by Karen Ranney
“Anything you would like to show me, Duchess. But, please, couldn’t we be a little less formal? Call me Sam.”
He squeezed her fingers again. His grip was warm as his smile.
How absurd. But this American with his engaging grin wouldn’t be at Bealadair for long. What was the harm?
“My name is Rhona,” she heard herself saying. “I have to inspect the larder, Sam. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?”
He folded her hand around his arm.
“Shall we go, then?” he asked.
She nodded and led the way.
Chapter 21
Elsbeth was nearly weeping by the time they made it back to Bealadair. Twice, Connor almost fell from the saddle. Finally, she rode so close to him that her mare was bumping Samson, something he didn’t like. He’d tossed his head more than once, threatening a tantrum. She found herself talking both to Connor and the stallion—encouraging the human and calming the horse.
Once back at the stables she sent one of the stableboys to fetch a cot and another to alert Mrs. Ferguson. The housekeeper had quite a bit of experience in nursing and could do what was necessary until the physician was summoned from the village.
After they carried Connor to his suite—while he was complaining the whole time—the housekeeper arrived.
“Perhaps it would be best if you left the room, Elsbeth,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It is the duke’s bedchamber, after all.”
Elsbeth only shook her head. She was not going to leave Connor’s side until she was certain he was going to be all right. She didn’t know how deep the wound was. She didn’t know if it had nicked any bones or hit his lung. Besides, he had gripped her hand and refused to let it go, even as they tried to remove his coat.
“Connor, let go,” she said, bending close to him. “If you don’t, we’ll have to cut your coat off you and it will be totally ruined.”
He finally let go of her hand, and they were able to remove the garment.
In the last few minutes his color had gotten worse and he was shivering so hard his teeth were chattering.
“His body is reacting to the wound,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It’s to be expected.”
“Will he be all right?”
The housekeeper didn’t answer her, merely took the scissors from one of the maids who had fetched her sewing kit from her room. With deft precision, she cut off Connor’s bloody jacket and shirt, revealing the wound.
Elsbeth closed her eyes, surprised at the wave of dizziness. She had never before been affected by the sight of blood. But this was a different matter entirely. This was Connor.
Mrs. Ferguson bent close. “I think it would be best if you left, Elsbeth. Especially before the duchess gets here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said. She was already in for a lecture. How much worse could it be if she remained a few minutes?
The room was growing crowded. She turned her head to see Lara and Felix standing in the doorway. Behind them were a few maids and footmen. She could also see Muira and Anise. Any moment now, the duchess would arrive and demand to know what had happened.
What would she say? Should she even mention her suspicions? Or merely announce that Connor had been shot by a poacher?
She had to figure out something before Rhona arrived.
Someone grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down on a chair that had been moved to the side of the bed. She grabbed Connor’s hand again, clasping it between both of hers, wanting to warm it somehow.
Why hadn’t she become more adept at treating wounds? She knew how to handle burns in the kitchen or minor cuts and scrapes. Where did she go for education on how to handle bullet wounds? And why did she think that she would have ever needed such knowledge?
Who’d done such a thing? That thought had vied with another all the way back to the house until it was a refrain: Was he going to be all right? Who had done such a thing? Was he going to be all right?
Now all she could do was sit and watch as Mrs. Ferguson cleaned the wound.
Connor didn’t say a word. He didn’t moan. He didn’t gasp in pain. He only lay there, his eyes closed, his thinned lips the only indication that he felt what was being done to him.
She wanted to tell him that she would protect him and make sure that no one did anything that would bring him undue pain. Nothing more than was necessary to heal him. She wanted to reassure him somehow, but what words would she use?
It’s all right, Connor. I’m here.
She didn’t know many men, only the ones that visited Bealadair. Or Gavin, of course. She’d cited him as a model for others. But not even Gavin had been stoic and uncomplaining. He occasionally whined about his ailments, and she listened and commiserated when necessary.
Connor still hadn’t said anything. When Mrs. Ferguson began to probe the wound he gripped Elsbeth’s hand tighter.
She wanted to ask him if he would like some Scottish whiskey, something to dull the pain.
“The bullet is still lodged inside,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It will need to come out.”
There was entirely too much blood. It was soaking into the sheets. Elsbeth averted her eyes, concentrated on Connor’s hand.
“Can you do that?” she asked.
“I’ve never removed a bullet,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “But if the physician doesn’t arrive soon, I’m going to have to. The longer we delay the more blood he’ll lose.”
“Do it,” a voice said from behind her.
Elsbeth glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Kirby standing there, his expression somber, his gaze fixed on Connor’s face.
“I can help you,” he said. “I’ve had some experience with bullet wounds.”
What kind of place was Texas?
As if he had heard her unspoken question, Mr. Kirby glanced at her.
“Men are occasionally hotheaded, Miss Carew.”
Within moments, Mrs. Ferguson had arranged what she needed: extra toweling, hot water, two pairs of tweezers—one pair long and one short—embroidery scissors, and a needle and fine thread.
She would’ve moved away except that Connor wouldn’t relinquish her hand.
“I’m in the way,” she said to him, so softly that only he would hear.
“Don’t go.”
She looked up at Mr. Kirby. “He wants me to stay.”
“Nonsense,” the Duchess of Lothian said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Of course she’d come into the room. Elsbeth didn’t even turn. She wasn’t going to argue, not now. This wasn’t the time or the place.
The duchess, however, was not accustomed to being ignored. When Elsbeth didn’t respond, she merely issued a command.
“You’re not needed, Elsbeth. Be on your way.”
Mrs. Ferguson glanced at her across Connor’s body.
Elsbeth interpreted the look as a warning. Perhaps a year ago she would have acted differently, but what did she have to lose now? She knew she was going to leave Bealadair. It wasn’t as if she needed to curry the duchess’s favor anymore. It was only a matter of time until she made her departure.
She turned her head and looked beyond Mr. Kirby to where the duchess stood.
“The duke wishes me to stay,” she said. There, let that sink in. His Grace wished her to remain. His wishes were more important than Rhona’s.
“Texan.”
She glanced at Connor to see that he’d opened his eyes and was looking at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
He closed his eyes again without answering her.
“He called you a Texan, Miss Carew.”
She glanced over at Mr. Kirby. “Why would he do a thing like that?”
“I believe he meant it as a compliment,” Mr. Kirby said, smiling down at her. “I sure would take it like that.”
Mrs. Ferguson braced herself on the mattress with her left hand. In her gnarled fingers she held a long pair of tweezers. Elsbeth said a quick prayer that the housekeeper’s arthritis wouldn’t prevent her from doing
what she needed to do and quickly.
“I’m ready to remove the bullet, but it’s important that you hold him still. He mustn’t move.”
“I think Mr. Kirby would be better at this,” she said.
The housekeeper made an impatient sound. “You’ve never been missish, Elsbeth. I heard the story of you helping a goat give birth. And what about the time you set Jed’s arm?”
“Both of those were emergency situations and there wasn’t anyone around to help. This is entirely different. Mr. Kirby would be stronger, don’t you think, and able to hold Connor down if he moves.”
“You’re doing fine, Miss Carew.” Mr. Kirby reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “He won’t move as long as you’re here.”
“Don’t flatter her too much, Sam,” Connor said, his eyes still closed. “She was a harpy at the ruins.”
She frowned at him. How dare he say such a thing about her, especially in front of all these people? She wasn’t going to turn and look at Rhona. She could just imagine the duchess’s expression.
She placed one hand on his wrist, the other on his left shoulder. Did he have any inkling that, until this afternoon, she’d never touched a man’s chest? Or that it was scandalous that she was looking at it now?
Mrs. Ferguson leaned over Connor, probed at the wound with the nasty-looking tweezers, and then sank them deep into his flesh.
Connor didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. Only the hiss of his breath indicated that he was in pain.
“He’s being stalwart and brave because you’re here,” Mr. Kirby said, leaning down and whispering to her. “He doesn’t want you to think he’s a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” Connor said, his voice faint. “If you’re going to insult me, Sam, at least make it a halfway decent insult.”
“I can assure you, Miss Carew,” Mr. Kirby said, “I do not lie. It is the presence of a beautiful woman such as yourself that keeps my young friend from shouting all manner of obscenities.”
She expected Connor to say something, but Mrs. Ferguson was digging into the wound. She felt Connor’s arm tighten beneath her. Her hand moved from his wrist to his palm. Their fingers interlocked and he squeezed her hand just once, a wordless acknowledgment of her need to offer him comfort.
“I’m sorry if I was a harpy, earlier,” she said softly. “I was just worried.”
“I want another kiss.”
It was evident from Mr. Kirby’s chuckle that he had heard Connor’s comment. Had the duchess? She was most definitely not going to look in Rhona’s direction right now.
She really did need to deflect everyone’s attention. Just for a few moments until her cheeks cooled.
Thankfully, Mr. Kirby came to her rescue.
“What happened, Miss Carew?”
She half expected Connor to answer, but he kept his eyes closed.
She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Kirby. “Someone shot at us,” she said.
“Did you see who it was?”
She shook her head. “Would you please ring for the majordomo? I need to send some men over to Castle McCraight to see if they can find any clues.”
“I have some experience at tracking men, Miss Carew,” he said. “If you’ll allow me, I would be pleased to supervise the investigation.”
She glanced at him and then away, certain that she’d never seen a man’s face change so quickly. One moment he was affable, even teasing. The next, his eyes had flattened and turned hard.
She was very grateful he was Connor’s friend and that he was demonstrating some loyalty. No one else was. Members of the staff looked more concerned than the family. Rhona hadn’t gasped in horror. The three daughters didn’t look distressed. Felix certainly hadn’t stepped up and offered to help.
For the first time since she’d come to Bealadair she was ashamed of the McCraights.
“Thank you, Mr. Kirby,” she said. “I would appreciate your help.”
No doubt she was going to pay for those words, too.
The bullet wasn’t easy to find.
A few minutes into the operation, Elsbeth closed her eyes and practiced breathing very slowly. It didn’t seem to quell her nausea, however. To keep herself from becoming sick at the smell of Connor’s blood, she concentrated on the feel of their linked fingers.
Mrs. Ferguson was pressing Mr. Kirby into service. Were the two of them probing the wound? She wasn’t going to look. She couldn’t. Instead, she bent her head, almost as if she were praying, and rested her cheek against the back of Connor’s hand, willing this ordeal to be over for him.
“Tell me about Texas,” she said. “However do you manage two million acres?”
“Not all at once,” he said. To her amazement his tone sounded almost amused. Pained, but holding a dose of humor.
With her eyes closed, and so close to him, she could almost pretend they were alone. If somehow she could ignore Mrs. Ferguson talking about the bullet slipping from her grasp and Mr. Kirby marveling at the amount of blood.
“Do you have a great many cattle?”
“About a hundred seventy thousand head,” he said, the words spoken from between clenched lips.
Was he delirious? She couldn’t even conceive of that many cattle.
She felt him stiffen just as Mrs. Ferguson made a triumphant sound.
“Got it!” she said.
Elsbeth opened her eyes to see the housekeeper’s blood-drenched hands triumphantly holding the bullet. She was truly afraid she was going to get sick. If she was with anyone else, she might have succumbed, but she didn’t want Connor to see her that way.
She must be his equal in courage. She focused on his face, now too pale.
“Was the war terrible?” she asked. She’d never known anyone who’d fought in an actual war. Would he consider the question naive or silly?
He opened his eyes again, looking as if he were trying to focus on the ceiling before he turned his head slightly.
He had the McCraight brown eyes, but his seemed different somehow, deeper, the color more intense. They seemed to have a sparkle, as if God had, just prior to his birth, dropped gold dust in them.
How foolish she was becoming.
She didn’t know how long their gazes locked. It felt like a very long time. She wanted to ease his pain, both the physical pain he was enduring now and what she saw in his eyes.
“Yes.”
It took her a second to realize that he was answering her. Yes, the war was terrible.
Her hand squeezed his.
She heard her name being called and reluctantly glanced toward the duchess.
“I do believe Mrs. Ferguson has the situation well in hand,” Rhona said. “Besides, the doctor is here.”
In other words, she should release Connor’s hand, stand, and exit the room, to be subjected, no doubt, to the duchess’s scrutiny and interrogation.
She didn’t want to leave.
She didn’t want to leave him.
“Elsbeth.”
It wasn’t a request but a command.
Mr. Kirby placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be here, Miss Carew.”
She nodded, gently released Connor’s hand, her fingers stroking softly along his palm. Resolutely, she stood, looked down at him, and forced herself to smile.
Be well. Words that never made it past her lips to be heard by the others in the room.
Chapter 22
“I don’t see why we have to move,” Anise said.
Muira put down her fork and stared at her sister. “Because we don’t belong here. Not anymore.”
“But that’s silly. Someone can’t just come along and tell us to move and we have to obey them.”
Elsbeth stood in the doorway regarding the sisters. Barely two hours had passed since she’d brought Connor home, and yet they were acting as if nothing had happened. Had they always been as selfish and she was just now noticing it?
Maybe she was being too harsh. They’d been given a shock by Connor’s
decision and that was at the forefront of their minds. But couldn’t they spare a moment or two for thoughts of him?
Lara was reclining in one of the wing chairs by the fire. She didn’t look at all well. A cup of tea was sitting beside her on the table, but she wasn’t drinking it. Instead, she was staring at the fire as if to see the future in the flames. Her feet were on a footstool, one that bore the McCraight clan crest in needlepoint.
Muira was helping herself to another piece of chocolate cake, one of Addy’s brilliant pastry confections.
Anise was walking in front of the windows, turning and retracing her steps. Pacing wouldn’t make the situation any better than it was. All it would do was annoy the people who had to watch her relentless marathon.
At least Felix was nowhere in sight. Normally he was to be found wherever Lara was, as if he was afraid his wife might forget about him.
What kind of man had no occupation? He simply had moved in after their marriage, obviously content to live off Gavin’s generosity and his wife’s allowance. He purchased what he wanted when he wanted it, offering no excuses or apologies to anyone for being a spendthrift.
“He can’t sell the house,” Anise said.
“I’m afraid he can,” Elsbeth said. “Bealadair belongs to him, after all.”
Anise stopped and glared at her. “Well it’s not fair. It’s certainly not right or proper. He’s just a rude American.”
“Texan,” Elsbeth said. “He prefers to be called a Texan.”
“I haven’t the slightest interest in what he prefers to be called. Evidently, you do. I saw how solicitous you were at his bedside. You were nearly in tears. It was barely a scratch.”
Anise was given to announcing her opinion with authority, as if it had the weight of truth. In actuality, she was rarely challenged and was therefore allowed to get away with the most idiotic pronouncements.
This was one of those occasions.
It was simply not worth Elsbeth’s time or effort to try to convince Anise otherwise. Mrs. Ferguson said that the bullet had been a good two inches deep and had required some effort to remove. Consequently, Connor had lost a great deal of blood.
