Page 70 of Laird of Flint
Peering through the crack of the door, she saw Peris, hovering at Hew’s bedside. Hew was still asleep. The physician was putting drops of opium into a cup of wine for him. She didn’t want Peris to think she’d abandoned Hew. But she didn’t want to disturb his critical measurements. So she hesitated.
He slipped in one drop. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Her jaw dropped. She accidentally leaned against the door, pushing it open.
Startled, Peris quickly righted the vial of opium tincture and swirled the cup of wine as if nothing was wrong. But he reddened and scowled.
“There ye are,” he said, refusing to meet her eyes. “I didn’t know if ye were comin’ back.”
“O’ course.”
She didn’t want to alarm him. Maybe he’d miscounted or drifted off while putting in the opium drops. Maybe it had been an honest mistake. She didn’t want to embarrass the physician. But she had to make sure Hew didn’t drink the deadly wine. And for that, she had to put Peris at ease.
“Was the man in the infirmary hurt badly?”
He stoppered the vial and replied snappishly, “He fell from a gallopin’ horse, so aye.” Then he put the empty Bordeaux bottle on the table. “He’ll likely die on the morrow or the next day.”
She lifted her brows. “But ye’re a skilled physician. How can ye be so sure?”
“I always do the best I can,” he grumbled. “But ’tis God’s will who lives and who dies.”
“O’ course.”
She wondered if he thought it was God’s will to put extra opium into Hew’s wine.
“Ye must be tired,” she said. “Ye can’t have had much sleep.” She stepped forward and reached for the cup. “I can take o’er if you like. Ye can rest.”
The bells of prime rang out then. Peris, startled, snatched back the cup before she could wrap her hand around it.
Hew began to rouse. Peris shot a sharp glance at him.
“Och, ye’re awake,” he said in a rush. “Time for your wine.”
Carenza had no intention of letting him poison Hew, even if she had to take drastic measures. Acting on instinct, she stepped forward as if to help.
“Would ye like me to—”
Then she pretended to trip over her skirts. She gasped and knocked the cup aside with the back of her hand.
The clay shattered on the floor, splattering wine everywhere. Including in a dark red splotch on the front of her favorite blue-violet gown.
“Lucifer’s ballocks!” Peris cursed as drops of dark wine rolled down his beard and onto his leine.
“Och nay,” she lamented, looking down at her gown. Her despair was only half feigned. That stain would never come out of the Lucca silk.
Awakened by the crash, Hew lifted his head and narrowed groggy eyes at her. “What happened?”
“Just a wee spill,” she said.
He closed his eyes and sank back onto the pallet.
Peris was shaking, whether with rage or fear, she wasn’t sure.
“Don’t fret, Peris,” she said sweetly. “I’ll clean this up and mix another cup for Sir Hew. Ye go on and find your pallet. After all ye’ve been through, ye deserve a rest.”
He couldn’t argue with her. Instead he used a linen to dry his beard and groused, “’Tis only that there’s always so much to do. The hours. The responsibility. The travel. The sickness. The death.”
“Ye know, Sir Hew was remarkin’ that Kildunan might be better off hirin’ their own physician.”
