eyes were bright and hopeful. “I think…if we stay together…if we continue to talk as we have been, then it might…”
Grace took her sister’s hand. “I hope you have the happiest outcome.”
“I know you’re not fond of him. But he
is
my husband.”
“I know he is your husband, dear,” she said, squeezing Claire’s hand. And she prayed that he would finally start to act like one.
—
They arrived at Ostend in the early hours of morning. Grace, Claire, and their maid, Mary, were given a private cabin for the voyage across the Channel while the major, Duncan, and the rest of the men were given cots in the hold. Grace and Claire immediately fell asleep, to awaken at dawn just a few hours later to join the men in the ship’s dining room.
The first thing Grace saw as she entered was that Duncan’s arm had bled through its bandage.
She rushed to him in dismay. “What on earth happened?”
He had been smiling at her, and upon hearing her question, he glanced at his arm. “Och,” he murmured, his brows rising in surprise. “I dinna ken. I slept the wrong way?”
Taking the seat beside him, she blew out a breath. “How can you not feel this? It must pain you terribly.”
He glanced around the table, and she followed his gaze. The other six men and Claire were looking at them in bemusement, some outright smiling. Except for the major, whose expression was thunderous.
Duncan’s wasn’t the only injury at this table, nor was it the most severe. But still, worry coursed through her, and she straightened her spine. “I will need to redress the wound,” she said stiffly, “and refashion the sling.”
“Aye,” Duncan said good-naturedly. “But maybe after breakfast, eh? I’m fit to eat a horse.”
She eyed the bandage. It didn’t seem like the stain of blood was spreading. She sighed. “Very well. After breakfast.”
She squared her shoulders, refusing to be embarrassed at the scene she’d just created. Everyone knew that she and Duncan had spent time together over the past few days, and everyone knew that she had been particularly keen to help the injured soldiers. Nothing about her reaction to the fresh bleeding was abnormal.
After breakfast—in which Duncan did indeed seem to eat a massive amount of food, though she was immensely pleased that the meal consisted of ham, eggs, and kippers and not an actual horse—Grace led him to a well-lit corner of the room and unwrapped his shoulder as he chuckled.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’re so worried about my arm, lass.”
“And that’s funny?” She scowled at him.
“It’ll be fine.”
“It could fester if we don’t give it attention.”
“Anything could fester, though,” he observed. That was true enough, and it made a chill run down her spine.
“Not this wound,” she announced. “Not if I can help it.”
He laughed again. “I have great confidence that you’ll frighten away all ideas of festering by sheer force of will.”
“That is my goal.”
“Then I’m glad you’re here to help.”
They shared a smile, and she went to work. As she unwrapped his arm, she asked Duncan about his home in Scotland.
“It stank of wet wool,” he told her.
“All the time?”
“Most o’ the time. Sometimes you could smell other things too. The soil in the mist. Lavender and heather and grass.”
“Those sound like very fresh country smells.”
He made a small Scottish noise in his throat that sounded a bit like
umph
. “I said sometimes. Mostly…just wet wool.”
“And your house?”
He raised a brow. “My mum keeps the sheep out for the most part, unless we’re to have mutton for dinner. So it smells of bannocks and porridge, and sometimes like meat. But those are all pleasant smells.”
“I’ve heard the Highlands are cold and wet.”
“Aye.” His eyes twinkled and his voice grew husky. “But there’re ways to keep warm.”
She shivered at the suggestiveness of his tone, but six men and her sister all
Grace took her sister’s hand. “I hope you have the happiest outcome.”
“I know you’re not fond of him. But he
is
my husband.”
“I know he is your husband, dear,” she said, squeezing Claire’s hand. And she prayed that he would finally start to act like one.
—
They arrived at Ostend in the early hours of morning. Grace, Claire, and their maid, Mary, were given a private cabin for the voyage across the Channel while the major, Duncan, and the rest of the men were given cots in the hold. Grace and Claire immediately fell asleep, to awaken at dawn just a few hours later to join the men in the ship’s dining room.
The first thing Grace saw as she entered was that Duncan’s arm had bled through its bandage.
She rushed to him in dismay. “What on earth happened?”
He had been smiling at her, and upon hearing her question, he glanced at his arm. “Och,” he murmured, his brows rising in surprise. “I dinna ken. I slept the wrong way?”
Taking the seat beside him, she blew out a breath. “How can you not feel this? It must pain you terribly.”
He glanced around the table, and she followed his gaze. The other six men and Claire were looking at them in bemusement, some outright smiling. Except for the major, whose expression was thunderous.
Duncan’s wasn’t the only injury at this table, nor was it the most severe. But still, worry coursed through her, and she straightened her spine. “I will need to redress the wound,” she said stiffly, “and refashion the sling.”
“Aye,” Duncan said good-naturedly. “But maybe after breakfast, eh? I’m fit to eat a horse.”
She eyed the bandage. It didn’t seem like the stain of blood was spreading. She sighed. “Very well. After breakfast.”
She squared her shoulders, refusing to be embarrassed at the scene she’d just created. Everyone knew that she and Duncan had spent time together over the past few days, and everyone knew that she had been particularly keen to help the injured soldiers. Nothing about her reaction to the fresh bleeding was abnormal.
After breakfast—in which Duncan did indeed seem to eat a massive amount of food, though she was immensely pleased that the meal consisted of ham, eggs, and kippers and not an actual horse—Grace led him to a well-lit corner of the room and unwrapped his shoulder as he chuckled.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You’re so worried about my arm, lass.”
“And that’s funny?” She scowled at him.
“It’ll be fine.”
“It could fester if we don’t give it attention.”
“Anything could fester, though,” he observed. That was true enough, and it made a chill run down her spine.
“Not this wound,” she announced. “Not if I can help it.”
He laughed again. “I have great confidence that you’ll frighten away all ideas of festering by sheer force of will.”
“That is my goal.”
“Then I’m glad you’re here to help.”
They shared a smile, and she went to work. As she unwrapped his arm, she asked Duncan about his home in Scotland.
“It stank of wet wool,” he told her.
“All the time?”
“Most o’ the time. Sometimes you could smell other things too. The soil in the mist. Lavender and heather and grass.”
“Those sound like very fresh country smells.”
He made a small Scottish noise in his throat that sounded a bit like
umph
. “I said sometimes. Mostly…just wet wool.”
“And your house?”
He raised a brow. “My mum keeps the sheep out for the most part, unless we’re to have mutton for dinner. So it smells of bannocks and porridge, and sometimes like meat. But those are all pleasant smells.”
“I’ve heard the Highlands are cold and wet.”
“Aye.” His eyes twinkled and his voice grew husky. “But there’re ways to keep warm.”
She shivered at the suggestiveness of his tone, but six men and her sister all
Similar Books
