Redemption (Book Two of the Shipwrecked Series) (21 page)

“Ha!” declared
Nathan, snapping me out of my appraisal of the sleeping warrior, “Devon’s a nasty gash across his chest, though I would imagine that his pride is a damn
sight more wounded that his body.  The lad is well into his cups partially for
the wait, maybe for the pain, but mostly for his pride.  I’m sure that he kens
that his sister will likely finish him off if Brennan doesna pull through
this,” Nathan said, casting a quick glance to Brennan’s still form in front of
the fireplace.

So, I thought to
myself, this was the mighty Devon that Leti had told me about.  She had spoken
earlier of her fearless brother, the leader of the warriors.  Even in his
slumber he looked like a warrior.  Massive and strong, his body covered most of
the large wooden table.  I couldn’t help but notice his well-muscled body and
the sharp line of his jaw.

“Hell hath no
fury,” I whispered as I leaned over my last patient of the evening, listening
to Nathan recount the glory of the raid with only half an ear.   I turned to my
patient and gingerly began to peel the filthy homespun shirt from the wound on
his chest.  The blood had dried, cementing the shirt and subsequent grime to
the injury.  I looked up to see that he had not awoken, and admired the shape
of his well boned, masculine face.

I knew women that
would kill for lashes and hair like this man.  His dark, chestnut hair sprung
from his scalp and curled in loose masses about his shoulders.  His face was
tan and darkened further with the shadow of a beard.  He had not shaven in
days.  A strand of hair had fallen across his face and I brushed it aside
carefully so as not to wake him.  In his sleep, the corner of his mouth curled
into a slight smile, an action that I found endearing despite being so tired. 
He smelled of man, leather and horse, and was clearly in desperate need of a
bath. 

My body thrummed
with energy as I examined his face.  My heart beat more rapidly, and I quickly
looked away from Devon McClain.  He was intensely handsome, but I had been
pulled to him by something else.

I dismissed my
feelings with a shrug, accepting that exhaustion must be overpowering my
rational thoughts.  I busied myself with preparing to remove his grimy shirt. 
The homespun gave way and revealed a nasty wound that even to my novice eyes
was in the early stages of infection.  The angry gash began on his left
shoulder and spanned the length of his pectoral muscle.  Someone had intended
to sever this young man’s head or at the very least inflict a mortal wound. 
They had missed their intention by mere centimeters.   I determined that this
injury would likely benefit from stitches by the way that the flesh was gaping
open, still oozing. 

Watching his chest
peacefully rise and fall as he enjoyed his drunken stupor, I almost hated to
intrude.  I felt exhaustion beginning to rise up within myself, and I fought an
intense urge for sleep as I watched his peaceful slumber with marked jealousy. 
I worried that I too would be the victim of Leti’s fury if I didn’t rally the
strength to treat her beloved brother, drunken sot that he appeared to be. 

I sprung into action
in an effort to cling to my last threads of wakefulness by barking at Nathan,
“Hold his shoulders, please.  He’ll probably wake up quickly.” Nathan obliged
by placing a large hairy hand on each of Devon’s tan muscled shoulders.  He
nodded that he was ready, and pressed down firmly.

“I’m going to
clean his wound with whisky so that it doesn’t putrefy,” I cautioned my
reluctant nurse, “Its going to burn like hell.”

“Seems a waste to
me lass.”  Nathan shook his head and shot a wry glance in my direction.  “What
say we split the whisky and leave this young dolt to his devices?  He’s drunk
enough to cleanse his wound from the inside out!” the burly man chuckled, his
rosy cheeks flushed beneath his bushy beard.

I laughed in a way
that only the extremely tired do, finding his comment far funnier than in
actuality it was.  The late hour and lack of sleep was beginning to take its
toll on my humor.  “It would serve him right!” I exclaimed.  “Might be
difficult to explain to his sister though.  I suppose we should give him the
same chance to make it as the rest.”

“On we go then,
lass.”  Nathan resumed the pressure on the young man’s shoulders and braced for
the worst.

I poured a dram of
whisky directly into the wound and was greeted with unexpected silence.  I
looked up to see Nathan’s eyes clenched shut.  His face was twisted into a
grimace as he held his breath and waited for the fallout from my actions.  The
sight of his scrunched up face made me giggle and I made a quite unlady-like
snort as a laugh broke free.

“Hmmmph,” murmured
my patient.  Roused by either the sting of the whisky or the laughing of his
medical team, his eyes fluttered open and focused on my smiling face looming
above him.  They were a striking green.  A shade that reminded me immediately
of Collin McClain.

“Are ye an angel?”
“Mom.  Am I dead?” he mumbled, eyes slowly scanning the room as he tried to use
his elbows to push himself up off the table.

“Uh, no,” I
laughed in response, my eyes darting towards Nathan, catching him smirk as he
tried to muffle his laughter.  I put a firm hand on Devon’s chest and pushed
him back down onto the table, afraid that if he tried to get up he might fall
and hurt himself further.  I cleared my throat and made a vain attempt to
regain my composure.  After all, now that I was the chief healer, I had a
reputation to uphold.  “No, you’re not dead, and I am certainly not an angel. 
You got hurt and I’m here to help you.”

“Oh good.  I’m not
dead.” And with that, his eyes closed and he promptly went back to sleep.

Nathan and I burst
into simultaneous laughter and again sunk into the teamwork of caring for our
inebriated patient.  Nathan was clearly very tired and yet his motions were
still methodical and precise.

“He’s out cold,
Nathan.  Why don’t you go get some rest?” I offered, seeing that Nathan was
fading fast. 

“I’ll stay with ye
lass.  Help ye finish up,” he replied.

“No really, I’ve
got it under control.  There’s nothing more that you can do to help me.  I’ve
just got to stitch this up, and it’s kind of a one person job,” I smiled,
threading my needle.

“Are ye sure,
lass?” Nathan asked. 

“I’m sure.  Go to
bed,” I ordered, looking up at him.  He was exhausted and it didn’t take much
effort to talk him into retiring for the night.

“If ye insist,” he
said, leaning over to kiss me on the forehead.  “Goodnight, lass.  Ye did well
tonight,” he smiled slightly, praising my efforts.

“Thanks.  So did
you,” I replied, glad to have had Nathan working by my side. 

Nathan walked from
the great hall and I turned my attentions back to Leti’s brother. I grimaced as
I pulled the wound together and gathering the flesh between my fingers. 
Cautiously, I began to stitch it closed.  I bit my lip, loathing the feeling of
the needle piercing flesh, and the effort that it took to drive the metal
through the tough skin. 

Midway through
stitching the gaping wound closed I glanced up from my concentrated work to see
that the green eyes of my patient were not only open, but that he was contently
watching me stitch closed the angry tissue. A bit startled, I stopped my work.

“Hello there, um,
how are you feeling?” I asked uncomfortably, not quite sure of the proper
etiquette required when addressing one’s patient mid stitch.

“Mmmph,” he made
that familiar Scottish noise that I had heard as a response that could mean,
yes, no, or anything in between.

“I’ve decided that
ye are no an angel,” he said flatly. “Ye must be here to finish me off!” he
chastised with a faint smile.

  His eyes were a
deep captivating green and when he smiled, there was a dimple that appeared on
his left cheek right above the masculine angle of his well-set jaw.  Although
Devon McClain had the physique of a warrior, his demeanor was not what I would
expect from a Scottish barbarian.   He was teasing me.  His easy smile made me
forget what I was supposed to be concentrating on.  I regained my composure and
shifted my eyes back to my stitchery.

“Well, if that’s
the thanks I can expect, I’ll stop right here with you only half sewn up and
leave you to your own devices, you drunken sot!”

“Aye, don’t be
fashed lassie.  I ken it must be done, and I thank ye for yer efforts.  I’d
rather be stitched up by a lovely lassie any day than be under the needle of
auld Nathan.” This jab missed the ears that it was intended for, and Devon’s eyes glanced over his shoulder, looking to the empty space where Nathan had been
only moments before.  “Had enough of holding me down, did he?” Devon asked in reference to Nathan’s disappearance.  “I’ve a mind for such treatments on
horses, and I ken tell that you are doing your best tae be gentle about it. 
Carry on lass,” he said, lowering his head back down to the table and raking
his hand through his unruly hair.  “Damn, my head hurts something fierce,” he
said, raising his left hand to rub his forehead.

“That’s because
you are drunk,” I stated matter-of-factly.  “Could you please stop moving so
that I can finish this?” I asked, my voice coming off harsher than I had
intended.

“Och, sorry,
lass.  I ken that yer tired, ye’ve done a braw job tonight fixing up my men.  I
owe ye a great debt of gratitude,” he said sincerely, green eyes holding my
gaze.

“You’re welcome,”
I said, appreciating his appreciation of my efforts.  He had easy quality that
caused me to like him right away.  Impulsively, I set the needle down on his
chest. The glimmering firelight reflected off of the metal causing it to
sparkle against Devon’s skin.  I leaned forward over his chest and placed my
fingers on his temples, making slow circles as I applied pressure to ease his
headache.

“Ye are an angel
for sure,” he whispered, closing his eyes to enjoy the massage. “Mmmm.  That
feels sae good,” he said, body relaxing beneath my hands on the table.  I
could  feel the tension leaving his body as I massaged his temples and
forehead, releasing the headache from his body.

As I leaned over
him making slow, rhythmic circles with my hands, I noticed how solid, how warm
he felt beneath my fingertips.  My heart fluttered a little faster in response
to him.  The intimacy of our close bodily proximity made me come quickly to my
senses.  I drew my hands slowly away from his warm skin, straightening up on
the bench. 

“Thank ye, lass,”
he said quietly, eyes still closed in relaxation.  He opened his eyes and they
lingered on me as he smiled slightly, causing me to look away nervously. 
“Better get on with it,” he coaxed, smiling a slight lopsided smile as he
glanced down at the needle that I had left on his chest.

I tentatively
began my work again as he lay still as a board upon the table.  He shot me a
debonair smile of encouragement as I poked the needle through the swollen flesh
of the wound. 

“Well lass, now
that you’ve seen me in such an undignified state and tortured me with yer wee
needle, may I ask your name?”  I’ve not seen ye around here before, and I’m
like to know all of the fair lassies,” he followed the inquiry with a wink.  I
was beginning to bet that indeed, he probably did know a great number of the
lassies in the keep.

“I’m Kate,” I
replied, trying to maintain my concentration on stitching.

“What!” he
exclaimed as he jerked up from the table, causing my needle to stick him neatly
in the chest.  “Kate?  As in Kate Berkshire?”  His face contorted as if he
didn’t believe me.

“Uh….yes, that
would be me.”  I felt guilty each time I feigned Ms. Berkshires stolen
identity.  To hide my unease, I snatched the needle that was stuck in his chest
and removed it quickly, applying pressure to the place where a crimson bead of
blood had begun to pool.  I panicked for a split second thinking that perhaps
he had met the real Ms. Berkshire, and knew my claim of being her to be false.

His face broke
into a genuine smile and his torso began to shake with a fit of such hysteric
laughter that my hand fell from his chest, and blood once again began to pool
at the site of the needle prick.

“So, yer Kate?” he
managed in between chuckles.  “Really?”

In lieu of an
answer to his question, I placed my hands on my hips, and shot him what I
intended to be an intimidating stare. 

“Aye lass, my Da
would have been right pleased with this arrangement.  Too bad he couldna have
lived long enough tae meet ye.  You’ve a fire in yer eyes and my by estimates,
yer young enough tae have been his daughter.  He’d have been right pleased
indeed!” Devon chuckled.

 I could imagine
the scene rolling through his drunken mind of his elderly father with a wife
young enough to be his daughter. 

I pushed Devon back onto the table, grabbed the needle and jabbed it a bit too harshly into the
tender skin of his flesh wound.  I was exasperated that he found my situation
so humorous, but more than anything, the danger of assuming Ms. Berkshire’s
identity hit home with a weighted blow.  What would happen to me if I was
discovered to be an imposter?

He regained his
composure and flashed a mischievous smile. “And here I was enjoying yer
attentions sae much, thinking ye an angel and such and ye were tae be my
step-mother!  Ha! My Da must be rolling over in his grave!”

“Lay back you
drunken lout, I’ll never finish sewing this up if you keep laughing.”  I placed
a firm hand upon his chest and used my fingers to hold the wound together in
preparation for the final stitches.  “I doubt very much that your Dad would
like you to join him in the grave due to a nasty infection,” I threatened.

Between his
occasional muffled giggles, during which I had to pause so as not to stick him
with the needle again, I was able to finish closing his wound.  As I pulled
back to admire my amateur work, I saw that my patient was once again fast
asleep.  I had been so absorbed in my work that I had not noticed that the
hustle and bustle in the hall had died down and only a few maids remained to
tidy the mess.  There was a steady muffled hum of the breathing men who had
been left in the hall settled into the rhythm of well deserved sleep.