After she took the child into her arms she turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide, with a lush fringe of surprisingly dark lashes and they were a soft gray with the faintest hint of blue. A small, straight nose cut a line down the middle of her heart-shaped face. Even pinched with pain her mouth looked to be full-lipped. He inwardly shook his head, shoving aside his interest in her looks. She was English. She was also a woman in need of some help who had suffered a hard loss. She was not a woman he should be feeling any sort of amorous inclinations for.
“This is Neddy, my sister’s boy,” she said, and a lone tear wind down her pale cheek. “Only one grave?”
“We buried them together, holding each other.” He glanced at the other marked grave a few feet away and wanted to ask her about it but decided now was not a good time.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “They would have liked that. I would like to place a marker if I may.”
Iain looked to Matthew who held a crude wooden cross he had obviously prepared for the grave. “We can do that. What do ye want it to say?”
The urge to curl up on the ground and bawl like a child was a tight knot in Emily’s chest and throat as she told the man what to burn into the cross. She set Neddy down and held him by the shoulders as she said a prayer while they placed the cross. What she truly wanted to do was curse. Beneath her grief burned rage but she knew she could not give in to it. She now had a child to protect and hide for there was no certainty that the men had seen or believed that second grave held the child they sought. Anger could be dealt with when they were both strong enough to act on it.
By the time they were done, she was feeling weak and light-headed again. Forcing herself to hold fast to her senses, she looked toward the ruined cabin. There was one last thing she needed to do before she could give in to her weakness and pain.
“Was the floor badly burned?” she asked.
“Nay,” answered the one called Robbie, his freckled face flushing red as he dragged a hand through his brilliantly red hair. “It seemed steady save for the floor by the opening to the cellar. A wee bit singed and now wet.”
Emily nudged Neddy toward the young man. “Will you watch him for me for a few moments? I need to see if I can retrieve something.” She started toward the cabin and then frowned at the man who quickly fell into step beside her. “I shall only be a moment.”
“Aye, but ye are still weak and, when ye go down, ye go down fast.”
A blush heated her cheeks and she frowned even more, thinking it not quite proper for him to point that out. Then she shrugged and hurried into the cabin. Stepping cautiously, she made her way to the fireplace. The wet sooty mess on the floor made her grimace as she sought out the cleanest spot, tossed down her handkerchief, and knelt on it. The wet made it difficult to lift the hearthstones and suddenly the man crouched beside her.
“Which one do ye need to lift?” the man asked in that voice she found far too attractive.
“These two,” she replied as she pointed out the ones she wished to pull up.
Iain lifted the stones and frowned at the square of oilcloth beneath them. He watched as she lifted it out, set it down, and carefully unwrapped a metal box. She pulled a gold chain out from beneath the neck of her gown, unclasped it, and removed a small key. When she unlocked the box she briefly touched the papers inside to test if they were dry. Immediately after that she locked the box again and returned the key to the chain.
“These are important?” he asked as he helped her stand up, noting how she paled and touched her left leg.
“Yes, very important. They matter to Neddy.”
He frowned as he followed her out. Her accent had changed again and he wondered just how long she had been in the country. For a moment she had sounded very proper, very high-toned. It was an accent that reminded him all too much of Lady Vera. A chill entered his blood as he suddenly had all too clear a picture of the woman who had driven them from their home. Iain was about to bluntly ask her what place she held within English society when the boy ran over to her.
“My box!” He reached for it and then just patted the top. “Boo? Want Boo.”
“What is a Boo?” Iain did not really wish to return to the burned home.
“It is a toy he loves. A little dog his mother made for him. She made it with a very soft material and it is bright blue.” She stroked Neddy’s hair. “I fear it is lost, my sweet boy. The fire . . .”
“Nay,” said Robbie and he grabbed up one of the loaded sacks still waiting to be put in the wagons. “We have been collecting up anything useful and Duncan said this bag held things for the babe we thought we were hunting for.”
Her leg throbbing so badly she just wanted to sit down and cry, Emily stepped over to look into the large sack. It was filled with kitchen goods, some books, Neddy’s clothes, and a little stuffed dog set on top of a pile of small sweaters. All of it smelled strongly of smoke though nothing appeared badly damaged. She sniffed the small toy and was pleased that it carried only a slight scent of smoke. As soon as she could, she would wash away even that.
“Oh, look, Neddy. These kind men found Boo for you.” She took the toy and handed it to Neddy, pleased by how the toy eased some of the worry and fear from his face.
“My Boo.” Neddy smiled, then hugged the toy and frowned up at Emily. “Mama?”
“No, sweet boy. Mama is gone and your papa is gone too. I am so sorry.” She kissed his cheek. “Emily will care for you, my love.” When she straightened up she felt close to swooning but fought the feeling.
“Emmy stay?” Neddy asked in a small broken voice.
“Yes, love. I will stay.”
“Stay here?” He looked toward the burned cabin with wide eyes, his small body tense with fear of her answer.
“Nay, lad,” Iain said. “Ye are coming with us.”
The boy nodded but the woman frowned. Iain thought they had settled the matter but realized they had not actually discussed it. There was nothing here for her. She could not fix the damage done to the house and they had marked the grave. He was about to point that all out to her when he noticed that she had grown far too pale again.
“Mama? Papa?” the boy asked, his bottom lip trembling.
“Ye can come back to visit the place where they rest when ye need to,” Iain said, and noticed how Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “We have to go now. It will be dark soon and I would like to be closer to the safety of my own lands when the sun sets. Nay sure how far away the men who did this have gone,” he added softly, and watched the woman nod.
Iain edged closer to the woman as they moved for he had noticed how heavy her steps were, as if each one required the utmost effort. Her slim figure swayed a little and he knew she was close to collapsing in another swoon. They had just reached the side of the wagon his brothers had cleared for her and the boy when she gave a sigh and started to crumble. He swept her up into his arms, a little annoyed by how good she felt there.
Duncan and Matthew quickly cleared a little more space in the back of the wagon, tossing a few blankets down to better cushion the area. Iain set her down and then helped Neddy to climb in. The boy still clung to his toy and Iain picked up the box Emily had dropped when she had collapsed. He handed it to the boy and then mounted his horse and signaled everyone to start moving.
He studied all they had added to their freight but any joy over the gain of a couple of sturdy plow horses, a pair of cows, chickens, and bags of fruits and vegetables was buried deep beneath the pity for two people so brutally murdered. There were also several bags of clothes and assorted household goods plus a small plowshare. He had learned long ago that if you did not take what the dead left behind someone else would, but still had to wrestle with his conscience when he did. He soothed that troubled part of him by knowing that, when Emily and Neddy had a safe place to go, he would give them what they wanted from these gains and a fair market value for the rest.
By the time it was too dark to continue, Iain was at ease over
the matter. He and his brothers set up camp, tended to the horses, and Duncan started to cook them some food. Iain took Emily from the wagon and noticed that the skirts under his hands were damp. He was thinking an extra blanket would be wise when he set her down on the rough pallet Matthew had made for her, but, as he pulled his hands away from her he realized it was not water soaking her skirts. His hand was covered in blood.
“Damnation!” he snapped. “She had another wound and it hasnae ceased to bleed.”
Matthew crouched beside him. “Where?”
Iain yanked up one side of her skirts, fighting not to be distracted by her legs. Using his knife, he slowly cut open the leg of her drawers and cursed again when he found the hole made by a bullet just above the top of her stockings. Fighting not to expose any more of her, he turned her onto her side but could find no exit hole for the bullet.
“Do ye ken how to remove a bullet?” he asked Matthew.
“Nay,” said Matthew, and a glance at his other two brothers brought sad shakes of their heads.
“Then best we bind this as well as we can and get home as fast as we can.”
“Aye, Mrs. O’Neal will ken what needs to be done.” Matthew hurried away to get something to bandage her wound.
Iain stared down at the pale, unconscious woman and prayed Matthew was right in his utter faith in the indomitable Mrs. O’Neal. Hate the English as he did, he really did not want to bury this one.
Chapter Three
Another moan came from the back of the wagon as they entered through the gates of the stockade surrounding their home and Iain winced. They had tried to keep the wagon as steady as they could but the trail to his place was a rough one in places. He glanced back at the still unconscious woman and sighed. She was feverish now and he thought that was a bad sign.
Neddy sat beside her looking heart-wrenchingly sad and clutching her hand. Iain had run out of comforting things to say to the boy.
Bringing the wagon to a halt, Iain leapt down from the seat and moved to pick Emily out of the back. He doubted he drove the wagon any better than Matthew or Duncan did but he had insisted and he was still not fully sure why he had. There had been a hard need inside him to be in complete control of her care and he had given in to it. Robbie got the boy out of the wagon and they all headed to the door of their house. Just as he paused to figure out how to get the door open and Robbie stepped up beside him to do it, Mrs. O’Neal flung it open.
A short, sturdy woman, Mrs. O’Neal was inching into her matronly years fighting all the way. There were only a few lines on her face so he suspected she was winning the battle. A widow with three children, she had come to them to cook and clean in exchange for a place for her and her children to stay and be safe. Soon she and her children had moved into the small cabin he and his brothers had built for her. Now, Iain thought, she was as important to their home as the thick stockade walls.
“Who is this and what is wrong with her?” Mrs. O’Neal asked as she stepped back and let them in.
“Emily Stanton and she has a bad wound in her leg,” Iain answered. “Bullet is still in there, I am thinking.”
“Follow me.”
He did not argue but strode right behind her as she headed up the stairs. She turned into the small room that just had a bed and a single small table next to it. It was their sick room. Mrs. O’Neal had long ago designated it so. Even though it was on the second floor she had felt it was necessary for such a full house and, she had insisted, one so full of males who were always getting themselves injured. Iain was proud of how rarely it was used and he set Emily on the bed after Mrs. O’Neal covered it with several old blankets.
“Get me a bucket of hot water, boy,” she ordered. “I will be needing it to clean this mess and wash out the wound once I get that cursed bullet out.” She felt Emily’s forehead. “Fever is building. That poison is already doing its nasty work.”
Iain hurried down to the kitchen to do what she asked. As he waited for the water to heat, thankful one of his brothers had already put some on the stove, he watched Robbie walking Neddy around showing him everything and introducing him to everyone. Only Mrs. O’Neal’s daughter, Maeve, could be considered a child at just ten years of age. Her sons, Donald and Rory, were already close to Robbie’s age and steady workers. His own brothers were all grown. It was going to be hard on the boy. He would have to have a word with his brothers to make certain they understood the need to be patient with the child. Then he watched Donald and Rory take the boy over to meet their dog who had just had puppies and decided he probably did not have to worry. Sadly, all of them understood how it was for a child to lose family and everyone of them knew to keep a close watch over the younger ones.
Taking the water upstairs he nearly backed right out of the room again after stepping inside because Mrs. O’Neal was just pulling a sheet over a very naked Emily. He swallowed hard and set the bucket down near the bed. Iain suspected it would not be easy to banish the image of a naked Emily from his mind but he intended to do his best to accomplish that. Even with the glaring ugliness of her wounds, her body was one that would stick in a man’s mind. He told himself he had imagined the ivory perfection of her breasts but feared the image of them would definitely linger in his mind.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
“Fear so. I am praying we are in time to clean out the poison those bloody things leave in a body. She is a small lass and that worries me, but then the small ones can fool a body with their strength. I will need you to hold her down and don’t you fret about leaving any bruises on her. Better a few bruises than what could happen with the knife I will be digging around her.”
“She is unconscious.”
“That she is. But even the unconscious ones can still feel pain and I will be trying to dig something out of her.” She pulled a sharp, thin knife out of a drawer in the chest where she kept what she liked to call her doctoring tools. “Even the ones you think are out as cold as a body can be and still live will let out a scream or start to thrash. So pin her down hard, son. I need her to be as still as you can hold her. Arms and legs.”
Iain stiffened his backbone and studied Emily for a moment to try to decide what would be the best way to do what Mrs. O’Neal wanted him to do. Then he took a deep breath and climbed onto the bed, straddling Emily and securing both her arms and her legs. He nodded and then fixed his gaze on Emily’s face as Mrs. O’Neal pulled the sheet out of the way and started to work.
Emily proved to be very strong even though she never opened her eyes. It took all his concentration to keep her from moving. He closed his ears to her cries and moans, fixing all his efforts on keeping her from moving away from the pain Mrs. O’Neal had to inflict. It was not until he heard something dropped into a bowl that he realized he had closed his eyes, unwilling to see the agony on her face. He opened them to see Mrs. O’Neal threading a needle to stitch up the wound.
“Ye got the bullet out.”
“I did. All of it. Cleaned the wound, too. So all I need to do now is stitch the hole up.” She grabbed a rag from the pile she had placed on the little table and wiped the sweat from his face. “You will have to keep her still just a bit longer.”
“She didnae wake up when ye dug the bullet out of her. Cannae see why the stitching would wake her now. That doesnae hurt nearly as much as the other.”
“At times they get close to being awake when you do some work on them so there is no trusting that they will continue to remain quiet.”
He resettled himself so that his hold on her was not as tight as it had been. Emily looked nearly gray and he felt the tickle of concern, but let his faith in Mrs. O’Neal help him push it aside. Iain cursed himself for not noticing the second wound sooner, then told himself it would not have mattered. She still would have had to travel to his home so this could be done, and done by someone who knew what they were doing.
“Did ye look at the wound in her arm?” He tightened his hold on Emily when the first stab of the needle M
rs. O’Neal used made Emily flinch.
“I did,” answered Mrs. O’Neal. “Nothing needed there. I put in a few stitches just to hold the edges of the wound together. It was more of a scrape than a hit. Deep enough but not as bad as the one on her leg. Thinking the bullet burned her good.”
By the time Mrs. O’Neal was done and Iain climbed off the bed, he felt as if he had been through a long, hard battle. He moved to pick up Emily’s clothes. Yet again he wondered how he had missed the fact that she had been bleeding. Her skirt and petticoat were soaked with blood. Her stockings and pantaloons were in equally bad shape and he hoped that, in all that stuff they had brought from her sister’s cabin, there would be something for her to wear.
“How did she get shot, Iain?” asked Mrs. O’Neal as she tugged a clean nightgown onto Emily’s limp form.
“Her sister and brother-in-law were both killed. Some men attacked them. Burned the cabin, too.”
“Ah, poor child. So, she is all alone now with no place to go.”
Iain ignored the glint in Mrs. O’Neal’s eyes, all too aware of the woman’s love of matchmaking. “Her nephew survived. She got him to safety. We stripped the place of everything that wasnae burnt and brought it with us. Got two cart horses, a wagon, and a decent but small plowshare. A lot of household goods and food, too.”
“Good. No sense in leaving it for others or, worse, to rot. Buried them people, I hope.” Mrs. O’Neal started to collect up all the bloody rags scattered at her feet and shove them into a bucket.
“Only one grave, I fear. Put the pair in together and buried them that way. Marked it.”
“Good. Might be that the lad will wish to go back and visit. How old is he?”
Iain shrugged. “Three?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, a babe.” She looked down at Emily and patted her arm. “We will watch him close for you, lass. I hope he has a true fondness for this one,” she added, and glanced at Iain.
The Scotsman Who Saved Me Page 3
