there half naked, his eyes open.
She leaned over. “Lift your head,” she commanded. She put a hand behind his head and supported his back slightly. He tried to help her. His body was hot with fever, and she heard—and felt—the intake of breath. With his help, she finally got his head high enough to enable him to drink.
He was weaker than he was yesterday, the fever sapping what strength he had. When he finished drinking, she inspected his leg. The wound was ugly, and much of his leg was red.
The leg should come off. She knew that. But she had no skill in cutting. She only knew herbs. She felt his gaze on her. He knew the danger as well as she, even though he may not know how he knew.
“No,” he said.
“You could die,” she said.
“But I will go to God—or the devil—with two legs.” His words were raspy.
“Are you wed? Do you have a wife?” She knew she had to keep trying to kindle a memory.
He simply stared at her, the familiar frustration filling his eyes.
“I know I would want Will alive, with one leg or two. Someone must be waiting for you.”
She could see the strain in his face as he struggled to find answers that he could not.
She closed her eyes. What would God want her to do?
She would wait another day. If he did not improve . . . if his leg grew redder, she would have to go to the Charlton. She would have no choice.
She had tonight.
“Can you eat anything?”
He shook his head.
But he must. He must have enough strength to fight the demons in his body.
He thrashed suddenly, then his breath caught from what must be terrible pain in his bruised ribs.
She leaned down and put her hands on his shoulders. “Try not to move,” she said. “The poultice must stay in place, and the ribs will heal only if you are still.”
He nodded, his eyes thanking her.
She sat down until the willow drink and his own exhaustion lulled him back into sleep. She closed her eyes, wanting to join him. Then she opened them again.
She needed to tell the Charlton that she had found an Englishman and had nursed him back to health, but how could she explain that she’d waited so long to tell anyone?
First of all she would have to coach the Scot in the ways and speech of the English.
If he got well.
He would get well. She would not allow anything else.
Chapter 5
F OR three days, the Scot hovered between life and death.
His eyes were sometimes open, but unseeing. He moved restlessly, and his breath came in small labored gasps.
He said things in a language she did not understand. It might have been Gaelic, but then it might well have been French. She had no knowledge of language other than her own.
“You will be well,” she insisted over and over again, as if the words would work their own cure.
Audra brought water to her, even mixed the willow bark into a cup, and then the child sat quietly in the corner. Watching. Clutching her straw doll. Once, she went to sleep in Kimbra’s lap, and they both jerked awake when the Scot stirred and uttered a cry.
Kimbra continued to bathe him with cool water, trying to bring down the fever. Sometimes she had to rest her body against his to quiet the violent shivering and thrashing. He muttered words she didn’t understand.
She often touched his face to judge the course of the fever. Once she ran her fingers through his hair, the thick, damp wayward strands wrapped around her finger. He was so warm.
Though his leg appeared to be getting better, the fever remained, and she feared an infection in his lungs. She continued to urge him to drink her mixture of herbs, even as she washed his body repeatedly. She came to know it intimately, the new wounds and an earlier one—a jagged scar across his left arm. His chest remained different shades of purple from the blow struck there.
On the fourth day, she knew she had won. She had defeated a fever for the Scot that she’d been unable to defeat for her husband.
It was a bittersweet thought.
J AMIE Campbell paced
She leaned over. “Lift your head,” she commanded. She put a hand behind his head and supported his back slightly. He tried to help her. His body was hot with fever, and she heard—and felt—the intake of breath. With his help, she finally got his head high enough to enable him to drink.
He was weaker than he was yesterday, the fever sapping what strength he had. When he finished drinking, she inspected his leg. The wound was ugly, and much of his leg was red.
The leg should come off. She knew that. But she had no skill in cutting. She only knew herbs. She felt his gaze on her. He knew the danger as well as she, even though he may not know how he knew.
“No,” he said.
“You could die,” she said.
“But I will go to God—or the devil—with two legs.” His words were raspy.
“Are you wed? Do you have a wife?” She knew she had to keep trying to kindle a memory.
He simply stared at her, the familiar frustration filling his eyes.
“I know I would want Will alive, with one leg or two. Someone must be waiting for you.”
She could see the strain in his face as he struggled to find answers that he could not.
She closed her eyes. What would God want her to do?
She would wait another day. If he did not improve . . . if his leg grew redder, she would have to go to the Charlton. She would have no choice.
She had tonight.
“Can you eat anything?”
He shook his head.
But he must. He must have enough strength to fight the demons in his body.
He thrashed suddenly, then his breath caught from what must be terrible pain in his bruised ribs.
She leaned down and put her hands on his shoulders. “Try not to move,” she said. “The poultice must stay in place, and the ribs will heal only if you are still.”
He nodded, his eyes thanking her.
She sat down until the willow drink and his own exhaustion lulled him back into sleep. She closed her eyes, wanting to join him. Then she opened them again.
She needed to tell the Charlton that she had found an Englishman and had nursed him back to health, but how could she explain that she’d waited so long to tell anyone?
First of all she would have to coach the Scot in the ways and speech of the English.
If he got well.
He would get well. She would not allow anything else.
Chapter 5
F OR three days, the Scot hovered between life and death.
His eyes were sometimes open, but unseeing. He moved restlessly, and his breath came in small labored gasps.
He said things in a language she did not understand. It might have been Gaelic, but then it might well have been French. She had no knowledge of language other than her own.
“You will be well,” she insisted over and over again, as if the words would work their own cure.
Audra brought water to her, even mixed the willow bark into a cup, and then the child sat quietly in the corner. Watching. Clutching her straw doll. Once, she went to sleep in Kimbra’s lap, and they both jerked awake when the Scot stirred and uttered a cry.
Kimbra continued to bathe him with cool water, trying to bring down the fever. Sometimes she had to rest her body against his to quiet the violent shivering and thrashing. He muttered words she didn’t understand.
She often touched his face to judge the course of the fever. Once she ran her fingers through his hair, the thick, damp wayward strands wrapped around her finger. He was so warm.
Though his leg appeared to be getting better, the fever remained, and she feared an infection in his lungs. She continued to urge him to drink her mixture of herbs, even as she washed his body repeatedly. She came to know it intimately, the new wounds and an earlier one—a jagged scar across his left arm. His chest remained different shades of purple from the blow struck there.
On the fourth day, she knew she had won. She had defeated a fever for the Scot that she’d been unable to defeat for her husband.
It was a bittersweet thought.
J AMIE Campbell paced
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