The Laird

by Sandy Blair

  Beth bit into her bottom lip and tentatively prodded around her husband’s shoulder. When puss oozed through his gaping stitches her stomach recoiled. Voice shaking, she said, “Angus, you have no reason to trust me, but please, I beg you, just do as I ask.” Her tears started falling in earnest as she scrubbed her hands in the water bowl. “I need to clean the cut on his arm before it, too, becomes infected.”

  The damn fool doctor hadn’t bothered to wash his hands before slicing into Duncan. Beth seriously doubted he’d bothered to clean the blade he probably used to eat and clean his nails with. God only knew what added bacteria he’d introduced into Duncan’s system.

  While Angus rotated Duncan onto his back, Beth stared at the supplies Rachael had deposited on the side table. Her stomach quivered. She’d never stuck a needle into anyone in her life, but she had sewn enough Cornish hens closed to feed an army. Surely, she could handle the needle and thread with some competence. She certainly couldn’t do worse than those around her. She, at the very least, understood sterility.

  As she exposed the wound on Duncan’s arm, Rachael raced in with a pot of steaming water and Isaac followed with soap and enough sheeting to wrap a mummy.

  She tore the fabric into strips then plunged a hand full into the scalding water.

  “Nay, madame!” Rachael squealed.

  It took everything Beth had not to scream herself. Her hands scarlet, she wrung out the fabric and started cleaning Duncan’s wounded arm.

  Once satisfied the cut was as clean as possible given the circumstances, Beth picked up the needle and silk thread. Angus immediately stayed her hand and muttered something to Isaac. Beth waited. Isaac apparently took her side because Angus released her arm.

  “Please, God,” Beth whispered, as she pierced Duncan’s skin, “keep my hands and my stomach steady.”

  Thankful her husband didn’t flinch and grateful she’d not passed out nor tossed her breakfast with the first thrust, Beth gathered her wits and continued, placing ten consecutive stitches deep and tight in Duncan’s forearm under everyone’s watchful gaze.

  She looked up to find Rachael at her elbow holding a crock of suave reeking of medicinal herbs and grease. She shook her head but Rachael kept saying, “Oui, madame, ‘tis best.”

  Reluctantly, Beth picked up another piece of fabric and plunged her hands back into the water. Confident she’d killed most of the germs and all of the skin on her hands, she wrapped the swatch of fabric around her finger, scooped out some poultice and applied it sparingly to Duncan’s arm.

  Once his arm was dressed, she straightened and wiped the sweat and tears from her eyes. She found Angus staring at her. She told him, “It’s time to clean his shoulder wound.”

  Wordlessly, Angus rolled Duncan onto his side as the others stared.

  Knowing she needed to open the wound to drain the puss, she held out her hand. “Your blade...dirk.”

  He stared at her through narrowed eyes and murmured something to Isaac. Isaac murmured something back, and Angus reluctantly handed her the blade, hilt first. She dropped the blade into the deep pot of water. After a moment she bit her lip and retrieved it, this time suffering pain clear to her elbow.

  She looked Angus in the eye and nodded. When the burly man tightened his grip on Duncan, she took a deep breath and sliced through the few knots holding Duncan’s shoulder together. A cupful of purulent fluid flowed like hot honey down Duncan’s back. Bile raced to her mouth. Even Angus gagged with the stench.

  Forced to mouth breath, she murmured, “Rachael, more hot water.”

  Rachael, still bug-eyed, whispered, “Oui, madame,” and flew from the room.

  Beth poked and prodded to extract the puss hidden in pockets beneath Duncan’s inflamed skin. As she worked, she fervently wished her husband would open his eyes or, at the very least, groan. When he didn’t do either, panic ate at her limited composure and her hands began to shake. Were her efforts too little, too late?

  She wasn’t a doctor; she had no antibiotics, no IV fluids, no way of even knowing what his temperature was.

  As her eyes began to tear-up yet again, Rachael arrived with fresh hot water. Beth again plunged her hands into the scalding heat. She would do all she could with her limited knowledge---all garnered from the Discovery Channel and friends, and then place her trust--Duncan’s life--in God’s hands.

  With the wound clean, Beth agonized over whether or not she should stitch it closed. From her limited experience rushing kitchen staff to emergency rooms, she knew stitches had to be placed within twelve hours. According to those surrounding her, Duncan’s wound was weeks--not hours--old. Hearing loud murmurs, she looked up and found the doorway filled with anxious faces.

  Think, Beth, think. Hadn’t the doctors told Linda they couldn’t close her son’s wound after operating on his ruptured appendix? Yes. They had to pack the wound with saline-soaked gauze and let it heal on its own, from the bottom up. Linda said the method left a dreadful scar, but the boy lived. “Rachael, I need salt.”

  Beth had no idea what proportion of salt to water would be best to make a saline solution, but decided too little might be better for healing than too much.

  “Salt, madam?’

  “Aye, salt, and make those people go away.” As soon as she finished tending his wound, she’d need privacy to sponge Duncan down with cold water, to reduce his fever. That’s what Tammy did every time her baby developed a high fever thanks to innumerable ear infections. Of course, she also gave the baby Tylenol and antibiotics...

  ~#~

  Watching the quiet rise and fall of Duncan’s chest, Beth’s breathing synchronized with his. With each intake of air her hope rose, with each fall of his chest she worried it might be his last. He hadn’t regained consciousness, hadn’t moved a voluntary muscle once during her long vigil. Her beautiful ghost, now flesh and blood, bulging muscles and broad brow, was trying his damnedest to die on her. And it hurt. Hurt so, she thought she, too, might die.

  It made no sense. He didn’t care for her. Thought her insane. And still she thought him more man than she had ever imagined existing. He had only to speak, roll those delicious r’s, and her knees turned to jelly.

  To make matters more untenable, unlike their time on the parapet when he was ghost and she a badly shaken woman, when he’d been compassionate and funny, now he only railed at her. She suspected, given the clan’s worried faces and tears, he was compassionate by nature. Just not with her.

  Rachael tapped her shoulder, startling her.

  “Madame, please go to sleep. I will watch the MacDougall.”

  Beth straightened, wiping welled tears with the heels of her hands. “Thank you, Rachael, but no. I’ll stay.” She laid a tentative hand on Duncan’s forehead and her fear re-ignited. His fever was raging again.

  She took a deep breath. She didn’t understand how the fates had brought her back in time, but suspected it was because Duncan had died too soon. She wasn’t about to let him make the same mistake twice. “I need more cold water.”

  Rachael clucked. “Ye also need take meat, if not sleep.”

  “No...nay.” Food was the last thing she needed with her stomach still in knots and the close room still reeking of infection. “Just bring the water.”

  No sooner had Rachael left, than Angus returned. “How fares my lord?” He placed a hand on Duncan’s brow.

  “It’s still too soon to know.”

  “He willna die.”

  “I hope not, but that’s in God’s hands.”

  Angus resumed his station, one he’d held since their ordeal began. Leaning against the wall with one leg cocked and his arms crossed, he looked like a petulant teen on a street corner. “Why care thee?”

  Why, indeed, did she care about a man who’d only shouted at her since she’d arrived? “He’s my husband.”

  “Ye love him not.” Angus’s scowl deepened. “Ye have yet to tup, so should he die, ye’ll not inherit.”

  “Tup?”

&nbs
p; “Ye have yet to consummate yer vows.”

  How in hell did Angus know this? Only she, plain-as-pudding Pudding, could be married three—-no, four days--to the dreamiest hunk this side of a romance novel and still be a virgin, but that wasn’t the point. Ire rising, she stood and glared at her husband’s guard. “Whether or not we’ve tupped is none of your damn business.” She would have banished Angus from the room had he not made it abundantly clear he wasn’t about to leave her alone with Duncan. “And another thing. I have a castle of my own--far nicer than this, I might add--so don’t you dare suggest I’d do away with Duncan to take what is rightfully his.” Through grit teeth she asked, “Do I make myself clear?”

  He glared back. “Verra.”

  “So long as we understand each other.” She huffed and sat back down on the high-backed chair Rachael had provided when she realized Beth wasn’t about to leave Duncan’s side.

  She looked at her hands and arms. They hurt despite Rachael’s ointment. Tiny blisters lined her fingers like corn on a cob. Tears came unbidden as she looked at the only part of her person she thought pretty. They’d be scarred.

  Chapter 7

  Duncan felt fluid pass his lips and gagged. What ever it was tasted like low tide, salty and rank.

  “Shh, Duncan.” A cool hand touched his brow. “You must drink this.”

  Ack! He recognized the voice. Why would the woman not leave him in peace? He rolled away from his ladywife and white-hot pain shot down his left arm and spine. He flopped onto his back and struggled to open his eyes. His voice cracked as he managed, “Leave.”

  “No. You need to drink this if you’re to heal.”

  Heal? From what? His lashes finally untangled. Beth, his termagant wife, hovered over him with tears in her eyes and a hollow reed in her hand. Why?

  He turned his head and saw he wasn’t in the solar but in one of the smaller third floor rooms. Ah. He’d relinquished the solar to his ladywife until her apartment could be completed. Soon she’d be locked away. Verra good.

  “Duncan, open your mouth.” He turned his attention back to her and saw she now held a spoon.

  “Leave.”

  She shook her head and pinched his nose. When he opened his mouth to yell, it filled with broth. He choked as he swatted aimlessly. Dear God, what ailed him? His strength had evaporated.

  Beth held out another spoonful. “You are going to drink this. We can do it the easy way or the hard, but one way or the other, it’s going in.” He shook his head and she reached for his nose again. Rather than drown he opened his mouth.

  “Thank you. I’ll not have you dying of malnutrition after all you’ve put me through these last five days.”

  He scowled. What five days?

  She heaved a sigh as she approached with another spoonful of broth. He recognized the taste. It was one of Rachael’s noxious remedies. For what, he could not recall.

  “You scared the stuffing out of me,” Beth mumbled. He scowled at her as he opened his mouth for another spoonful of broth.

  “I swear I’ve never been so frightened in my life as I was that first night. You were so hot I honestly thought you’d have a seizure.” He opened his mouth again like a wee bird. She shoveled more broth in.

  “It didn’t help having Angus hovering over my shoulder for the first three days looking like he wanted to slit my throat, either.” She shuddered. “I really thought he might the first time I removed your dressings.” She ladled more soup into him. “I couldn’t blame him, though. Your wound looked ghastly, and he didn’t know me from a hole in the ground and here I was, taking over, issuing orders. Thank God, he listened. Truth be told, your man-at-arms would have had his hands full had he done otherwise. And don’t get me started on that ass of a doctor. It’s no small wonder you didn’t die.”

  What the hell is she rattling on about?

  “Your shoulder still looks bad, but it’s a far sight better now, so...” She gave him another mouthful of broth.

  Ah, his shoulder wound. He flexed his left shoulder. It still hurt but not nearly as much as it had just...

  “Where--” He cleared the thickness in his throat. “Where is Angus?”

  “In the hall. Would you like me to call him?”

  “Aye.”

  She put down the bowl, ran a tentative hand down his cheek and grinned. “You need a shave, but I guess that can wait.”

  Shave? He touched his face and felt stubble. His beard was gone! What the bloody hell is going on here? He struggled to sit, only to find himself too weak to lift more than his head and his good shoulder. God’s teeth! “Angus. Now.”

  She smiled. “As you wish, sire.” Too his utter surprise, she placed a kiss on his forehead before leaving.

  ~#~

  “Finally, ye wake.” Angus clasped Duncan’s hand. “Ye know ye verra nearly shent my week by almost dying?”

  “Dying?”

  “Aye.” Angus dropped his voice to a whisper. “Had it not been for yonder wife, ye well may have. She’s not left yer side but to relieve herself in the garderobe. And why on earth did ye not say yer shoulder was a pestilence?”

  Duncan shrugged his good shoulder. “I thought it healing.” Angus raised a disbelieving brow and grunted before glancing at Beth who now stood straight backed and staring out the room’s small window.

  “Yer yon ladywife threatened all manner of mayhem when I suggested we bring back the doctor. Said she’d smote the man and then my bonnie self if ‘the raunchy bastard so much as crossed the threshold!’ Aye, those were her exact words.”

  “I donna understand raunchy.” Bastard, he understood just fine.

  “Nor I, but her meaning sat clear as well water.” Angus chuckled. “And here I thought ye’d wed a pious woman.”

  He had. Hadn’t he? She certainly wasn’t reticent about threatening, but swearing in Angus’s presence? No lady born would hazard such.

  “Aye, and how she keened over ye, too, in the wee hours when she thought me asleep at the watch.” Angus shook his head, looking as bemused as Duncan felt. “She didna keen aloud, but silently, tears flowing like a burn, stroking yer brow. And she crooned when she thought herself alone with ye. I didna know her songs, but they were as soft as any lullaby.”

  How odd. Not a moment ago Lady Beth had nearly suffocated him by holding his nose.

  “And my beard?”

  Angus shrugged. “She said ye needed stripping to break yer fever and strip ye, we did, down to the flesh, face and all.”

  Was naught sacred to the woman? With trepidation, Duncan raised a shaking hand to his head and found his hair still attached but braided. Praise the saints.

  Angus chuckled, “She appeared quite satisfied with uncovering ye face and left it at that.”

  “Help me up.”

  Angus rested a hand on Duncan’s good shoulder. “Nay. Yon doctor wife would have my sweeties in her fist within a heartbeat. Ye are fevered still, though not as before. I’ve seen yer back, man. ‘Tis still a long way from healed.”

  Duncan heaved an exasperated sigh. He had a hundred things he needed to attend to if he’d truly been out like a doused fire for five days. “As yer liege lord, I order ye to help me up.”

  “Nay. I’d rather face yer fury on yer next good day, than deal with yon lady’s ire on this one.” He patted Duncan’s hand. “Oblige me by staying put, do as she asks, and mend.”

  Angus raised his voice and addressed Beth. “My lady, I take my leave, entrusting my lord into yer capable hands.”

  Beth blinked in surprise. Her husband’s second in command was leaving his post? “As you wish—-luste, Sir Angus.” His surprise at her deference registered before he could mask it. “Have a good day, Angus, and thank you for all your help.”

  Looking bemused, he bowed.

  Beth returned to Duncan’s side. “So, now it’s just you and me against the world, huh? Are you hungry?” When his brow remained furrowed she made eating motions with her hands.

  “Aye.”<
br />
  “I’ll see what the kitchen has to offer. Hopefully it’s not that dreadful haggis again.” She shuddered, picturing the sheep gut stuffed with oats and Lord knew what all else. She wouldn’t have been the least surprised to learn they packed a pig’s squeak in with its blood.

  A few minutes later she returned with a trencher of diced lamb and porridge. When she finished shoveling the contents of the bread bowl into him, she gently dabbed the corners of his mouth.

  Glory, you’re a handsome man.

  She’d been so pleased to discover a beautifully crafted mouth and square jaw under all the hair. And his lashes were to die for, so long and thick they tangled as he slept. She sighed, reluctant to admit she hovered precariously close to a precipice, one she couldn’t risk falling over, of falling head over heels.

  You’d better stop mooning and start focusing on the hard truth, Beth. Duncan might eventually feel gratitude, but he’ll never feel love. Besides, you’re going to find your way back to coffee, toilet paper—-she still couldn’t get over using Lamb’s Ear leaves--and your little black cases of much-needed Chanel.

  “What ails ye?”

  She cleared her throat. “Nothing.” She checked his temperature with her palm. “It’s time to sponge you down again.” He said nothing, which she took as consent and readied the bed.

  As she placed sheeting under each of his limbs he started to scowl. When she soaked a cloth in cool water and wiped his face, his gaze never wavered from hers. What was he thinking?

  She bathed his neck then his arms. Still he remained mute.

  Realizing she’d put off the inevitable for as long as she dared, she lowered the sheet to his hips. Feeling a blush creep up her neck, she glanced away.

  She’d thought nothing of touching his body intimately while he lay unconscious--it simply had to be done--but now her handsome husband-in-name-only stared at her, quite aware of where her hands and gaze traveled. She took a deep breath. Get a grip, Beth, and just do it.