A Laird's Promise

by Aileen Adams

  As she slowly eased away the edges of the bandage, patient and infinitely gentle, she began to see the telltale signs of infection. The swelling. The angry pink skin. The odor of pus.

  She saw the lower end of the wound and the thick yellowish exudate that oozed from it. Thread-thin red streaks radiated from the wound outward. This was not good. It took about a half a dozen tries before she was able to completely lift the soiled, stained bandage off of Jake's thigh.

  Behind her, she heard Phillip mutter an oath under his breath, his anger unmistakable.

  Agnes lifted a startled hand over her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

  Sarah frowned, her heart thumping with dread.

  The wound was severely infected, the skin around its gaping edges angry and swollen. The inside edges of the wound had begun to crust over, trapping the infection beneath it.

  Her heart sank. She looked over her shoulder at Phillip, dreading what she had to tell him.

  He searched her face several seconds before he asked, his voice choked with emotion. Thinking that she would tell him there was nothing she could do for his brother?

  “What is it?”

  He wasn't going to like it. She bit her bottom lip and then forged ahead. “I'm going to have to reopen the wound—”

  “Whatever the blazes for?”

  Not the words he had expected, surely. He scowled and shook his head, gesturing toward his brother.

  “He's already in bad shape. You’ll just cause him more pain!”

  Sarah strove for a calm tone, knowing that the calmer she spoke, the calmer Phillip would become. She wanted to offer him hope, not only for his sake, but hers. Her future. Her return to Kirkcaldy. But she wouldn’t lie to him.

  “If I don't get that infection out, he will die.” She gestured toward the wound. “See those red streaks?” She didn't wait for his answer. “Those are signs that the infection has already begun to enter his bloodstream. We don't have much time to waste.”

  Phillip’s expression transformed from worry to darkly foreboding.

  She tried to still the shiver of dread that raced through her body. Would he kill her? She was trying, really she was, but the wound was bad.

  The other healer had done little, if anything, to keep the wound clean or taken steps to help prevent infection.

  She watched as Phillip grimaced, and then rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, shaking his head. Imploring whatever deity he worshiped to save his brother?

  He looked down at her, his eyebrows lowered, his lips pressed into a thin line. His anger was unmistakable. He swiped a palm down his pant leg, his face pale. He rubbed the back of his neck and inhaled deeply, then released it, all the while his eyes riveted to hers. Not sure whether he could trust her or not.

  There was nothing she could do or say that would convince him one way or the other so she remained silent.

  Her hands grew clammy, and she swallowed. Despite her outward calm, she trembled with fear inside, her stomach a tight knot. He wouldn't blame her if his brother died, would he?

  “If you do that, can you save him?”

  She could not promise that she could heal his brother even if she did open the wound and draw out as much infection as she could.

  She took a deep breath herself before answering. “I will try, but I cannot promise. His condition is dire.”

  She didn't have to say anymore.

  Phillip gazed down at his brother, then at Agnes, who stared back at him, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed with worry.

  Finally, Phillip nodded. “Do what you have to do.”

  Sarah nodded and reached for one of the large squares of fabric that the servants had brought in earlier. Carefully, she snuggled up under Jake's injured thigh, thinking to protect the clean bedding from what she was about to do.

  That done, she sighed and spoke to Phillip. “I'll need your knife.”

  Phillip hesitated, but only briefly before he removed it from the sheath attached to his belt. He extended it toward her, handle first.

  She shook her head, gesturing toward the small candelabra on the bedside table. “Pass the blade through the candle fire several times to clean it.”

  She sensed his hesitancy before he moved from the opposite side of the bed, stepped past Agnes, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder as he did so. She saw the squeeze he gave her shoulder, as if comforting the older woman.

  He rounded the bed and strode to the table with the candles. Held the knife blade in the flame for several moments, then turned it over and waited.

  “That’s good.”

  He glanced at her and once again extended the knife to her, handle first.

  She took it. “This is not going to be pleasant,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Already steeling herself. She had done this once. Nearly run from the bedside of the young woman, screaming with the horror of it all. Her throat was dry. She was afraid to swallow, fearing that if she did, she would choke.

  “You're going to have to hold him down. Both of you.”

  Again, Phillip cursed under his breath, but he glanced at Agnes and nodded. He appeared surprised when Sarah climbed onto the bed and straddled Jake's lower limbs.

  She gestured. “Hold him down at the hips.” She turned to Agnes. “You hold down his shoulders. Lie over him if you have to. I'm not sure if he'll wake up, but he might, and this is going to hurt. No matter what, you cannot let go. If he moves, I may end up injuring him. Once I start, I must finish.”

  She dared a glance at Phillip.

  His face looked stricken but resolved. Resolutely calm despite the fact his face had turned a paler shade. Somberly, he once again nodded at Agnes, who did as she was instructed, placing one strong hand on each of Jake's shoulders. His back to Agnes, Phillip bent down and placed a hand over each of Jake's hips.

  Heart pounding, Sarah bent over the wound, imagining every move in her mind that she had to make before she did it. Though necessary in the attempt to save Jake's life, she knew from experience that it was an unpleasant, heart-wrenching task.

  She swallowed, took a breath, steadied her slightly trembling hand, and then nodded. She didn’t look at Phillip or Agnes.

  “I'm ready.”

  Without another second’s hesitation, she bent closer toward Jake’s thigh, inserted the tip of the knife into the top of the partially scabbed gash and then sliced downward with firm pressure, re-opening the wound.

  The pain startled Jake into a semi-conscious state. He screamed.

  Agnes began to weep, and as Sarah had suspected might happen, failed to hold Jake’s shoulders firmly on the bed. She didn’t hesitate either, but immediately laid her torso over Jake's as she had been instructed in order to keep them from rising off the bed.

  The wound open and bleeding, Sarah glanced up very briefly into Phillip’s face. Only a second, but enough to gauge his reaction.

  Jaws tightly clamped, lips pressed together, his eyes mirroring Jake's pain, if not physically, then emotionally. He leaned his weight into his hands, elbows locked, exerting pressure against Jake's hips to keep him lying still.

  With Jake trying to buck beneath her, Sarah quickly placed her palms on each side of the now bleeding gash and pressed, her stomach turning as she squeezed the infection from the wound.

  A foul odor rose upward, causing her to gag. Warm blood and a viscous liquid streamed through her fingers.

  Sarah clenched her jaw tightly and focused on her task. Shut her ears against the moans of pain, of Phillip cursing, Agnes weeping. She focused on tamping down the nausea surging in her stomach, the fear, the knowledge that she was causing an incredible amount of pain to her wounded charge.

  She didn’t stop. Breathing from her mouth, so she didn’t have to inhale the stench of the wound, she massaged the area surrounding the angry gash firmly, stroking toward the opening, trying to squeeze as much pus out of it that she could.

  Finally, convinced she had done as much as possible, she sat upright, hands smeare
d with blood, trembling.

  “That is enough,” she said, startled by the sound of her own voice. Frightened, and emotional. Tears warmed her eyes, but she blinked them back. Not now.

  The entire process had taken only a minute or so, but Sarah felt drained.

  Jake lay unmoving on the bed beneath her.

  Her trembling was not merely from the unpleasant tasks she had just performed, but caused by a bone-wearying exhaustion. Physical and emotional. She quickly scrambled off the bed, gesturing that Phillip and Agnes could release their grip on the once again unconscious Jake.

  “I need another bowl of warm water, not so hot as you brought before,” she said to no one in particular.

  Agnes hurried from the room, stifling her crying as she left to do Sarah’s bidding.

  Jake lay quietly on the bed.

  Phillip stared down at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

  She reached for the lukewarm water and cleaned Jake's thigh, staying away from the edges of the freshly oozing wound.

  “Now what?”

  Sarah looked at Phillip. “I clean the wound, try to draw more infection—”

  She lifted her blood-stained hand in a calming gesture when he began to protest.

  “I will not have to squeeze it again,” she said. “I will use a hot cloth, as hot as his skin can tolerate. Then, I will allow the wound to air dry for an hour or so. Later, I will make a poultice to place over the wound, and loosely wrap it. For now, he should rest.”

  Phillip’s gaze passed between her and his brother.

  She saw his obvious concern but didn't know what else she could say to reassure him. She could not, would not make any promise that his brother would survive.

  She turned her attention to the bowl of leather satchels that Agnes had retrieved from the armoire. She opened one, lifted it to her nose and then put it down, reaching for another. She repeated the process until she had opened several bundles.

  She frowned.

  “What?”

  She didn’t want to say. Didn’t want to suggest—

  “Tell me.”

  The tone brooked no refusal.

  In the mood he was in, she felt compelled to respond. “Some of these herbs have not been dried properly. They are of little use.”

  “Maybe Ceana is using something else.”

  She looked up at Phillip. “I saw no signs of a poultice in the wound. How has she been treating him since he arrived?”

  Phillip was about to answer when Agnes returned to the room, bearing yet another bowl of steaming water.

  Sarah gestured for her to place it on the floor near her feet. As Agnes bent to place the bowl on the floor, she sank down onto her knees once again, reaching for another square of linen floating in the water. She nodded her thanks to Agnes then dipped her fingers into the scalding hot water, hissed in a breath, and then carefully, snatched one corner of the cloth in her hands, grasping it between the tips of her fingers. She was barely able to wring water from the cloth, but she needed it wet. She waved it in the air for a moment or two, and then placed it over the now open gash on Jake's leg.

  The hot cloth against his already tender skin drew a groan of pain from Jake’s throat, but he didn’t wake up.

  She glanced up at Phillip.

  “The heat will help draw the infection upward toward the surface of the skin.”

  He nodded and glanced at Agnes. “What has Ceana been doing for Jake? Sarah said she saw no signs of a poultice on his wound.”

  Agnes seemed startled by the question, glancing between Sarah and her laird. With fresh tears brimming in her eyes, she stammered a reply. “I'm not sure, exactly—”

  “What do you mean, you're not sure?” The question was asked softly though firmly.

  “Ceana didn't want anyone in the room while she was tending to Jake,” she said.

  Sarah glanced at the satchels and then gestured toward the small stack of linens on the padded bench on the other side of the armoire, where the servants had left them. “Agnes, will you unfold one of those linens here at the foot of the bed?” The woman quickly did as she was asked. Sarah shook the contents from each of the satchels onto the linen, forming small piles of dried herbs.

  Barberry. Somewhat useful for keeping a wound clean, but not one as severe as Jake had suffered. Besides, the shredded pieces of bark and roots looked old, reducing their effectiveness.

  None of those were beneficial in treating an open wound. She identified dried black walnut leaves, which might be effective to ease bruising.

  Dried burdock root, which she often used to relieve gout.

  Butcher’s broom, sometimes beneficial in relieving inflammation but again in Jake’s case, useless.

  Dandelion flowers. Another small pile of herbs that looked like a mixture of some sort. She wasn’t sure…

  “What is it?”

  Sarah heard the impatience in Phillip’s voice. Should she share her suspicions? Put herself in an even more precarious situation?

  More importantly, would he believe her or think she was lying?

  “Tell me!” he snapped.

  Just as Sarah was about to respond, the door slammed open, and an outraged female voice filled the room.

  “What's going on here? Who is she, and what are you doing with Jake?”

  8

  Phillip stared at Ceana Cameron, standing in the doorway, green eyes flashing with anger, her long, curly, auburn hair hanging loose down to her waist. As always, Ceana’s stunning beauty hit him right in the gut. Too bad her outward beauty didn't go any further than that.

  He stepped forward to impede Ceana’s path toward Jake's bed.

  She glanced at him, eyes widening in surprise, and then looked toward Sarah, sitting on the bed, curiously eyeing her over her shoulder. When she saw what Sarah was up to, she scowled.

  “What are you doing with my herbs? Leave those alone!”

  She tried to bypass Phillip and reach for her bundles, but Phillip grabbed her arm and jerked her back.

  “Calm down, Ceana. Where have you been?”

  “Where do you think I've been?” she replied with a haughty toss of her head. “I've been in the forest gathering supplies.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  She frowned up at him, searching his eyes. “You're questioning me, Phillip?” She shook her head as she yanked her arm from his grasp, tsking with disappointment before focusing her anger on Sarah. “Who is she?”

  “A healer from down on the coast,” Phillip explained. “Since you have failed to find a way to heal my brother, I thought I would explore other options.”

  Ceana stared, mouth agape. “Phillip, I've been by your brother’s bedside for nearly the whole time since he was brought back from the battlefield! I've been doing my best to care for him. It's not my fault the wound is so deep and slow to heal!”

  “If it was beyond your ken, you should've said something a long time ago. He's at death's door.” He gestured around the room. “His condition has deteriorated greatly in just the week that I've been gone. It stunk to high heaven when we walked in. How could you leave him lying in such filth—”

  For the first time, Ceana seemed to realize the difference in the room. She looked toward the open curtains, the shadow of Ben Nevis now looming darkly in the moon glow, the candles, and the fresh bed linens. She turned to glare angrily at Agnes.

  “Did you do this, Agnes? I told you that no one was to be allowed in this room. His condition might be contagious—”

  “He is not contagious,” Sarah broke in quietly.

  Ceana focused her wrath on Sarah, sweeping a discerning look over her disheveled hair, and her torn and dirty clothing. She turned to Phillip, an unpleasant sneer marring her beautiful features.

  “Where did you find this trollop? Look at her! And you trust her over me? Who is she?”

  Phillip was not particularly surprised when Sarah stood and faced Ceana, chin lifted.

  Despite her weari
ness, her dirt-smudged face and torn kirtle, she stood proudly, eyes flashing with what he could only define as ire.

  Ceana could be intimidating, no doubt about it. She intimidated the staff, the servants, and had a temper to match.

  But Sarah stood calmly in front of her, her gaze unwavering.

  “My name is Sarah MacDonald.” She gestured toward the herbs and then turned her eyes to Phillip with a raised brow.

  At first, he wasn’t sure what she wanted.

  Then he understood. Requesting permission to argue with the local healer? Well, this might prove interesting, and illuminating.

  He offered a slight nod.

  “I'd like to know more about your experience as a healer,” Sarah broached the question to Ceana.

  “Oh, you would, would you?” Ceana replied, hands on her hips, her tone heavy with disdain. “And what would you know about it?”

  “I know that those herbs will do little to relieve the infection, nor provide comfort and surcease of pain for Jake. Some of them are too old and too dry to—”

  “Who are you to question me?” She looked once again at Phillip. “Are you going to allow this interloper to stand here and question me and my skills?”

  Phillip, under any other circumstances, might have been amused by the confrontation. At the moment, he was not. “Understand this, Ceana. I will do anything and everything I have to do to make sure that Jake survives his wound. If you're offended, so be it. Your belligerence is not appreciated.” He struggled to rein in his roiling emotions, to keep his temper. “My brother was lying in his own filth, Ceana. Care to explain that?”

  She scoffed. “He wasn't lying in his own filth when I left this afternoon.” She turned to Agnes. “And I told you this morning to change his bedding and air out the room.”

  Agnes gasped, obviously taken aback. “No, Ceana, you did not. You told everyone to stay out of the room. I would have changed his bedding days ago, if you had not—”

  “I did!”

  “Enough!” Phillip snapped.” Sarah will provide care for my brother from now on.” He glanced down at the pouches hanging by long leather thongs from Ceana’s belt. “May I have those?”