At last he closed the door of their oak-paneled room, and she dropped onto a chair, white-faced.
“That bad?” he asked.
She put on a brave smile. “It hurts. But mostly because I’m so tired, I’m sure. We should have gone on to London. I’m sorry I made you stop.”
He wasn’t falling for her false bravado. “Let me have a look.”
Without waiting for her agreement, he crouched before her and detached the tabs of her stomacher. As he began loosening the gown’s laces, a flush came to her skin. From embarrassment…or something else? He discarded that train of thought and forged ahead, carefully helping her pull her arm from the sleeve. She pressed the gown to her chest with her free hand and held out her injured limb.
A soft moan escaped her lips when he lifted the edge of the linen bandage.
“Egad.” Jason unwound the fabric as gently as he could. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Cait whispered. “I know you don’t mean to hurt me.”
He smiled a little, then grimaced as the wound was revealed. Not long, but deep. Deeper than he remembered and surrounded by angry, dark pink flesh. A drop of red blood seeped out when the bandage fell away, and he could see a sickening taint of white inside.
“I should have been checking on this.” Yet another way in which he’d mistreated her.
“You wanted to last night—”
“It’s getting infected.”
She glanced down, then averted her gaze. “It looks very bad.” He watched her jaw tighten with determination. “I’ll be fine, Jason. Don’t worry for me. It will heal. I’ll make a poultice.” Her face brightened. “So close to London, there might even be a shop. I can tell you what I need.”
He rose and paced away, then turned back. “I’d best fetch a surgeon. I believe it should be stitched.”
“Stitched?” Her pretty forehead wrinkled, making his gut twist with sympathy.
“It’s getting worse rather than better.” He stared at her colorless face. “The doctor will know for sure. I’m sorry.”
Cursing himself for failing her yet again, he went downstairs to send for a surgeon.
FIFTY-FOUR
JASON RETURNED a few minutes later with a goblet and handed it to Caithren. She sniffed at the contents suspiciously.
“What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
“I thought as much.” She handed it back. “Nay, but I thank you for the thought.”
He frowned. “You don’t like whiskey?”
“Have you seen me drink whiskey before now?”
“No, but…you’re Scottish.”
“And…?”
“It’s whiskey, which the Scots invented if my—”
Caithren burst out laughing—until the movement pained her arm. “We don’t all fancy whiskey, Jase. It’s not a law. And here you accuse me of painting all the English with one brush.” She watched him slowly turn red. “Some ale wouldn’t be amiss—”
A sharp knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer it.
Cait felt the blood drain from her face as the surgeon marched in, a burly man clutching a bag of implements. But she told herself to be brave. She didn’t want to embarrass herself before Jason.
He thought little enough of her as it was.
“I’m told of an injury,” the surgeon said. “A slash wound, is it?”
“Aye.” Clutching her bodice to her chest, she held forth her bare arm.
The surgeon came closer, yet gave it but a cursory glance. He looked to the goblet in Jason’s hand. “What’ve you got there?”
“Whiskey.” Jason’s voice sounded weak to Cait’s ears. Or maybe the blood pounding in her head was muffling the sound. “Here,” he said more clearly and offered the goblet to the doctor.
The man took it and downed a healthy gulp. “Decent stuff,” he declared, then poured a thick stream over Caithren’s wound.
Her breath hissed in, but she wouldn’t cry. She would shed no more tears in front of Jason.
“Wh-what did you do that for?” she managed to stutter.
“To cleanse it. Stop infection.”
“What?” It stung like blazes. “My cousin Cam would skin you alive if he saw you wasting good whiskey like that. Give it here.” She snatched the goblet from the surgeon’s hand and gulped greedily, feeling the liquor burn a hot path down her gullet and into her empty stomach.
Jason appeared to be holding back a laugh. A dark glare took care of that.
“I have always practiced gentle healing,” she told him. “I cannot believe he did that.”
She sipped again. The stuff wasn’t nearly as nasty as she’d thought.
“It’s not unheard of, sweet. Ford did the same for my bullet wound, and he’s no surgeon, though he does fancy himself a scientist.”
“Ford?” She drank again. The warmth in her stomach was spreading, and her arm seemed to hurt less. Her head was beginning to feel as though it might detach itself and float away.
“My youngest brother, Ford.” Jason crouched down and gazed into her eyes. A tiny smile emerged on his face. “Never mind.”
He stood and motioned the surgeon closer.
She sipped once more, then set her jaw and angled her arm out. “Have at it,” she declared.
The man rummaged in his bag and came out with a needle and black thread.
Caithren winced and looked up at Jason. “Are you sure he has to do this?”
“I’m sure. Drink.” He shoved the goblet closer to her lips, and she complied. “It won’t take long.”
She nodded and steeled herself for the pain. When it came, a sharp prick and a scraping sting as the raw edges of flesh were bound together, it wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated. Not nearly as hurtful as when the surgeon had doused her arm with the whiskey. Or maybe the whiskey had numbed it some.
Jason put a hand on her good shoulder. “You’re doing fine.” His voice sounded proud, or maybe impressed. It made the whiskey curl warmer in her belly. It seemed all she wanted was his trust, his approval.
Nay, not all, not if she were to be honest with herself. She also wanted his arms around her, his lips on hers.
His love.
Everything—her whole world—seemed so confused. When had her goals changed? Where had this wanting
