Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) by Veronica Bale

the needles into the stone cup she crushed them with the handle of the ladle she’d brought. Their juices gave off a sharp, fragrant aroma that mixed pleasantly with the scent of the burning wood.
    Once the water was steaming, she ladled a small amount into the cup to allow the needles to steep.   As the infusion strengthened, Jane pulled the clean linens she had managed to scrounge from the kitchens out of her pack and wet them in the cooking pot. She dipped the fabric carefully to avoid scalding her hands with the water, and gingerly began dabbing at the wound across the man’s flank. Even in his barely conscious state, the poor Scot batted feebly at her hand with what little strength he had left.
    “Now, now,” she shushed him, pausing to dab at his brow. “The wound must be cleaned.”
    The man continued to protest, shoving ineffectually at her hands. But he was too weak, and Jane easily pressed on. Once the wound was free of dried blood, congealed fluids and dirt, she poured a generous measure of honey onto a clean strip of linen, and pressed it tightly to the gash. To wrap him with cloth so that her salve would remain in place, she tugged at his arm to encourage him into a sitting position—a task which yielded little result.
    “Sir, I cannot pass the bandage beneath you if you do not raise yourself,” she begged.
    The man seemed briefly to understand, and struggled to sit up. But he could not raise himself enough, and she was able only to pass the bandage beneath him once before he collapsed again. With a sigh, Jane knotted the bandage in place; it would have to do as it was. The honey would clean the wound, drawing away the toxins that had taken hold and begun to fester within. That was, of course, if the man wasn’t already too far gone.
    The infusion was still a while away from being ready, so she busied herself with tidying what she could within the hut. She gathered the rushes and pitched them outside the door, leaving the dirt floor bare. She then unwrapped her pack and laid the second blanket which she’d stowed inside next to the man and close to the fire. With difficulty, she nudged and pulled him onto it—carefully so that he would not disturb the salve of honey. When she could only get him half-way onto it, she gave up trying. It was not important.
    Furrowing her brow, she eyed his clothing critically. Everything would need to be washed. But it was best to leave him dressed until he was well enough to move—if he would ever be, that was. And though she’d already managed to get him out of his shirt, she might as well wait to see if he was going to live. If by some miracle he did, then she’d do all of his articles of clothing together in one go to save herself the extra labour. They would need mending as well, but that too was a task which could be saved until she knew whether or not he would make it through the night.
    With nothing else to do, she checked her infusion of thyme once more—at last, it was ready. Picking up the cup with both hands, she knelt down beside the feverish man.
    “Here,” she said, cradling one hand behind his head. “Drink this. It will help cool your body of the fever.”
    She raised the man’s head carefully to help him drink. He took a few sips at first, but soon clamped his lips shut, refusing to drink any more.
    “No, you must drink it all,” she insisted. “Come now, sir. That’s it.”
    With her encouragement, the Scot parted his lips once more, and at a frustratingly slow pace he managed to finish the infusion. When he was done, Jane lowered his head and immediately set about making a larger batch. He would need a good, hearty dose every few hours if it were to make any difference.
    Though she did not know the exact hour, she knew it must be very late. Despite this, she was not at all tired. A sense of purpose had revived her energy and spurred in her a heady determination, foolish though it was to allow such hope to take hold. Not only would her