Debbie Mazzuca Bundle (3 page)

They stared at her like she was from another planet, which was exactly how she was beginning to feel.

Ali sighed. “You have to do as I say. We can’t let his wound become infected.”

“Mrs. Mac, the lass says the water has to be boiled before she’ll use it,” Fergus informed her.

“Och, well, she seems to ken what she’s aboot. Come, Iain, help me with these. Fergus, you stay with the lass.” The woman gave him a meaningful look, and Ali had the distinct impression they didn’t trust her.

“What can I do, lass?” Fergus asked.

“At the moment the only thing we can do is try to control the bleeding. I’ll wait until Iain returns and then I’ll pour the alcohol into his wound to ward off infection. Hopefully the bleeding lessens. If it doesn’t, well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes.” Rory sucked in a ragged breath and Ali stroked the thick waves of hair back from his face.

“I didna’ ken you could be gentle, lass,” he murmured.

She smiled down at him. “I can be very gentle, but only when my patient does as he’s told.”

“Ah, then, I promise to do whatever you want me to.”

Ali had a sneaking suspicion Rory MacLeod’s smooth tongue could be a very dangerous thing. “I’m glad to hear it. Now close your eyes and sleep.”

“Aye,” he murmured.

When Fergus called out to her, Ali drew her gaze reluctantly from Rory’s beautiful face. He looked like a dark angel.

“Lass, I think you best have another look.”

She pushed the woolen blankets lower.

“Can you no’ leave a man some dignity?” Rory said as he watched her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don’t have to worry—you’re decent. Besides, I’m a doctor, there’s nothing you have that I haven’t seen before.”

The older man guffawed.

“I doona’ think they’re all the same, lass,” her patient said, sounding disgruntled.

She shrugged. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

Rory’s gaze narrowed on her. “Where do you hail from?”

“New—” she began before being interrupted.

“Rory Mor, do as the lass says and sleep. Yer questions will wait.”

Ali removed the blood-soaked cloth. Replacing it with a fresh one, she applied pressure. Fergus caught her eye and shrugged. “He needs rest.”

“Umhmm, he does,” she agreed, raising a brow at the older man’s continued scrutiny.

“Sorry, I didna’ mean to stare, but ’tis uncanny how much you resemble the Lady Brianna, is all.”

“So I’ve heard.”
And seen,
Ali reminded herself.

“But only at first glance. There’d be differences.”

Ali snorted. “I heard that, too.”

“’Tis what you get for hidin’ under my bed,” Rory commented dryly.

A chuckle rumbled deep in Fergus’s barrel chest.

Ali felt the color rise to her cheeks. “
You
are supposed to be sleeping.”

“How am I to sleep with the two of you yammerin’? I need a drink.”

“As soon as the water’s been boiled I’ll give you some.”

“Water.” He scowled. “I doona’ want water. I want ale.”

“’Tis no’ a bad idea, lass. He’ll need somethin’ to make him sleep.”

Ali looked at the blood seeping through the bandage. Sooner or later she would have to deal with it. If all they had was alcohol to knock him out, then she had little choice but to use it. Ali nodded. “All right.”

She leaned over and adjusted the pillows behind Rory’s back, careful not to jolt him. The plaid slipped from her shoulder, and she bit her lower lip. His warm breath heated the sensitive skin of her breasts through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Her nipples tightened in response. Please let his eyes be closed, she silently prayed.

“’Tis no’ fair to tease a dyin’ man, lass,” he said, his lips so close the material of her T-shirt rippled.

Oh, for God’s sake.
“You’re not dying,” she snapped, her tone more brusque than she intended. Ali stepped away, putting some distance between them.

“That’s good to hear,” Iain said, coming into the room with a mug in one hand and a bucket in the other. “And yer askin’ fer ale—another good sign.”

“Bloody hell, lass, you could have warned me you planned on gettin’ rough,” Rory growled when she placed the linens, as gently as she could, beneath his wounded side.

She grimaced and reached for the pitcher of alcohol on the bedside table. “Fergus and Iain, I’ll need you to hold him down for me.” Ali sighed when the three men glared at her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I have to make sure there’s no infection before closing the wound, and the only way to do that is to pour the alcohol on it. I won’t lie to you,” she told Rory. “It’s going to burn.”

Fergus and Iain tightened their hold on her patient as she carefully poured the amber liquid into the gaping wound. Ali clenched her teeth when Rory let out a string of expletives. Once she felt confident it was thoroughly cleansed, she returned the pitcher to the bedside table. “You can let him go. I’m finished.”

For the last hour Ali had kept herself busy tearing the linens into strips while they plied Rory with alcohol. She turned to look at her patient, trying not to smile in response to his crooked grin. The man had the constitution of a horse. At this rate, they were going to have to hit him over the head to knock him out. The alcohol hadn’t done any good. She pressed her palm to the side of his face, relieved there was still no sign of fever.

Tension knotted the back of her neck, and Ali rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the taut muscles. She knew the cause. She had been trying not to think about it, but she had no choice, something had to be done to stop the bleeding. She had been optimistic when the bleeding had subsided, but now a telltale circle of claret red appeared on the snowy white linen. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood.

“Lass, why doona’ I bring you a wee drop of ale?” Mrs. Mac offered.

“Thank you, but I better not.” She checked Rory’s pulse, noting its steady rhythm.

“Will you be wantin’ to wrap the wound now?” Iain asked.

“No,” Ali said, unable to meet the younger man’s gaze.

“But—” Iain started to protest.

“Ah, would you be stitchin’ it then, lass?” Fergus interrupted him.

Ali shook her head. Clearing her throat, she said, “No, the wound is too wide, too deep. But he’s lost too much blood and I can’t let it go on any longer.”

She felt Rory’s gaze bore into her. “What is it yer plannin’ on doin’?”

“I don’t have a choice; the wound has to be cauterized.” Ali’s stomach lurched at the thought of what she had to do. “I’ll have to seal the wound together. Burn it.”

“I ken what you meant, lass,” he commented dryly.

“Nay!” Iain shouted.

“Aye, lad.” Fergus nodded. “The lass is right. I’ve seen it done before.” He turned to Ali. “Do you think you can manage, because I ken I canna’ do it.”

“Yes, but not if he’s awake,” she admitted. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of him suffering, and her being the cause.

“Do it now,” Rory ordered.

Ali’s head jerked up. “I told you, I can’t, not while you’re awake. Just drink that damn stuff.”

“It won’t work, Aileanna,” he said. Her name rolled off his tongue, his tone soothing.

Heat unfurled in her belly as though he caressed her.

“He speaks the truth, lass,” the older man said, sympathy in his eyes.

“Get my sword, Fergus.”

Ali’s gaze flew to Rory. “No…no,” she repeated when Fergus tried to press the weapon into her hand. “For God’s sake, I can’t. And certainly not with this. I can barely lift it,” she protested.

Rory let out a ragged breath. “Give her my dirk.”

Ali wrapped her arms around her waist, and shook her head. She was furious at what he wanted her to do. He was wide awake, for God’s sake. She walked to the hearth and swiped a tear from her cheek. She heard Fergus coming toward her. Taking her hand, he placed the knife in her palm. He rubbed her shoulder and bent his head to her ear. “You can do it, lass. The fairies wouldna’ have sent you if you couldna’.

“Yer the only one who can save him.”

Fairies. Only you can save him.
The words echoed in Ali’s head. She turned to gape at Fergus. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The big man shot a furtive glance over his shoulder before saying, “Hush, you canna’ let the laird ken what I’ve told you.”

“Know…know what? That you think I’ve been sent by fairies?” she hissed.

“Och, now, lass, doona’ fash yerself,” Fergus pleaded, keeping his voice low.

“I’m holding a knife, preparing to cauterize the wound of a man who is wide awake, and you’re telling me I’ve been sent by fairies…fairies…for God’s sake. And you expect me to stay calm?” She glared at him.

“Aye.” He grimaced. “Please, lass, I promise I’ll explain everythin’ to you once ’tis over.”

Ali’s brain swirled with images and emotion, panic leading the way. She felt like she’d been tossed into another world where everything she knew didn’t matter, and her confidence plummeted. She didn’t trust her abilities, not here, not now. She wanted to run as far and as fast from Dunvegan as she could. Part of her hoped it was a nightmare and that she’d wake up, but she knew it wasn’t. Just as she knew the man in the bed was real, and beautiful, and strong. So unlike anyone she’d ever met before. And she couldn’t run away and leave him to bleed to death.

Ali glanced over her shoulder at Rory. His eyes locked with hers. He gave her a weak but encouraging smile, as though somehow he sensed her distress. She knew then she wasn’t going to leave him—not yet.

“You have no choice, lass, it has to be done,” he said quietly.

Ali gave him a brisk nod. He was right. Fairies aside, no one else was stepping up to volunteer for the job. The sooner it was done the better—for both of them. She thrust the knife into the flames, letting out a yelp of pain when the handle heated along with the blade.

“Fergus, did you no’ wrap the hilt?” Rory growled.

Sheepishly, the older man shook his head and retrieved the knife. “Sorry, lass.” He dug through a battered chest and found a piece of leather and a cloth to wrap around the metal shaft before reheating it over the flame.

After handing it to Ali, he went to stand behind Rory. She shook her head and pointed to where she wanted him. “I need you to hold the wound together while I sear it closed.”

The man paled.

“Iain, it would be better if you sit behind your brother and hold him by his shoulders,” she advised the younger MacLeod, whose mouth was set in a grim line. “Right about there, Fergus.” She motioned once more to the side of the bed, grateful he would shield Rory’s face from her line of sight. “Now press the edges together. No…no, I don’t want to burn you. All right, much better.” She tried to ignore Rory’s agonized curse.

In an effort to center herself, Ali closed her eyes, only to find herself back in the operating room with a panicked Drew, her supervisor and ex-boyfriend, yelling accusations at her, the equipment flatlining—a young mother dead.

“Lass, are you all right?” Fergus’s tone was gruff with concern.

“Yes…yes, I’m fine.” I will be. I have to be.
You didn’t make the mistake,
the little voice in her head reminded her. Drew did.
You’re a good doctor, no matter what he said.
Heat leeched from the red-hot steel blade to Ali’s palm. A stinging reminder of where she was, and what she had to do.

Before she lost her nerve, Ali lowered the blade to the wound. The sizzling sound was quickly drowned out by Rory’s shout of pain. His body jerked, then went still. Ali gagged as the smell of burnt flesh assaulted her nostrils. She pressed a fist to her mouth, and Fergus gently removed the knife from her trembling hand.

“Yer a brave lass,” Mrs. Mac crooned, wrapping a comforting arm around Ali. “Come, I think you could use some lookin’ after now.” The woman gently guided her away from the bed.

“But…I…” she began to protest, looking to where Rory lay unconscious in the bed, his blue-black hair a sharp contrast to his paper white skin, his full sensuous lips pulled into a thin line of pain.

“Fergus and Iain will watch over him fer now. I’ve prepared a hot bath fer you and laid out a change of clothes.”

There was nothing else she could do for him, other than pray the wound didn’t become infected. If it did, Ali didn’t know if she’d be able to save him. “Thank you.” Exhausted, her muscles aching, Ali allowed herself to be led away.

Mrs. Mac opened the door to an adjoining room. “’Twas the Lady Brianna’s. Come,” she said when Ali hesitated in the doorway of a room twice the size of Rory’s. The four-poster bed covered in maroon satin looked inviting, but it was the large wooden tub-like structure in front of a blazing fire that drew her in. She inhaled the lavender-scented water in an effort to alleviate the acrid smell that still invaded her senses. “Lovely.” Ali sighed. Her gaze took in the pastoral tapestries that lined the walls and covered the floors. “What a beautiful room.”

“Aye, the laird spared no expense when it came to his lady.”

“He must have loved her very much.” Ali tried to ignore the tightening in her chest when she stated the obvious.

“Aye, that he did,” the older woman said. “He’s had a hard time of it.”

“When…when did she die?” Ali asked.

“’Tis been almost two years.”

She hesitated before asking her next question. “How did she die?” Afraid she already knew the answer.

“In childbirth, lass.” Mrs. Mac watched her closely.

Ali spun on her heel and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, but I really do have to talk to Fergus.” She tried to get around the woman who now stood between her and the door.

Mrs. Mac shook her head, taking Ali’s ice-cold hands in hers. “’Twill do you no good, lass. There’s nothin’ can be done aboot it now.”

“Wh…what do you mean?”

“Yer bathwater is coolin’. I promise we’ll answer all yer questions once you have a chance to freshen up.”

“You know?”

“Aye, I ken what’s happened.” She nodded, sympathy in her gray-blue eyes. “I’ll help with the laird while you bathe, and then we’ll talk.”

Goose bumps rose along Ali’s arms and she shivered, noting the inviting warmth the steaming tub offered. “All right,” she agreed, “but I won’t be put off.”

The woman nodded, then headed out the door.

Unbuckling the belt, Ali laid it on the floor along with the length of plaid. Shrugging out of her T-shirt, she stepped into the tub and slid down. She grimaced when her right hand hit the water, and turned her palm up. The outline of the knife’s shaft was clearly visible. Slowly, she submerged it, sucking in a breath until the throbbing eased. She reached to take the bar of soap from the stool beside the tub and sniffed. Lavender—obviously Mrs. Mac thought the aromatic scent would calm her. Ali closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep through her knotted muscles and tried to do just that. But her thoughts were in turmoil. Rory MacLeod, the beautiful sixteenth-century laird, alive—at least she hoped he was—in the room next door.

It was unbelievable, inconceivable, and part of her refused to consider the possibility it was true, but the annoying little voice in her head kept flashing the evidence before her: the differences in the castle’s interior from when she’d first arrived, no Duncan, no electric lights, no doctors, no medicines. And the most damning evidence of all—Rory MacLeod himself.

Fergus’s words came to mind.
That’s why the fairies brought you. You’re the only one who can save him.

Ali cursed and hopped out of the tub. Grabbing the towel off the stool, she rubbed herself vigorously. Fairy flag—it was that stupid fairy flag. Well, if the fairies had brought her here, they could damn well send her home.

She ran her fingers over the amethyst gown laid out on the bed, frowning when she lifted it to reveal what looked like a delicate white nightgown and a long ruffled skirt. She wondered which one Mrs. Mac wanted her to wear. Shoving them aside, she searched for a pair of panties and a bra.

There was a light tap on the connecting door, and Ali wrapped the towel around herself.

“’Tis only me, dear,” Mrs. Mac said, coming into the room. “I thought you might have need of me. Here.” The older woman held out the sheer, white nightgown. “The chemise goes on first.”

Ali ducked her head, lifting one arm and then the other to slip through the armholes before she released her grip on the towel.

Mrs. Mac tsked. “No need to be shy, lass.”

“Sorry. I’m not used to someone helping me dress.”

“Aye, well, there’d be a lot you’ll have to get used to,” the older woman chided, fastening the ruffled skirt at her waist.

Ali’s response was muffled as Mrs. Mac pulled the gown over her head.

“Ye look verra bonny, lass. I didna’ put out a corset fer you, but if you…” She prattled on, lacing the gown with brisk competence.

“Ahh, no, I’m fine.” She barely got the words out of her mouth before Mrs. Mac nudged her toward the bed.

“Here are yer stockings and slippers.”

“Are you sure whoever you got these from doesn’t mind?” Ali asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “They look like they’ve never been worn.”

“They havena’, the laird ordered them fer our lady. Spoiled her he did. Never wanted to give her father anythin’ to complain aboot. Not many have gowns such as these. They were a gift fer after the bairn was born.” She gave a sad sigh before she went on to explain, “’Tis why they’re long enough fer you. I didna’ have a chance to alter them fer her.”

Ali didn’t know what to say, so she concentrated on pulling up the stockings, wincing as the fabric scraped across her palm.

“What’s wrong, lass?” The woman reached for Ali’s hand. She tsked, and shook her head. “Fergus should have been the one to see to the wound, but I ken he couldna’ do it. No’ after the last time.”

“The last time?”

“Aye, he tried to help Dougal, you see, doin’ as you did fer our laird. Killed him instead,” she said as she bent to roll on the stockings for Ali.

Ali’s eyes widened. “Oh, ah…I’m sorry.”

“Aye, well, these things happen, but at least our laird had you to care fer him.” Stepping back she gave Ali the once-over. “Yer set now.”

Ali got up from the bed, anxious to check on her patient. Not sure she was ready to have her suspicions confirmed. “Did Rory wake up when you were in his room?”

“Nay, but he seems to be restin’ comfortably. Doona’ fash yerself, lass. You can see to him once we’ve had our wee chat.” Mrs. Mac opened the adjoining door and called out to Fergus and Iain, gesturing for them to come inside.

“I’d rather not leave him on his own. We can have this conversation in his room.”

“Nay, we canna’ do that. I have a lass sittin’ with him. If need be, she’ll call.”

Fergus and Iain came into the room, looking ill at ease, unable to meet her eyes. Mrs. Mac closed the door behind them. “Sit, lass,” she ordered.

Ali obeyed. The woman was bossy.

Iain rubbed the shadow along his jaw with the palm of his big hand, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Do you ken what happened?”

Ali chewed the inside of her lower lip, wondering if she dare risk the embarrassment of explaining exactly what it was she thought had happened. It was so far-fetched as to be laughable, but she wasn’t laughing, and she needed to know what was going on.

“When your brother was wounded you thought he was going to die, so you raised the fairy flag, and
poof,
here I am.” She tried to make light of it.

The three of them stared at her in stunned silence.

Oh, my God, they think I’m crazy.

Please, don’t let anyone be recording this.
Surreptitiously, she searched for cameras in the crevices of the gray stone walls.

“How did you ken?” Iain asked.

“Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker, he told me about the fairy flag when he took me on a tour of the castle this afternoon,” she said absently, until she realized what Iain had asked. “What do you mean, how did I know? Are you trying to tell me that’s what happened?”

“Aye.” Iain grimaced.

She jumped off the bed. “Well, wave it again and send me back.”

“We canna’ do that. There’s only one wish left,” he explained, backing away as she strode toward him.

“I’m telling you to do it, now.” She stabbed a finger into his broad chest.

“I’m sorry, lass, we canna’. We have to think of the clan,” Fergus said quietly.

“What about me? You expect me to stay here, stuck in the sixteenth century, never to go home?” She choked back a sob, determined not to cry.

“Ah, lass, I didna’ mean for this to happen. But I had no choice. I couldna’ let my brother die.”

“’Tis no’ the lad’s fault. He only raised the flag and the fairies did the rest.”

Mrs. Mac, who had remained quiet the entire time, stepped forward. “Lass, do you have bairns you’d be leavin’ behind?”

“If by bairns you mean children, then no, I don’t.”

“A man…a husband?”

Ali shook her head. She didn’t, not for the last five months. And Drew Sanderson was one person she wouldn’t miss. He was a lying, disloyal slimeball, who not only broke her heart; he did a good job destroying her reputation while he was at it.

“Mother, father…a family of any kind?”

“No,” Ali snapped. She didn’t need this woman to remind her how little she had left behind. “But I have a friend and my career.” Now that just sounded pathetic.

“You can make friends here, lass, and we’re in need of a healer.” The older woman gave her a sympathetic smile.

“No…no, I can’t stay here. I won’t.” Ali’s chest tightened, panic inching toward hysteria. “Don’t you understand? I’m not like you. For God’s sake, I’m from the twenty-first century!” She closed her eyes to keep from crying. Memories of her childhood crowded in on her. The images tormented her. The fear and rejection she’d felt, being shipped from one foster home to another after her mother’s death, mirrored the emotions that now threatened to overwhelm her. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Please, please, just send me home.”

Iain grabbed her by the arm. “Are you sayin’ the fairies stole you from the future?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “Fergus, can you believe it? She’s from the future! Oh, Ali, there’s so much I want to—”