said they could have done nothing better to bring Mercy comfort and help with the swelling than by keeping her supplied with the waterskins.
“I swear, Graham, would your ma want ye showing your uglies to all and sundry? Cover yourself.” Gretna gave him a stern look as she walked by, hands filled with fresh linen and a steaming kettle of water. She plunked the articles down atop her crude work table fashioned from a rock, then wiped her hands on the apron tied around her middle. Turning to Mercy, she smiled down at her. “She’s doing better today, Graham. Fever’s gone and look at her color.”
Graham stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, covering his man parts as requested. “I pray she’ll do as well when time comes to let her awaken completely.” The men were restless, eager to head to London. But Graham dared anyone to rush his dear Mercy. They wouldn’t attempt moving his wife’s little finger if it wasn’t blessed by Gretna.
Gretna squatted down and examined Mercy’s face closer. She raked her fingers through Mercy’s hair, combed and finally free of blood, sweeping it back out of the way. Frowning, she felt her way all along Mercy’s hairline, starting at her forehead and working her way back. “The swellings are all but gone, but I’m worried about the inside of her poor head. ’Tis my hope the swelling on the inside has lessened as well.”
“The rise on either side of her nose looks better,” Graham said. The swelling across Mercy’s eyes and down the ridge of her nose was gone, but the poor lass was black and blue as though masked. They’d managed to clean the blood from each of her nostrils, then packed them with linen to keep the bones aligned. Mercy breathed through her mouth. Her poor lips were dry and cracked even though Gretna kept them coated with an oily-looking salve.
“A pity ye shot Janie. I would no’ have minded watching her receive the same treatment she’d meted out.” She looked up from Mercy, fixing Graham with a glare. “Eye for an eye, ye ken?”
“There was no’ time to consider such.” Graham rose and paced around the small area that the men had dubbed the healing camp. He was restless, too, but he’d never dream of rushing Gretna.
“This afternoon, when the next time of the dosing comes, we shall hold off and see if she wakes from her sleep without pain.”
“Are ye certain?” He’d take no risks. “I willna have her suffer needlessly.”
Gretna took hold of his arm and squeezed, her consoling demeanor striking fear deep in his heart. “We need to see if she’s able to come back to us. I would warn ye—hurt as she was, she could be blind, deaf, or completely lost to us.” Gretna shrugged. “She could be nothing more than a shell. A soul unable to cross over until her body dies.”
Graham jerked
out of her hold. “Ye will stop such talk! I shall no’ consider it. Mercy will be fine, ye ken? No more of your dire predictions!” They’d kept Mercy alive this far. She would be fine. It would take a while, months maybe, but she would be well. “Ye must have faith, Gretna. Faith in yourself. Faith in God. Faith in Mercy. My wife is a fighter. How else could she ha’ survived thus far?”
Gretna stepped back, hands in the air, but Graham could tell by her expression she pitied him. She feared him ill-prepared. “We shall see this afternoon.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Might I suggest ye tell the men so they can pray?”
Before he could answer, a horn sounded to the north of the camp. The warning. Someone approached. Graham drew his weapons and handed both pistols to Gretna. “Guard her and keep yourself safe as well, aye?”
“Aye.” She hefted the weapons in both her hands. “No one will get to your lady. I swear it.”
The horn sounded again, but ’twas two short blasts this time. The signal to stand down.
Gretna started to hand the pistols back as Graham drew his sword. He shook his head. “Nay. Keep them until I find out what the hell those horn blasts mean.”
He crashed through the woods and made his way to the road where several men had gathered, including Duncan and Crestshire. “What is this about?”
Duncan looked disturbed, and Crestshire looked amused. The tension pounding through him eased somewhat but was quickly replaced by a simmering rage. His nerves were raw. He wouldn’t bear stupidity well. They’d best take care.
“Father William,” Crestshire said. “On his mare. The sentry sounded the horn when he spotted movement, then sounded the stand down when he realized it was the priest.” He gave Graham a serious look. “Better for the man to be quick to alert us than not.”
Grudgingly, Graham agreed although his current state of mind didn’t need the additional excitement over nothing more than Clan MacCoinnich’s priest. “Why did the man no’ come with Gretna and the others? ’Twould ha’ been safer for him.”
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