As long as the man remained unconscious, she didn’t dare use the ether but wanted it in case he woke, and she’d bet he would. Tipping his foot at an angle to see the former incision, she saw the clotted blood and crusty layer. The mess would block it healing right and he’d need it amputated!
“We’ve got to clean it.” She looked at Will, who gave her a nod but remained silent. Irritated, she glanced about for a cleaning agent. Nothing was in reach.
“Will, hand me your flask.”
“My what?” he mumbled in a mocked surprise.
She shot him an angry look and promptly reached across, her hand slipped under the flap of his coat and found what she knew was there, inside the pocket. Pulling out the silver flask, she opened the lid.
“Ada…”
“Will, please. Now hold him.” She barely waited for him to brace the unconscious man before she poured a smidgen of the whiskey on the wound. As the alcohol burned through the dried glaze and blood, the rebel’s eyes shot open and he screamed at such a pitch, made her wonder if that was what the ‘Rebel Yell’ was since it sent a jolt of ice down her spine. Will fought to keep the man down but the patient’s roar was short and he fell back into the mattress.
“You’ve got no choice but to give him some ether,” Will grumbled, straightening himself after he released the man. And he yanked his flask from her grasp.
Francois suddenly found he couldn’t breathe. The pressure against his chest was heavy, like a wool overcoat, wadded into a lump that occupied the space over his heart. And it vibrated. Struggling to get air, he shifted in an attempt to thwart the weight. Whatever it was, it responded by moving. The motion woke him and as he struggled to focus, his eyes too dry to see at first until he blinked several times, only to discover the object on his back was a mound of black fur. A being that turned and zeroed its golden eyes on him. Startled, he realized it was a cat and he wanted to snort but the animal was laying on top of him. Where the hell did a cat come from? One thing was certain—the feline had to move! Lifting his right hip, he managed to push the cat off him, though it remained at his side. Falling back down, he could finally inhale.
His foggy brain, juggled images of a dark, dank room, filled with filthy, ragged men, the stench of confinement filling the air but what he saw now was the opposite. The room was airy, the heat from the fireplace, one that was vacant in the memory, heated the room. He was on a mattress. His fingertips pushed against the pad beneath and verified it was a read bed and not ticking thrown on the ground, imitating one. The air was clean in comparison, the fragrance of wood burning the main feature. He frowned. Where the hell was he?
Then he saw her. The angel in his dreams, though at times, he was convinced she was the devil when she touched his injured foot. That made him glance down quickly, to make sure the limb was still there and found it wrapped in linen, propped up on a pillow. With a sigh of relief, he fell back. He peered at her again since she hadn’t said a word and found her slouched in the rocking chair, near the bed, a book on her lap but her head bobbed down, asleep.
Did angels sleep? Somehow, that amused him, because he couldn’t imagine those celestial beings needing slumber. Francois couldn’t take his eyes off his angel.
Her blondish mane was pulled back and knotted, he’d bet, at the nape of her neck except tendrils had escaped the pins and the glow from the fireplace made her appear haloed. Her skin was pale and she had an adorable nose, which struck him hard that he’d fine it attractive, but it wasn’t large, bulbous or red, like so many of his fellow Tigers, no doubt from the cold. Her hands were small and delicate. The dress was a dark navy, almost black in appearance, with a white pinner apron and a narrow white collar. From what he could tell, she wore no jewelry, not even earbobs, which was interesting, because most ladies adored baubles.
He could hear her softly breathing and a small gasp snuck in, as if she was dreaming. That small noise made him smile. She was so pretty, he couldn’t wait to see what color her eyes were. He should know it, for he’d seen her before, but his memory failed him. Frankly, his throat was parched, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of cotton, and he wanted a drink of water yet refrained from waking her. Instead, he caught a glimpse of a china cup on the table near him and if he could just reach it, he’d bet the pitcher near it held water. He yanked his arm from under the blankets and went to grab it, but the motion nudged the cat, which meowed as it pulled itself upright and then jumped in the direction he was reaching for. Again, he wasn’t expecting that and, right as he bent to reach out for the cup, the cat leaped in the same direction. The cat’s agility put him ahead of Francois, so it hit the table first, his paws danced to avoid Francois’s fingers and ended up tipping the china cup over. It fell to the hardwood floor, breaking in two.
The commotion startled the girl and her eyes shot open wide as the jumbled skirts and hands knocked her book to the
