Page 40 of Highland Crown
As the needle and hempen thread drew his broken flesh together, Cinaed never stirred. Isabella was thankful for that. He didn’t need to withstand any more pain right now. The healing process would be difficult enough, and she prayed once again that he could outlast the fever. Prior to Carmichael’s arrival, Isabella had removed the rest of Cinaed’s clothes and washed him with the help of a footman. That had helped cool him a little.
Once he was done with the arm, the surgeon turned his attention to the chest wound. There was discoloration and swelling around the place where she’d stitched it. Cleaning it earlier, she knew exactly which sutures had burst.
“When did this happen?”
“Last night.”
“Andyouremoved the bullet?”
“I had no choice. He was bleeding badly.”
Searc Mackintosh had introduced her as Cinaed’s wife and then made a vague comment about midwifery. She couldn’t recall exactly if she’d told him that or if he’d made the information up.
“You could have killed him digging about in his chest for a musket ball.”
“I was sure he would die if I didn’t.”
She could feel the surgeon’s searching gaze. But Cinaed’s sleeping face was also turned to her, and that sight buoyed her. Isabella couldn’t believe she’d found him on the beach at Duff’s Head only last night. Or was it this morning? The sequence of events, what happened and when, all swirled about in murky waters. Lack of sleep was catching up with her. She feared she’d soon forget her own name.
“How was he shot?”
She jerked around at the sound of Searc’s barked question. She’d forgotten he was still in the room. He hovered restlessly by the window, and Isabella was reminded of a similarly stocky vampire bat from the jungles of the Amazon. She’d seen it when Wombwell’s Menagerie came on tour to Edinburgh. A hideous-looking creature. It was, perhaps, wishful thinking on her part that he would fly out the window. If Searc were a vampire bat, he’d be more likely to clamp down on her throat and suck her veins dry.
She’d narrowly escaped his inquisition when they’d first arrived. Cinaed had come to her rescue. Once again, she feared she would utter the wrong words and give herself away.
“Ididhear you say that the wound is from a gunshot. Did I not, Mr. Carmichael?”
The surgeon had to be within the circle of trust, she surmised. If he weren’t, Searc would never ask such direct questions in his presence. She’d already learned the military barracks at Fort George and the soldiers stationed there were closely connected to life in Inverness. Even the whisper of a bullet wound could bring Hudson and his troops to this door.
“Two wounds,” Mr. Carmichael stated. “One in the chest and one in the arm. The bullet that struck him in the chest is the one to worry about.”
Searc’s eyebrows bristled as he scowled at Isabella. He had been trying to intimidate her since they’d arrived, and she hated to admit it, but he was succeeding. And she could count on one hand the number of people who’d successfully done that.
“In all the years I’ve known the blasted scoundrel, he’s never been shot. You must be bad luck for him.”
Isabella had a strained relationship with luck, to say the least. As a scientist, she’d always studied and worked hard and told herself she created her own luck. But as a woman, she’d come to realize that chance played an unavoidable role in people’s lives. But this was not the moment for philosophizing.
She pointed to a scar near his hip. “This bullet wound occurred before he ever met me.”
Searc glanced at the old injury and huffed.
Isabella moved to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress and took Cinaed’s hand. Perhaps it was involuntary, or perhaps he was in the midst of another one of his dreams, but the strong fingers closed around hers.
“We take care of our own.” Searc wouldn’t give up. “I need to know who shot him.”
“He can answer for himself when he awakens,” she said tiredly.
“You brought him here. You must know.”
“I brought him here because he said you’re kin. He told me he trusts you and you would protect us and keep us safe until he heals.”
She planted her elbows on her knees, clutching his hand, unwilling to let go. He had to heal. But what if he didn’t? Fever behaved unpredictably. It could kill him.
Cinaed’s hand twitched. His face was turned toward the doctor. She studied the cords of muscle in his neck, the wide powerful shoulders that bore responsibility for others so selflessly.
He would survive this. And he owed her nothing. Whatever she did for him in pulling him out of the sea, he’d returned tenfold in coming to her rescue at Stoneyfield House.
His muscles twitched again, and the surgeon noticed it too. He paused until Cinaed’s breathing proved he was asleep.
