My Laird's Castle (16 page)

George pulled open the door at Colin’s instructions to reveal one of Captain Jones’ soldiers standing on the top step, with his fist raised as if to knock again. His uniform showed signs of trauma, the red jacket and dark pants torn and muddied beyond recognition.
 

Behind him, two other soldiers, similarly ragtag, carried a limp body. The blond ponytail hanging down made me gasp.

“Oh, no,” I moaned. “It’s Captain Jones. Bring him in,” I said urgently. “Is he alive? What happened?”

“Yes, mistress, but I do not know for how long,” one of the men puffed. “We were attacked by the Jacobites. The captain took a sword to his ribs, he did.”

Captain Jones’ unbuttoned jacket fell away from his body, and I saw a bright-red stain on his white shirt on the right side of his abdomen.

“Make haste. Bring him in,” Colin said, jumping forward to help the men carry Captain Jones inside. He led them to the drawing room, where they settled the unconscious captain on the sofa. Colin seemed to care little if the blood seeped into the fabric.
 

“George, send for the doctor at once,” he barked over his shoulder. “Mrs. Agnew, hot water, some linens for bandages. Elinor, help her, please. Take the men down to the kitchen for some food. Where are the others?”

“Following us,” one of the soldiers said. “We fair ran with our burden to get here as soon as we could.”

Colin nodded. “Go to the kitchen now. Elinor, tell Mrs. Renwick to prepare food and drink for the men.”

Elinor, tears spilling from her eyes, hurried away with the housekeeper. Colin watched them leave and then turned to me.

“Quickly, Beth. Tell me what I can do before the others return. I dinna ken if he will die afore the doctor arrives.”

“Oh, gosh, Colin, I don’t know. I have no medical training, not even in the twenty-first century.” I ripped open the captain’s shirt and looked at the ugly gash just below his ribs. Blood oozed from the wound but did not gush. His lungs rose and fell without sounds of gasping.
 

“I don’t think he’s bleeding out, and I’m going to guess from his breathing that his lungs weren’t punctured. But I don’t know if a vital organ was injured. Hopefully, the doctor will know.”

I bent, and in true Western style, ripped the ruffle from my petticoat. Pressing it against the captain’s wound, I applied pressure.
 

“All I can do is try and stop the bleeding. I don’t think he’s lost a lot,” I said, “but he’s very pale.” With my free hand, I smoothed his hair away from his forehead.

Elinor and Mrs. Agnew returned, and Mrs. Agnew, who appeared to know what she was doing, moistened some of the linens she had brought. I gently pulled my strip of petticoat off, pleased to see that his bleeding had not increased. Mrs. Agnew dabbed at his wound, removing some of the blood, and she looked at it.

“It isna deep. I think he will live,” she said. “Here, Mistress Pratt, clean the poor man’s face up a bit while we wait for the doctor, will ye?” She handed me one of the cloths.

I moistened it and dabbed at the dirt on Captain Jones’ face.
 

“Master, if ye could hold this cloth to his wound, I will go up to my room and fetch some salve.”

Colin did as instructed.

“What can I do to help?” Elinor asked. She stood there, tremulous, wringing her hands together. “Why canna this violence stop?”

“Well, he was searching for desperate men who dinna want to hang at the end of a noose,” Colin said, looking up at her. “What do ye expect? That they would go quietly?”

“Let me,” Elinor said. She took the cloth from Colin and held it over the captain’s wound. Colin stood up and stretched his legs.

“No, I understand the Jacobites will fight, though their cause is lost,” she said sadly. “I dinna know what the answer might be, but to engage the English only ensures their death. I heard many have been sent to the colonies as bonded servants. Surely such a fate would be better than death.”

Colin, looking at the blood staining the cuffs of his shirt as they extended from his jacket, shook his head.

“Not for some,” he said. “A Highlander as an indentured servant, forced to work farms? For some, it is a death sentence.”

I wondered again at the man I had seen Colin talking to. Though I understood his family’s leanings to be in support of the Crown, he seemed torn between his identity as a Highlander and his family’s beliefs. Had that man been a Jacobite? Had Colin helped him in some way? Hidden him?

I smoothed Captain Jones’ hair again, as if somehow that might be of comfort, though he was unconscious. I wasn’t sure if I could sympathize with anyone who stabbed the compassionate man on the couch. They wouldn’t know him, of course. To a wanted outlaw, Captain Jones was just an English soldier. And he had been searching for them. Having found them, they must have resisted. I couldn’t blame them either though, if the alternative was hanging.

Captain Jones remained unconscious the next hour while we waited for the doctor. I worried the longer he was out, but I supposed he suffered less pain that way. And if the doctor had to stitch up a thing or two, it was definitely better that he stay unconscious.

A short, round elderly man dressed in shades of luxurious brown velvet, albeit worn at the elbows and knees, hurried into the room. Sporting a gray ponytail and carrying his hat and an old-fashioned black surgeon’s bag, he stopped short at the sight of Captain Jones.
 

“Lord Anderson,” he exclaimed. “I didna ken this was an English officer. I canna treat him!”

Colin quirked an eyebrow.

“Whatever do ye mean, man? Because he is English? Ye
will
treat him.”

I looked at Colin. His jaw was set, absolutely set in stone. I didn’t think that doctor was leaving without working on Captain Jones.

“Nay, Lord Anderson. I am nae such a patriot that I wouldna try to heal an Englishman, but the English army would insist on one of their own surgeons. Canna ye transport him to Fort William?”

Colin shook his head. “Nonsense. Impractical. It is half a day’s ride. Ye must treat him. I will take the responsibility.”

The doctor eyed Colin dubiously and approached Captain Jones. I felt movement under my hand, and Captain Jones moved his head.

“Mistress Pratt,” he whispered from dry lips. “And Lady Elinor. Have I died? Are you angels come to minister to me?” His lips moved in the grimace of a smile.
 

I beamed.

“Captain Jones! You’re awake!”

“Captain Jones!” Elinor echoed.
 

The doctor moved forward, and Elinor removed the cloth from Captain Jones’ wound and rose from her kneeling position. She came to stand by his head.

“How do ye feel?” she asked.

“Terrible,” he said. “And they escaped.” He looked down at the doctor. “And who might you be, good sir?”

“I am Doctor Johnson,” he said. “I havena treated an English soldier afore. Yer wound isna deep, and I dinna believe any vital organs have been injured, but ye will need tending to. Do ye wish to be transported back to Fort William for treatment?”

Captain Jones shook his head. “No, if Lord Anderson trusts you, I trust you.”

“Aye, Doctor Johnson has tended to my family for many years. I trust him,” Colin said in a gruff tone. I suspected he was moved by Captain Jones’ trust in him, which only reinforced my belief that, despite all, he did like the captain. If Colin was caught between his emotional attachments to his fellow Highlanders—the Jacobites—and the English officer, I pitied him. I suspected he was.

The doctor started ordering us about, including Mrs. Agnew and George, who waited in the room. Colin was instructed to help the captain drink some whisky, Mrs. Agnew was sent in search of more hot water, George more bandages, and Elinor and I were to hold the captain’s hands and brace his shoulders. It seemed his wound was to be tended to without anesthesia, and I hoped I wouldn’t bite through my lip as the doctor began.
 

I was in charge of holding Captain Jones’ shoulders, and I murmured whatever soothing words I could think of as the captain stiffened once the doctor started to probe his wound with his fingers. Elinor’s hands grew bright red from the captain’s tight grasp, and she moaned a bit. Colin moved forward and pulled her hands, placing his strong hands into the captain’s grip.

I looked up occasionally to see the doctor digging away at Captain Jones’ wound, but he wasn’t stitching it. Then I realized they probably didn’t have sutures in the mid-eighteenth century.

And I wondered again how long I could stay in the eighteenth century, or if I even had a choice.
 

I imagined many a Highlander and soldier had their wounds treated with only the help of some whisky, but I had never seen it done, and I breathed deeply to keep from passing out. I couldn’t imagine how painful it must have been for Captain Jones. The doctor finally stopped his probing, dabbed at the wound with linen, stuffed some salve inside and wrapped a cloth around Captain Jones’ abdomen.
 

“That’s all I can do then. Mind ye, rest yerself. Dinna go about riding for a week or so.”

So Captain Jones was to stay a week. I wondered how Colin would take that. His expression, as he walked out with the doctor, revealed nothing.
 

Captain Jones had fallen asleep, thanks no doubt to the copious amount of whisky Colin had forced down his throat at the doctor’s insistence. I worried about his open wound. He really needed stitches, but I had no medical experience at all.

I stood and stretched my legs and back as did Elinor, and I eyed the whisky.

“You know? I think I’ll have a little glass of that myself,” I said. “That was the worst thing I think I’ve ever gone through. Do you want some?” I poured a small amount into a glass.

“Aye, it was terrible to witness. I have never injured myself, so never had a doctor tend to me in such a manner.”

“Well, they usually do it with stitches and anesthe—” I shut my mouth and slapped the glass to my lips, taking a deep gulp. Colin had just walked into the room and heard me. The whisky burned my throat and sent a fire into my stomach.

“I think Mistress Pratt means they do surgery differently in the colonies, did ye not?”

I nodded and drank again, this time taking a small sip. If nothing else, it did ease my jangled nerves.

“I thought I’d have some of this fine whisky of yours before you and the captain drink it all up.”

Colin smiled.

“There is plenty more where that came from. Though the captain shouldna be privy to that information.”

I smiled. Bootlegging? Oh, these Highlanders! What other shenanigans did they get up to?

“No, certainly not,” I said.

“It is early for whisky,” Elinor said. “I think a cup of tea will do nicely.”

She was probably right. I was not in the habit of drinking before lunch myself, or at any other time of the day, for that matter, but these were different circumstances, and I was in sore need of something to relieve my anxiety.
 

“Does he sleep?” Colin asked, pouring himself a drink and nodding toward the captain.

“Aye,” I said. “He does.”

Colin tilted his head at me inquiringly. And I giggled. I have no idea why. He always looked so charming when he tilted his head. I loved how his hair curved across his cheek, and I longed to brush it back, then watch it fall forward again, then brush it back.
 

I finished my glass and scooted forward to have him pour me another one. I felt my face stretch into a beaming smile.
 

“I dinna think ye should have another drink, Mistress Pratt,” he said. He leaned close to me and whispered. “I fear ye will reveal yer secrets, Beth.”

Elinor coughed gently behind her hand, and I whirled around. I’d forgotten she was in the room.

“I shall go get us some tea,” she said, her cheeks high with color. She hurried out of the room.

“Was it something I said?” I asked with a chuckle.

Colin took my proffered glass and set it down on the sideboard before guiding me to a chair. He gently pushed me into it and took the one next to it.

“So, no more whisky for me?” I asked, not really caring. That he was so close to me was all I really wanted.

“Nay, I think not, my dear. Tea is what ye need.”

He turned to look at the still-sleeping captain.

“I love you, Colin.” The words erupted from my lips.

Colin’s head swung in my direction, his eyes wide.

“I love you,” I repeated. “I just wanted to tell you.”

He set his drink down on a side table with a smack and stood, pulling me to my feet. He grabbed my shoulders gently but firmly.
 

“Is it the truth ye speak, Beth? Ye love me?”

I nodded wordlessly.

“Och, I love ye too, my Beth. I love ye so much, I dinna ken if I can stand it. I did ken there would be something between us from the moment I saw ye, but then yon captain seemed to turn yer eye, and I didna trust that ye felt the same about me.”