The blood from Duncan’s wounds was already soaking the flagstones of the hearth.
“God help us,” she whispered, as Beitris took Ian’s place on the other side of the moaning man.
“He’s trying to wake,” Beitris said. “ ’Tis a good sign.”
Sileas suspected Beitris was saying that to give them hope. Taking the knife her mother-in-law had brought in from the kitchen, she began cutting away Duncan’s blood-soaked shirt. She swallowed back bile when she saw the wound beneath.
“Oh God, no,” she said, covering her mouth.
“Let me do that.” Alex hobbled over and pushed her aside. “I’ve tended wounds like this before.”
Before she could argue with Alex, Ian backed through the door with Connor. He was supporting Connor’s head and shoulders, while Niall followed carrying his legs.
Ian laid him on the blanket she spread for him. Using his dirk, he cut Connor’s clothes off, tossing the pieces of blood-soaked cloth into the fire as he worked. Connor was covered with so much blood, Sileas could not tell where his wounds were. But the shallowness of his breathing frightened her more than all the blood.
Like Alex, Ian worked with a brisk efficiency that bespoke experience. She knew they had fought in France—and in the Borders before that—but the dangers they faced had never seemed real to her before.
“Can ye get the whiskey?” Alex called out to her from where he and Beitris worked over Duncan.
“There’s a good lass,” Alex said when she got it down from the shelf. “Now pour it onto a couple of cloths for us.”
She did as he said and then stoked the fire to a roaring blaze to keep the injured men warm.
“His whistle saved him,” Alex said, holding it up. The whistle, which hung about Duncan’s neck from a leather cord, was bent in the middle where it had been struck by a sword.
Duncan’s body bucked as Alex and Beitris cleaned his wounds with whiskey-soaked cloths. Though his pain made her cringe, the fight in Duncan reassured her.
Connor only shivered as Ian cleaned his wounds. Sileas prayed hard while she handed Ian clean cloths.
“Do ye think he’ll live?” she asked Ian in a choked whisper.
“I will no let him die,” Ian said.
She helped him bind the bandages around Connor’s head and chest, and then his arms. Ach, Connor’s skin had a gray cast to it. He’d lost far too much blood.
Ian tried to make a plan as he worked to stem the flow of Connor’s blood. He had to get the injured men to safety. Connor was most likely the target, but whoever had done this had meant to kill them all.
“We’ll need to hide the three of ye while ye recover,” he said over his shoulder to Alex. “It is best that the men who did this believe they succeeded in their treachery.”
“It was the MacKinnons, with a few of the MacLeods,” Alex said. “But I suspect Hugh made a devil’s agreement with them to do it, or they wouldn’t risk attacking us so far into MacDonald territory.”
“I have the same suspicion,” Ian said, as he pulled tight the last knot of the bandage around Connor’s arm. “Proving it will be another matter.”
“It would be even harder to prove if we were dead,” Alex said.
Alex caught his eye and tilted his head to the side, signaling he wanted a word outside of the others’ hearing. When Ian crouched beside him, Alex said, “Did ye notice the MacKinnons and MacLeods didn’t take time to gather their dead? Something scared them off.”
“Aye. All the more reason to get the three of ye away from here.” Ian wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ll take ye by boat to Tearlag’s cottage. She is the best healer, and ye can hide there, same as before.
“Niall, get the wagon so we can get them down to the water,” he called out to his brother, as he returned to where Connor lay.
He looked down at Connor’s battered face, and rage swept through him. Earlier, he had been so focused on staunching the blood to save Connor’s life that he had not truly seen how badly beaten he was.
“I should have killed Hugh Dubh outside the church that day,” Ian said, clenching his fists. “I swear to God, I will have his blood for this.”
His mother came to kneel beside Sileas on the other side of Connor. Her mouth tightened as she laid her fingers against Connor’s cheek.
“Ye must get the priest before ye take him away,” she said.
“There’s no time for that,” Ian said.
“This is my dead sister’s only son,” his mother said, looking up at him, “and I’ll not have him meet his Maker with his sins upon him.”
“Connor is not dying.”
“I fear he might, son,” she said in a soft voice. “What’s more, ye will hurt what chance he has by moving him.”
Ian looked at Connor as he weighed the risks. “No, I’m taking him. I’ll not have him dragged from this house and slaughtered in the yard like an animal.”
