“Good Christ,” he exclaimed, yanking the flask away. “Donella, are you trying to kill yourself?”
She coughed, wiping her streaming eyes. “Best to get it over with,” she wheezed.
“You’re daft.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say that,” she muttered.
He shook his head again as he fetched the steaming water and returned to take a seat on the bench. He shifted sideways to face her and reached for her ankle.
“Could I have some more whisky?”
He studied her. “Are you sure?”
“Might as well make it as painless as possible.”
Now that the burn in her throat had subsided, she longed for more of the whisky’s heat. She’d been cold for so long that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be warm again.
Kendrick handed over the flask. “Try not to get cup-shot. I don’t want you passing out on me.”
She’d only been tipsy once in her life, and the results had been disastrous. But she was a mature woman now, and the current circumstances were decidedly unromantic.
After a cautious sip, Donella took a generous mouthful before handing back the flask.
“I’m ready,” she said, trying for a stout demeanor.
Kendrick gently grasped her ankle and propped her foot on a piece of toweling he’d draped over his muscled thigh. He then soaked a piece of flannel with whisky.
Already feeling a bit woozy from the strong spirits, Donella clasped the edge of her chair to brace herself.
“Feel free to yell,” he said.
“I will do no such thing,” she retorted, only slightly slurring her words.
When he pressed the cloth to her foot, she was sorry that she did, indeed, let out a very loud yell.
Chapter Ten
For all her delicacy, Donella Haddon had a shriek as loud as three cats brawling in the night.
“Sorry. I know it hurts like the devil.” Logan winced in sympathy as he kept the cloth pressed to her lacerated foot.
“I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,” she gasped.
She’d bleached white as chalk. Perspiration beaded her hairline, plastering short curls to her forehead. Her hands were clamped like vises on the edge of the cane seat.
He feared she was about to faint. “Lean against my shoulder, lass.”
Instead, she pulled upright and stared straight ahead, sucking in slow, measured breaths, as if silently counting them.
Logan wanted to whack himself over the head with the old frying pan he’d found in the pantry. If he’d known her foot was this damaged, he’d have dealt with it hours ago—by force, if necessary. While Donella had the courage of ten Highland warriors, she was insanely stubborn, just like her curmudgeon uncle.
She dredged up a sickly smile. “I’m not the swooning sort. I’m just woozy from the whisky, although I can’t say I’m sorry I drank as much as I did.”
“Most men would have keeled right over.”
He lifted the cloth. One blister was the standard sort, although as ugly as Hades and almost as big as a guinea coin. The other, right next to it, was an oozing blood blister. It was a miracle she hadn’t gone into a dead faint when he’d touched it.
Aye, she was a stoic one. In temperament, she reminded him of his brother, Royal. He’d been grievously injured during the war but had never uttered a word of complaint. Also like Royal, Donella’s stubborn pride skated a wee bit too close to martyrdom. Sometimes, demanding a bit of attention—fighting for what one needed—was exactly the right thing to do.
Donella, however, seemed to prefer to sacrifice comfort in order to do what she thought was necessary.
It was an admirable trait, but right now Logan couldn’t help but worry about the state of her foot. During his years in Canada, spending months in backcountry, he’d seen more than one strong man and woman brought down by infection. Even a small scratch could go bad and with frightening speed. Once the poison got into the blood, it was usually impossible to stop without taking drastic measures.
Measures like cutting off a foot. He’d seen that happen to an Acadian trapper he’d had to help hold down during the amputation. It was a hard, vivid memory that Logan had never forgotten. The idea of that happening to this sweet, courageous girl—
A cool touch to his cheek yanked him out of the ugly memory.
“You’re looking a little queasy yourself,” Donella said.
For a moment, all he could do was stare back, arrested by the emerald glitter of her gaze and the smooth texture of her winsome features. With her full lips so close to his, he suddenly felt a powerful bolt of lust, one so appallingly inconvenient he almost choked.
Comic alarm transformed Donella’s expression.
“You’re not going to be ill, are you?” She snatched her hand away. “Do not be ill on me, sir.”
Logan forced a quick recovery. “Don’t be daft. It’s just a wee blister or two, as you said yourself.”
She leaned down to look again. “I don’t believe I did say that. And it’s disgusting.” She sighed. “I suppose I should have listened to you, after all.”
“What’s done is done.”
“I hope Alasdair brings horses along with him tomorrow. I cannot imagine how I’ll put those dreadful boots back on.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Just let me clean and wrap this, and then we’ll see if we can rustle up some tea and food.”
She flashed him a grateful smile but fell quiet again when he carefully started to wash her foot with a fresh cloth and warm water. It took some time, since bits of wool from her sock were stuck to one of the blisters.
He glanced up from his grisly work to see her teeth grinding down on her lower lip. She clearly needed a distraction annoying enough to take her mind off the pain.
“So, the good sisters gave you the heave-ho for obvious reasons,” he said. “But what I can’t understand is why you’d want to join them in the first place.”
She shot him a scowl. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it seems a waste. You being the Flower of Clan Graham and all.”
“I believe I asked you not to use that ridiculous term. And there’s nothing wrong with being religious—or Catholic, for that matter.”
“Of course not, though I was raised to be a dutiful member of the Church of Scotland, myself.”
“It apparently failed to take.”
He bit back a laugh as he wrung out the cloth. “My wife was Catholic, as was her family.”
She was silent for a long beat. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“I was, back in Canada. My wife died there.”
She pressed a sympathetic hand to his arm. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” he said brusquely.
“Yes, but—”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why did you hike off and join a convent? That must not have gone down well with your family.”
“You have a talent for understatement.”
Logan waited her out.
She finally shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter if I tell you. Most people know the story, anyway.”
“I’m always lamentably behind when it comes to gossip.”
“This old gossip goes back thirteen years, now.”
“You decided to join a convent thirteen years ago? Good God.”
“No, that’s when Alasdair ran away from home rather than allow Uncle Riddick to announce our betrothal to the clan.”
Logan’s hand froze on her foot. “Alec Gilbride, heir to the Earldom of Riddick. Your cousin.”
“Correct.”
“You were supposed to marry him?”
“Correct.”
He stared at her before bursting into laughter.
“It was anything but amusing,” she said with offended dignity.
“Sorry for laughing, lass. It’s just the idea of you and Alec Gilbride married.” Alec was as brash and irreverent as she was dignified and modest.
“Alasdair felt the same, obviously, since he stayed away for ten years.”
When she ducked her head, blushing, Logan mentally winced. For some reason, the next words were hard to say. “Did you love him very much?”
She glanced up, clearly surprised. “I was only fifteen years old. We were mildly fond of each other in the way cousins are, but our families made the match. They were set on a formal betrothal and marriage a year later.”
He reached for a length of clean flannel. “Clan business, I reckon.”
“Isn’t it always? My parents and the Haddon clan chieftain were greatly in favor of the match, as was Uncle Riddick. The strengthening of clan bonds . . . that sort of thing.”
“I know it well. But why didn’t the two of you simply refuse?”
“Ye were gone from Scotland too long, ye ken,” she replied in a sarcastic brogue.
“I know very well that family and clan can be a royal pain, but no one can force you to marry. Not these days, anyway. And I refuse to believe that a man as forward-thinking as your uncle—despite his reverence for tradition—would pressure you to do such a thing.”
He had trouble imagining how anyone could force Donella to do anything against her will, despite her quiet ways.
“I promised my father that I would marry Alasdair,” she said, as if that explained everything. She hesitated for a few moments. “When Papa was on his deathbed, he asked me to promise that I would marry Alasdair when he returned to Scotland. The fact that it took him ten years to come home did not mitigate my obligation.”
“And your family knew you didn’t wish to marry Alec?”
She waggled a hand. “Well, I more or less went along with it.”
It was hard to imagine her going along with something that insane. “That sounds positively medieval, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps, but a deathbed vow is a very serious matter, you understand.”
He understood that the whole thing was bloody ridiculous. “Didn’t anyone take your side?”
“Alasdair did,” she said dryly.
Logan chuckled as he adjusted her foot so he could get a better angle for wrapping it. She really did have a lovely foot, slender and finely arched, with dainty toes that just begged to be tickled and stroked.
In fact, he might even like to kiss them.
He began to wind the flannel around her ankle. “So, Alec rode off to war while you remained at Blairgal, patiently waiting.”
“Not so patiently,” she muttered.
“What’s that?”
She flinched. “Nothing. Could you not wrap it so tightly?”
“Forgive me. I’m a blunt instrument, as I’m sure you’ve realized. But I need to make sure the bandage doesn’t get loose and rub the skin.”
“No, you’ve been incredibly kind. I’m just tired.”
He carefully adjusted the wrapping. “Almost done, but you can’t leave me hanging. What happened when Alec returned?”
“He didn’t come home alone.”
Understanding finally dawned. “He brought Edie home with him?”
Donella’s smile was wry. “Indeed, he did.”
The current Mrs. Gilbride was the former Eden Whitney, an Englishwoman who now ruled her husband’s family with a firm but loving hand. She’d rolled up the entire clan as far as Logan could tell, a remarkable accomplishment for a pampered Sassenach.
“That must have gone down like a treat,” he said.
“You cannot imagine. When I realized that Eden and Alasdair were in love, I knew that to force him into marrying me for the sake of our families would be a great injustice to both of them.”
“And to you, since he didn’t love you.”
“True, but—” A funny sort of grimace contorted her features.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “In any event, Alasdair and I soon reached an understanding, and he was free to marry Eden.”
“Why do I have the feeling that you’re leaving out all the good bits?”
“Because I am,” she firmly said. “Are you almost finished?”
He tied off the ends of the flannel strips. “Still, it must have been quite the ruckus.”
Her quiet sigh was so weary it nearly broke Logan’s heart.
“I will only say that I was grateful to depart for the convent immediately after the wedding.”
“You stayed for the wedding? Why in Christ’s name—”
“Mr. Kendrick!”
“Why in the name of all that’s holy,” he corrected, “would you put yourself through that sort of public humiliation?”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“Really?”
She scrunched up her nose. “It seemed the right thing to do. Eden is an extremely nice person, and I wanted to show my support for her.”
He rested a hand on her ankle. “You’re a bonny lass, Donella Haddon. I hope you know that.”
She blushed. “Thank you, but don’t forget that I truly had no wish to marry Alasdair. I just didn’t know how to get out of it.”
“But why run off to a convent? Surely there were legions of other handsome fellows sniffing about.”
“That is an exceedingly improper observation, and I did not run off to a convent. I’d been thinking about it for a long time and was finally free to act on my wishes.” She held out an imperious hand. “My sock, please.”
He handed it over. “Shall I put it on for you?”
“Certainly not.”
Her chippy tone suggested he’d been more than successful in distracting her.
“How about that cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
She gingerly rolled on her sock and then wriggled her foot. “It hardly hurts at all,” she said in a pleased tone.
“It will hurt once you put that boot on.”
She pulled a comically exaggerated face. With her mussed curls, boy’s clothing, and dirt-smudged nose, she looked like an adorable urchin.
“But it should be much better by tomorrow, don’t you think?” she hopefully asked.
Not if she had to walk on it. But with any luck, Alec would show up and their ordeal would be over.
As he prepared the tea, it dawned on him that he hadn’t been bored once in the last two days or been fashed about the problems in his life. He’d always been the cheerful one in the Kendrick family, but a rain of punishing blows had knocked the joy out of him years ago. Oh, he put on a good show for the sake of his brothers and the family. Yet it had been a very long time since he’d had what anyone would call fun.
Despite the risk and danger, he’d found this little adventure tremendously interesting, if not downright entertaining. True, he always missed his son with an ever-present ache. But these last few days, on the road and back in the mountains again, he’d felt more like his old self. It would seem he’d needed a challenge and, in some improbable way, he’d needed Donella Haddon.
When he returned to her with the tea, she was not looking as well as she’d been only minutes ago.
He set the teapot on the table and tipped up her chin. “What’s wrong?”
She forced an artificial smile. “Nothing that a cup of tea won’t fix.”
“Donella—”
“I’m a little cold, that’s all.”
In fact, she was shivering.
Logan wrapped her coat and then his own around her shoulders, before pouring a mug of hot tea for her.
“Do you think I could have a bit more whisky?” she asked. “It did seem to warm me up.”
“You can have whatever you want.”
“What I’d really like is a warm bath, but that will have to wait until I get to Blairgal.”
Logan had another of those horrifically inconvenient flashes—Donella, wet, soapy, and naked in a bath. With him.
“How about a bit of bread and cheese?” he said. “You need to eat.”
“I think I’m too tired to eat.”
“Donella—”
“All right, I’ll try.”
“You’ll do more than try.” He started toward the pantry to fetch his pack.
“Yes, Sister Bernard,” she muttered.
“None of your sauce, lass.”
That won him a reluctant chuckle, but it was clear she’d reached the end of her tether. She needed food and sleep but, most importantly, needed to get warm.
She was nodding off when he returned but jerked awake when he set a plate in front of her.
“Just a few of those rolls and some rather nice cheddar I nipped from the inn’s kitchen this morning,” he said apologetically. “Didn’t have time for much else.”
“This is a normal meal for me. Grand banquets tend to be frowned upon in the convent.”
“What, no ortolans in Armagnac or sweetbreads in butter sauce?”
She shuddered. “Are you trying to ruin my appetite?”
He shoved the plate closer. “Eat, lass.”
She ate some cheese and a chunk of bread, washed down with the fortified tea. Logan also bolted down some tea and food, then headed to the door to fetch more water.
“There’s a chamber pot under the bed,” he said.
She sighed. “Why do we spend so much time discussing chamber pots?”
He flashed her a wry smile and went out. When he returned, she was standing in front of the fireplace in her stocking feet, wrapped in their coats but shivering. It was probably from fatigue and reaction as much as the cold, but he wouldn’t take chances.
“Ready for bed?” he asked.
“I could probably fall asleep standing up. I suppose you didn’t find any extra blankets,” she added, eyeing the unadorned mattress.
“Unfortunately, no.”
She mustered a smile. “You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor again. If you would drag the rocker over to the fireplace, and fetch me that blanket I took from the inn, I can sleep quite well sitting up.”
“Lass, if you think I’m sleeping on the bed while you’re in a chair, you’ve lost your mind.”
“I’m sure you’re just as tired as I am. You need your sleep, too.”
“Donella, get on that bloody bed before I pick you up and dump you on it.”
“There’s no call to be rude,” she said with offended dignity.
“Apparently there is.”
She grumbled but handed over his coat and got on the bed. The tick mattress crackled as she curled into a ball, wrapping the small, threadbare blanket around her upper body. Unfortunately, the blasted thing barely went past her hips, leaving her legs exposed to the cold.
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