Page 121 of Laird of Smoke
“Good.I’m goin’ to pull out the dagger,” he told her.“But we’ll need somethin’ to stop the bleedin’.”
“Use this,” she said, pulling out the blue brocade gown she’d worn as Lady Hilda.“’Tis thick and sturdy.”
“Are ye certain?”That gown must have cost a fortune.
“Aye.Savin’ a life is its best use.”
Pride swelled his chest.Eve might be small and plain and invisible to most.But to Adam, she was a heroine.Strong.Beautiful.Brave.Magnificent.
While Eve bunched the fabric into a compress, she told Fonia, “Ye need to pray for him now.Harder than ye’ve e’er prayed.Ask God to save him.”
Fonia obliged, letting go of Simon, closing her eyes, and clasping her hands in fervent prayer.
Whether Eve believed prayer would work or if it was only a way to keep Fonia calm and distracted, Adam wasn’t sure.But it was a wise suggestion.
“When I pull the dagger free,” he told her, “ye’ll need to press very firmly against the wound.Can ye do that?”
She nodded, though he saw she’d gone a bit pale.He could cross surgeon off the list of her possible true identities.Whoever Eve was—outlaw, nun, noblewoman, or tournament champion—she probably wasn’t used to seeing so much blood.
“Ready?”he asked, wrapping his fingers around the haft of the dagger.
She nodded.
The blade slipped free more easily than he expected.That was a good sign.Simon made a soft groan, still only half-conscious.But blood oozed out, and Eve’s blue brocade bloomed dark scarlet as she closed her eyes tight against the grisly sight.
He set aside the bloody dagger and, taking mercy on her, gently replaced her hands with his own.
“I’ve got this,” he said.“Can ye thread the needle and soak it with verjuice?”
She nodded, no doubt glad to be relieved of the gruesome duty.
While he kept pressure on the wound, he eyed the discarded dagger.
It was a standard weapon.It could have belonged to anyone.But when his glance caught on the metal seal embedded in the haft, his blood ran cold.
It was the Scottish royal insignia.Simon had been stabbed by one of the king’s men.
An unthinkable possibility reared its ugly head.
“Fonia,” he whispered out of Eve’s hearing.“Whose clan do ye belong to?”
“Fergus,” she murmured back.“Why?”
The terrible truth hit him like a quintain in the gut.But he forced a smile of reassurance to his lips.“Ye have clanfolk to care for ye then?”
“Aye.”
Adam ground his teeth.Bloody hell.The king needed a firmer rein on his men-at-arms.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened.Rogue royal soldiers had stopped at the alehouse, drank too much, and decided to avail themselves of the charms of the Fergus clan alewife.Her husband had intervened to protect her and been stabbed for his efforts.And to destroy the evidence, the men had set fire to the alehouse.
He felt sick.War was supposed to be noble.Armed warriors fighting armed warriors.Not innocent innkeepers and wives murdered in their dwellings.Not defenseless crofters and children slain in cold blood.Not unarmed clanfolk suffering burned fields, butchered cattle, and decimated villages.
Both sides, it seemed, were guilty of dishonorable battle tactics.
He’d witnessed the lawless raids from the Fergus clan.
Now he saw evidence of rampant violence on behalf of the king.
