CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Struan was underwater. He struggled to rise to the surface, tried like hell to move his feet and arms. Muffled voices were his only reward for all the hard work. He hadn’t broken through. Were there others here with him in the murky depths? Must be the lake at Gordon Hollow.
But . . . if that were true, why wasn’t anyone helping him? He inhaled, and his lungs didn’t fill with water. Not a lake after all. Where was he, and what was the thick, dense heaviness pressing in on him from all sides?
Wait. Rest.
He floated for a bit, until he regained some of his energy, then he ordered his eyes to open. His heavy lids paid him no heed. Frustration and helplessness coiled through him. Concentrating, he poured all his will into the effort, and managed only the merest slit. His hand, resting upon a white blanket, was the only thing visible in his line of sight. A syringe had been stuck into a vein on the back, with a plastic tube connected to the end, stretching upward. The whole apparatus was taped in place. Damn, he hated IVs. He struggled, following the tube with his gaze, taking note of a bag of liquid and a plastic apparatus that dripped another liquid at intervals. Hospital. Struggling to pull his thoughts together, he tried to remember how and when he’d gotten there.
He’d been in a hospital before. Was this . . . then? He managed to catch a glimpse of his other hand; one finger had been encased in plastic, with yet another tube leading to some kind of monitor. Images began trickling into his awareness—people’s faces, a battle fought upon the shores of a lake. The battle . . . he’d been surrounded and fighting desperately for his life when an arrow hit his thigh. He went down on one knee, his sword arm burning like the fires of hell, when a man called out to him, and then everything went black.
He remembered a medieval village, an unfamiliar place overlooking a lake. In the middle of the lake, an island, and on the island . . . a castle. Perhaps all of what he saw in his head had been a dream, and he was finally waking. He blinked. Concentrating made his head ache with dull persistence.
Surely the Gordons would come any minute now, and . . . The memory of a beautiful woman popped into his head. Sky. Focusing upon her image brought a wrenching ache to his heart. Great. Now his head and his heart hurt. Was he dying? He closed his eyes again. Too much. Thinking had worn him out. A door opened, and the muffled sounds returned, only this time, they weren’t so muffled.
“His vital signs are good. The infection has responded well to the antibiotic drip,” a woman’s voice said.
He recognized that voice, but the name floated out of his grasp, disappearing into the cloud of confusion binding him.
“What about the swelling in his head?” a man asked. His words had a slight lilt.
“That’s gone down too. He could wake at any time,” the woman said.
Struan forced his eyes open a crack, hoping a visual would help him remember who they were.
“Katherine, his eyes are open again,” the man said.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s conscious. I’ve explained this already.”
“Aye, I remember, but he seems to be following us this time.”
Struan tried to talk. He opened his mouth slightly, but his tongue had turned to old shoe leather. Nothing worked. Since that was a bust, he exerted a monumental amount of energy and lifted his hand.
The woman, Katherine, gasped. “Struan, are you with us again?”
He nodded slightly.
“Push the nurse’s button, Connor. Oh, Struan, we’ve been so worried about you.”
He needed water, something to make his tongue work again. So many questions. He looked around him. A curtain had been drawn around the narrow bed he lay in, and there weren’t any chairs for visitors. Katherine and Connor, the McGladreys—he remembered now—stood by his side and peered down at him, their faces wearing identical expressions of relief. Connor pressed a button at the end of a cord near Struan’s head, and Katherine fussed with his pillows and blankets.
A nurse opened the door and popped around the end of the curtain. “Did you need something?”
A Scottish accent. So . . . he was in Scotland?
“Yes,” Katherine answered, all businesslike. “Struan is awake. Please inform his doctor.”
The nurse glanced at him with an expression of doubt. He stared back, raising his eyebrows slightly. Her eyes widened, and she moved closer, dragging a machine with her. She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and pumped it full of air, while checking the monitor and the IV drips.
“Water,” Struan managed to eke out of his rusty throat.
“I’ll get some for you just as soon as I’m done with your blood pressure, Mr. Sutherland.” The nurse waited until the machine beeped, took a gander, and removed the cuff. “I’ll page your doctor.”
He nodded. The nurse raised his bed so that he was in a sitting position, and then she left.
“What happened?” he rasped, looking to Connor and Katherine for answers.
“You took a blow to the head whilst fighting the Erskines. You’ve been comatose ever since. We all thought it best to bring you back to . . .” He peered around the curtain for a second. “Well, back to now. You’re at the Inverurie Hospital in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. We—”
“I hear our patient is awake,” a male voice intoned. He pushed back the curtain, pen and clipboard in hand, and beamed at Struan. “You’re a very lucky lad. Whoever did your triage care did everything exactly right, though I must say the stitches are a bit . . . unorthodox.” He laughed as if he’d told a joke.
Stitches? That explained the tugging sensation on his right shoulder.
“I’m Dr. Hamilton.” The doctor looked like he might be in his midfifties. He was on the stocky side, with graying hair, bushy brows and a mustache to match. He lifted Struan’s eyelid, flashed a light in his eye, and repeated the process on the other side. “Headache?”
“Aye.”
“Do you recognize these fine folks who brought you here three days ago?”
“Three days?” Struan’s gaze shot to Connor.
Just then, the nurse returned with a plastic pitcher and a cup with a straw in it. Everyone shifted, and the wheeled tray was moved over his lap. She poured water for him and bent the straw so he could drink. Lifting it to his lips, she advised him to sip slowly. He drew in a mouthful, swished it around his mouth and swallowed. He took another couple of drinks before nodding to her and laying his back down on the pillow to answer Dr. Hamilton’s question.
“I recognize the McGladreys.” Where was Sky? His throat tightened. Perhaps she’d stayed behind. Surely her sire would have forbidden her from coming with him to the twenty-first century again, and she was nothing if not bound by duty and obligation. He closed his eyes. Weariness and grief sat squarely upon his chest, and he was far too weak to bear the weight of either. He listened as the doctor ordered some blood work, and the nurse hustled off to do Dr. Hamilton’s bidding.
“Do you know what date it is?” the doctor asked.
Struan heaved a sigh. “No, but then, I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious either, so it’s hard to calculate.”
“Well if you’ve the wits to figure out why you can’t say, that’s a good sign.” Dr. Hamilton put him through a series of questions, had him count and recite the alphabet, touch his nose with one eye closed, then the other, until finally he seemed satisfied. “I want to keep you here a couple more days to be certain the blood infection is completely eradicated, and we’ll want to do a few neurological tests to make sure you’re well on the mend.” He straightened. “We’ll know more once the tests are completed, but all signs point to a full recovery.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hamilton.” Katherine crossed the narrow space to shake his hand. “We appreciate the care he’s been given.”
So many questions swirled around in Struan’s sore brain; it made the room spin just to think about them. He waited until the doctor left before turning to Connor and Katherine. “This isn’t a pri
vate room, is it?”
“No, it’s not, but your roommate is sound asleep.” Katherine perched on the edge of his bed. “Or perhaps he’s in a coma as you were.”
“Who took care of me? Who did the excellent triage nursing the doctor mentioned?”
“Sky,” Connor said, his expression solemn. “From the moment I brought you to Moigh Hall, she was by your side. She kept cold compresses on your head, dosed you with all kinds of medicinal teas and stitched up your shoulder. You had a gash there and an arrow in your thigh bone.”
“I want to see the stitches.” He tried to raise his hand to his shoulder, but he could only reach halfway because of everything hooked up to him.
“Here, I’ll help.” Katherine came to his aid. She untied his hospital gown and slid the sleeve down.
Struan twisted his head to get a look. Scarlet thread in a neat pattern ran a good four inches down his shoulder. “Silk embroidery thread.”
“Indeed.” Connor grinned. “Very neatly done, too. You probably won’t have much of a scar.”
His eyes stung. Closing them, he laid his head back on the pillow. He just didn’t have the heart to talk anymore, and he couldn’t muster the courage to ask the question burning a hole in his heart and mind. Sky wasn’t here at the hospital with Connor and Katherine. Didn’t that say it all? “I’m so tired. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done and for getting me back to . . . I know we have lots to talk about, but all I want to do right now is sleep.”
Katherine fixed his hospital gown and brushed his hair out of his face. “Sleep, Struan. We’ll be back tomorrow, and by then you will have eaten disgusting hospital food and gained a little bit more strength. We’ll talk then.” She patted his cheek. “Is there anything you want us to bring you?”
Yes. Bring Sky. He shook his head, his eyes still closed. The McGladreys left, and a few tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes. Did he dare travel through one of Connor’s portals again? What if he took the trip and ended up somewhere else, or at the wrong time, like when Sky was only five, or seventy-five? If he’d lost the love of his life to the past, how could he face the future?
Struan forced another spoonful of the disgusting, watery oatmeal into his mouth. It had no flavor at all, and it was slimy. Once the stuff was in his mouth, he forced himself to chew and swallow. He needed his strength, and truth be told, he’d eaten worse whilst living in the fourteenth century. At least the porridge, if you could call it that, didn’t have any bugs or wormy things floating in the soupy mess.
A plump middle-aged woman in scrubs pushed his curtain back. She carried a small tray with a syringe, a few vials and a length of rubber to tie off his arm. “I’ve come to take blood,” she announced as if he hadn’t the wits to deduce that much on his own.
“Again?” he grumbled. “If you keep taking my blood, how am I to recover?”
“A strapping lad such as yourself?” She gave him a once-over. “You shouldn’t have any difficulty.” She tied off his arm, placed it upon the wheeled tray and swabbed the crook of his elbow. She gave his veins a few taps and reached for the syringe.
“I hate needles,” he muttered.
“Who doesn’t?” She shot him a wry look. “This’ll sting a bit.”
Perhaps the sting would take his mind off his other pains, especially the gaping wound to his heart. He turned his face away from the proceedings while the woman filled the vials with his blood.
“All done,” she said cheerily, taping a bit of gauze on his pricked skin. “Dr. Hamilton will be by to see you this morning around half ten.”
He nodded his acknowledgement. She left, taking his blood with her, and a young man, also in scrubs, took her place. Struan frowned. “I’m out of blood.”
The young man grinned and leaned a cane against the frame of the bed. “My name is Ronald, and I’m here to get you out of bed. We’re going to take a stroll down the hall.” He held up a folded hospital gown. “Even though they begged me not to, I brought this so you don’t give the nurses a show.”
“Great.” Getting out of bed would be good. He’d have to ask the McGladreys how long he’d been comatose. Judging by how weak he’d become, it had been a while.
The orderly helped him put the extra gown on like a robe, threading the IV tubes through the sleeves. Struan sat with his bare legs dangling over the side of the cot, while Ronald put slipper-socks on his cold, bare feet.
“Ready?” Ronald asked, handing him the cane. He wheeled the stand holding the IV bags next to him. “You have the cane and the wheeled IV stand for support, and I’ll be right beside you.”
“Ready,” Struan said. He clenched his jaw and pushed himself up to standing. The room began to spin, and stars flickered before his eyes. He sat back down. “Not ready. Give me a minute.”
“Dizzy?”
“Aye. The room is spinning, and I’m seeing stars.”
“Take it slow,” Ronald suggested. “You’ve been flat on your back and comatose for several days, no’ to mention the infection.”
“And they keep taking my blood. There’s hardly any left to pump,” Struan grumbled, leaning over. “That’s bound to weaken a man. Plus, today is the first day in I don’t know how long that I’ve eaten.”
“I’m sure your blood sugar is low.” The orderly opened the top of a plastic container of juice sitting on his tray. “Here, drink this, and then we’ll try again.”
Struan finished the apple juice in two swallows, took a deep breath, and then another. “Let’s go.” This time, he rose slowly and remained stationary for a few seconds while he worked on regaining his balance.
The orderly took him by the elbow. “Hold on to the IV stand and the cane. Small steps now.”
Struan managed to shuffle his way to the door and out into the hall. His thigh hurt where the arrow had pierced him, and he leaned heavily on the cane. He continued to shuffle along the hall and around the corner. Sweat broke out on his brow. “You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I run, fight with a broadsword and joust at Renaissance fairs. Now I’m hobbling about like an octogenarian.”
“My granny is eighty-three.” Ronald grinned. “I hate to tell you this, but she gets about better than you.”
“Thanks. I feel so much better.” Determination lent him strength he didn’t have, and he insisted on making another round. At the end of a hall, he stopped to lean against the door of a restroom. “I think I’ve had enough. Give me a minute before you help me back to my room.”
“Want me to fetch a wheelchair?” Ron asked.
Struan shook his head, his limbs rubbery. “I just need a minute.” He took a few deep breaths and waited until the shakiness receded. “All right. Back to bed.” He pushed himself off the door and leaned on the cane. He gripped the IV frame with his other hand, rolling it along the tiled floor at a snail’s pace.
Ron hovered close. “Someone will be by after lunch to help you take another walk.”
Sweating, all he could manage was putting one foot in front of the other. Finally, they reached the door to his room. Ron opened it, and Struan dragged himself across the threshold. He almost fell to the floor when he saw who waited for him.
Sky stood staring at his empty bed with her arms wrapped around her midriff and her shoulders slumped forward. Her hair was loose and flowing down her back. His insides turned into a jumble of emotions, relief being the strongest. “Sky,” he croaked.
She turned and burst into tears.
Struan’s knees gave out, and Ron caught him before he collapsed in an undignified heap on the floor. His eyes never left Sky’s as she hurried to his side. She put his arm around her shoulders to support him. Between the orderly and Sky, they managed to get him back to his bed.
Ronald arranged the pillows behind him so he could sit. “If I can, I’ll take you for your next walk.” He looked between the two of them. “Looks like you two could use a few minutes.” He tugged the curtain around his space.
“Thanks,” Struan ca
lled out, his gaze still fixed on Sky.
Ron chuckled, nodded to him and left.
“You’re . . . here,” Struan whispered. “I thought”—he swallowed a couple of times—“I thought you stayed . . . behind.” He patted the bed and scooted over to give her room.
Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she shook her head. Sky stretched out on the edge of the narrow hospital bed next to him. Sighing, she put her arm around him and laid her head on his shoulder. He held her as she wept and ran his hands up and down her back while breathing her in.
Once her tears were spent, she sat up. “When I saw your bed empty, I feared you’d . . . you’d . . .”
“Died? Nah, I just took a walk.” He cleared his throat in an effort to dislodge the boulder there. “When the McGladreys were here yesterday, and you weren’t, I assumed you’d—”
“Katherine wouldn’t let me come with them yesterday, but I was here both days before that. She said I’d exhausted myself and ordered me to rest. She gave me a sleeping pill. I slept and slept, all through that afternoon and that night.”
“You’re here,” he said again, as if he needed confirmation. He reached out and ran his knuckles down her tear-dampened cheek.
She gripped his wrist and turned to kiss his knuckles. “You’re alive.”
“I love you, Sky. Please tell me you’re staying. Please put my poor heart out of its misery.”
Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears, and she let out a garbled laugh. “I love you, Struan, and, aye, I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.”
“Why, Sky? What made you decide to leave everything you know, your time, clan and family . . . for me?”
“I could no’ bear the thought of my life without you, Struan. I almost lost you, and that is when I realized what I needed to do.” She sighed. “I used to think I was no’ cut out for adventure.” She lifted her head to smile at him. “’Tis no longer true. Adventure suits me, and meeting you has been the greatest adventure of all—more than traveling through time, or escaping an enemy determined to take my life.”
The Highlander's Vow (Loch Moigh #4) Page 27
