Читать книгу Lord of The Isles - Debbie Mazzuca - Страница 8

Ali didn’t have time to contemplate the damage to her lower anatomy, not with the pounding of running feet coming closer. The last thing she wanted was to be caught bare assed on the floor by Duncan Macintosh. She scanned the room for somewhere to hide. Seeing no other choice, she scurried beneath the bed in time to hear the door crash open.

Beneath the heavy canopy of timber, she saw two men rush into the room. Duncan Macintosh was not one of them. Afraid if she could see them they’d see her, Ali shuffled farther into the shadows. The men spoke in hushed tones at the entrance of the room. Certain she was soon to be discovered, Ali felt around for her T-shirt. Relieved when her fingers came in contact with the stretchy fabric, she carefully pulled it toward her. Her muscles tightened as cold from the floor seeped into her skin.

Ali blinked, touching the hard surface beneath her, positive when Duncan had shown her into the room earlier the floor had been hardwood. She ducked her head to get a better look at the rest of the interior. Nothing looked the same, right down to the chocolate-brown comforter that had been scarlet.

How the hell had that happened?

“I’m no’ dead yet, so you can stop with yer whisperin’,” the man in the bed above her rasped.

Far from it, Ali thought, remembering the heat of his kiss, how his hands had caressed her bottom, bringing her…She shook the thought from her head before embarrassment consumed her, leaving a pile of ashes in her place. How could she have done that with a stranger? The men moved closer, their brown leather boots inches from her face.

Who are these people, and where’s Duncan?

“You’d be all right then, Rory? We heard a scream and a loud crash. We thought you’d fallen from yer bed.”

Rory? Oh, come on, this had to be some kind of a joke. Lying flat on her back, Ali wriggled into her T-shirt, smoothing it over her thighs.

“’Tis no’ me you heard, but the lass.” The bed creaked, a groan of pain accompanying his statement.

Ali stilled, frozen in place.

“There’d be no one aboot but you, lad.”

“Rory, ’tis on account of yer wound. You must have imagined it.”

“Nay, she was in my bed, of that I’m certain—willin’ and eager.”

Ali’s face flamed. Now, isn’t he a gentleman. The big jerk.

One of the men cleared his throat. “Mayhap ’twas one of the serving wenches.”

“Nay, I thought ’twas Bree come to take me with her.” The last was spoken so quietly Ali had to strain to hear what he said.

Someone cursed before saying, “You’ll no’ die, Rory. I’ll no’ allow it. ’Tis why I…” The man grunted as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“I ken it wasna’ Bree. The lass had the look of her, but bigger. Her breasts were full, and her arse…” His voice trailed off.

Ali groaned inwardly, deciding if this Rory person didn’t soon shut up, she’d make sure he felt worse than he obviously did now.

“Nay, Rory, lie back,” one of the men said before gasping, “Yer wound, ’tis reopened.”

“I think she tried to finish me off.”

Both men cursed at the same time Ali did. She’d had enough. It was her bed the man had crawled into—either that or he’d somehow managed to get her into his own, taking advantage of her while she slept. She ignored the little voice inside her head that said it would be a toss-up on who had taken advantage of whom. And now he seemed to be accusing her of trying to kill him.

Kill him? For God’s sake!

It was too much, and Ali didn’t plan on listening to any more of it, not without defending herself. With a closed fist, she whacked at the men’s feet. “Get out of my way,” she said, dragging herself from under the bed.

Two men dressed in old-fashioned attire—fitted suede pants tucked into their boots and white linen shirts—backed away from her with their mouths agape. The older one was tall and had a powerful build, his dark red hair threaded with silver, his brown eyes wide as he stared at her. The other man was much younger, his hair a golden brown, almost as handsome as the man from her dreams. He opened and closed his mouth, his gaze swiveling from Ali to his companion.

Hands on her hips, she turned to confront the man in the bed. “I didn’t try to kill you…you big jerk, and what the hell were you doing in my bed in the…”

The rest of the question died on her lips. It was him—Rory MacLeod—the man in the portrait. She rubbed her eyes, but nothing changed. He was still there, in all his glorious perfection—except he was bleeding. A circle of crimson spread over the thick white linens pressed to his side.

“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

“Aye.” Even in the dim light she could see the accusation in his emerald gaze.

Ali shook her head. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know.” She leaned over him to get a better look before being roughly jerked away. Strong hands restrained her, biting into the flesh of her upper arms.

She struggled to free herself from the younger man’s grasp. “Let go of me. This man needs medical attention. I can help him—I’m a doctor.”

“Let her go, Iain.” The older man forcibly removed Iain’s hands from her arms before dragging her to the other side of the room. Iain followed in their wake.

“Who are you?” the red-haired man growled, his expression fierce.

“Dr. Aileanna Graham, and there’s no time for this. I told you, that man needs my help.” She’d had to deal with over-protective family members before, but this was ridiculous.

“Where are you from?”

“New York.” She rolled her eyes at the blank expression on the big man’s face. “Look, this will have to wait or I swear to you he’s going to bleed to death.”

“How did you get in his chambers?” His manner had changed, no longer aggressive; there was an odd look in his eyes.

Ali let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know. I fell asleep in another room, and then I found myself in bed with him.” She jerked her chin toward the man named Rory, and heat suffused her cheeks. “So maybe the question isn’t how I got in here, but who the hell put me in his bed, and why?” It was something she wanted to know, along with why they were dressed the way they were, and what this Rory person was doing here instead of at a hospital. But now was not the time for discussion.

Iain looked at the older man, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Fergus, they sent her.”

“Quiet, lad,” the other man snapped.

Ali crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what the two of you are talking about, or what’s going on here, but I’m warning you, you’d better send for an ambulance. Your friend needs to be in a hospital, so I’d suggest you call 911 immediately.”

Again with the blank stares.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t 911 in Scotland. “I don’t care what number you call, but we have to get him to a hospital.”

The man named Fergus shook his head slowly from side to side. “’Tis up to you, lass. There’d be no one else.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’d be no time to explain. See to our laird, if you please.”

“Laird?”

“Aye. Laird MacLeod.”

Lord Rory MacLeod, the clothes, the…no, she wouldn’t go there. Not now. Whoever he was, he needed her help. With one last look at the men who watched her, their expressions bemused, she returned to her patient’s bedside.

Rory MacLeod’s look-alike reached out his big hand. Clamping it around her wrist, he jerked her toward him. “Who…who are you?” he rasped, the effort obviously costing him.

“Doctor Aileanna Graham.” She pried his fingers from her wrist.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Ali silenced him with a firm, “Be quiet.” She placed a finger to his lips when he tried to protest. “Shh,” Ali said, trying not to think about how that particular set of lips had felt, pressed to hers.

She pushed aside her wayward thoughts and her professional persona slid into place. “Your questions can wait.” She laid her palm against the side of his face, then his forehead, relieved to find he didn’t have a fever.

“Could you get Duncan for me?” she asked Iain, who was closest to the bed.

“Duncan?” the younger man asked, his brow furrowed. “There’d be no Duncan here.”

Ali took in a deep, calming breath. Don’t think about it. Do. Not. Think. About. It. “I need something to stop the bleeding. Can you bring me some fresh linen? And I’ll need some more candles, or whatever it is you use for lighting.”

“Aye.” Iain shot a quick glance over his shoulder before heading for the door.

“And clean water and soap while you’re at it,” Ali called after him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brought Rory’s arm across her lap and wrapped her fingers around his thick wrist to check his pulse. She tried to ignore his intense gaze, fighting the urge to smooth the heavy lock of raven black hair from his forehead. Ali shook her head when Fergus tried to speak to her; without a watch she needed to concentrate. The older man didn’t argue. Placing his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels. Waiting patiently, his fierce expression softened when every so often he glanced at her patient.

Ali rose to her feet and lowered the comforter. Removing the makeshift bandage, she tried to mask her reaction to the deep, jagged gash in his side and the fresh gush of blood. She swallowed. The muscle in his jaw pulsated, sweat beaded on his brow, and his complexion turned chalky.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have to examine the wound. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

He gave a jerky nod.

“How did it happen?”

“In battle,” he said between clenched teeth.

Battle? Ali assumed she must have misunderstood him. Unless he meant they did reenactments of battles here. She had gone to one in Virginia, and even though she knew it wasn’t real, she’d had to leave. “No, I mean, what did this to you?”

“A sword, lass,” he explained, as though he spoke to a child.

A sword…in battle. “For God’s sake, did you have to use the real thing? Honestly, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. A real sword.” She shook her head while she palpitated his abdomen. Moving lower, Ali folded back the comforter to just below the top of his hipbone.

“Lass, I doona’ think I can manage that.” A weak smile tugged at the corner of his full, sensuous mouth.

Ali raised a brow. She couldn’t believe the man had the strength to tease. The amount of blood he appeared to have lost should have rendered him unconscious. He cursed, glaring at her when she pressed her fingers inches from the wound. Ali staunched the flow with the clean side of the old bandage, and held the fabric to the candle on the bedside table. Examining it for signs of infection, she was relieved when she didn’t see any. She sniffed at the cloth just to be sure.

A commotion at the bedroom door drew her attention. A gray-haired woman in a long puce gown followed Iain—who carried the buckets of water—into the room with an armful of white sheets, and a lantern dangling from her hand. When Ali came around the bed to retrieve the linens, the older woman drew in a shocked breath.

“Lass, yer naked,” she exclaimed.

“Nay, Mrs. Mac, her dress may be odd, but she is no’ naked. I would’ve noticed,” her patient assured the older woman.

Ali looked down at her T-shirt. She didn’t know what was so odd about it. But if she could have found her damn suitcase she would’ve changed. She might not be naked, but knowing she had nothing on underneath, that’s pretty much how she felt.

She turned on him. “Shh, rest.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Here, lass, put this around you. ’Tis no’ decent what you have on.” The woman retrieved a long length of red and black tartan and a thick black belt from the end of the bed. Wrapping the fabric around Ali, she fastened it at her waist with the belt. It fell well past her calves with one end draped over her shoulder. Mrs. Mac stepped back to view her handiwork. “’Twill have to do.”

Ali clamped her mouth shut, knowing to protest would do her no good. A trace of humor glinted in her patient’s eyes and she scowled at him. “Not a word out of you.”

“I was only goin’ to say my plaid is verra becomin’ on you, lass.”

She snorted. “I’m sure. Mrs. Mac, I need some alcohol to disinfect his wound. Unless you have some antiseptic on hand, it’s the only thing I can think of.”

“I doona’ ken what ant…antiseptic is, lass, but I think I ken what you mean by alcohol.” With that said, the woman set off.

Ali pressed her fingers to her temples, rubbing in a slow, circular motion. Don’t think, don’t think. She repeated the mantra in her head. She took a cloth and dipped it into one of the buckets, groaning when she saw the color. “I can’t use this water. It’s dirty.”

“Nay, lass, ’tis fine.” Fergus’s brow furrowed.

“No, it’s not fine,” she snapped. “If any of this gets into his wound he risks infection. The water has to be boiled first.” She glanced over at Rory, expecting him to say something, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing seemed shallow.

Ali cursed, ignoring the men’s startled expressions.

“What’s wrong? Is my brother gettin’ worse?” Iain asked. A tremor threaded through the deep timbre of his voice.

Ali placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Look, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he comes through this. We have a couple of things in our favor. First, as far as I can tell there’s been no damage to any vital organs, and that’s a very good thing. Second, I don’t see any signs of infection and that’s a big plus.”

Iain smiled weakly. “Now I ken why the—”

The older man cleared his throat, interrupting the younger MacLeod. He shot him a silencing look. Ali raised a brow, but before she could ask Iain what he meant to say, Mrs. Mac returned. Ali thanked her, sniffing the contents of the earthenware pitcher. She choked on the fumes, her eyes watering. “That should work,” she commented dryly.

The woman looked relieved. “And here’d be the soap you asked for.”

Ali scrubbed her hands up to her elbows in the water from one of the buckets. “If any of you want to touch Rory you must wash your hands like I am, all right? We’ll set this bucket aside for washing, but the water has to be changed often.”

They stared at her like she was from another planet, which was exactly how she was beginning to feel.

Ali sighed. “You have to do as I say. We can’t let his wound become infected.”

“Mrs. Mac, the lass says the water has to be boiled before she’ll use it,” Fergus informed her.

“Och, well, she seems to ken what she’s aboot. Come, Iain, help me with these. Fergus, you stay with the lass.” The woman gave him a meaningful look, and Ali had the distinct impression they didn’t trust her.

“What can I do, lass?” Fergus asked.

“At the moment the only thing we can do is try to control the bleeding. I’ll wait until Iain returns and then I’ll pour the alcohol into his wound to ward off infection. Hopefully the bleeding lessens. If it doesn’t, well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes.” Rory sucked in a ragged breath and Ali stroked the thick waves of hair back from his face.

“I didna’ ken you could be gentle, lass,” he murmured.

She smiled down at him. “I can be very gentle, but only when my patient does as he’s told.”

“Ah, then, I promise to do whatever you want me to.”

Ali had a sneaking suspicion Rory MacLeod’s smooth tongue could be a very dangerous thing. “I’m glad to hear it. Now close your eyes and sleep.”

“Aye,” he murmured.

When Fergus called out to her, Ali drew her gaze reluctantly from Rory’s beautiful face. He looked like a dark angel.

“Lass, I think you best have another look.”

She pushed the woolen blankets lower.

“Can you no’ leave a man some dignity?” Rory said as he watched her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don’t have to worry—you’re decent. Besides, I’m a doctor, there’s nothing you have that I haven’t seen before.”

The older man guffawed.

“I doona’ think they’re all the same, lass,” her patient said, sounding disgruntled.

She shrugged. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

Rory’s gaze narrowed on her. “Where do you hail from?”

“New—” she began before being interrupted.

“Rory Mor, do as the lass says and sleep. Yer questions will wait.”

Ali removed the blood-soaked cloth. Replacing it with a fresh one, she applied pressure. Fergus caught her eye and shrugged. “He needs rest.”

“Umhmm, he does,” she agreed, raising a brow at the older man’s continued scrutiny.

“Sorry, I didna’ mean to stare, but ’tis uncanny how much you resemble the Lady Brianna, is all.”

“So I’ve heard.” And seen, Ali reminded herself.

“But only at first glance. There’d be differences.”

Ali snorted. “I heard that, too.”

“’Tis what you get for hidin’ under my bed,” Rory commented dryly.

A chuckle rumbled deep in Fergus’s barrel chest.

Ali felt the color rise to her cheeks. “You are supposed to be sleeping.”

“How am I to sleep with the two of you yammerin’? I need a drink.”

“As soon as the water’s been boiled I’ll give you some.”

“Water.” He scowled. “I doona’ want water. I want ale.”

“’Tis no’ a bad idea, lass. He’ll need somethin’ to make him sleep.”

Ali looked at the blood seeping through the bandage. Sooner or later she would have to deal with it. If all they had was alcohol to knock him out, then she had little choice but to use it. Ali nodded. “All right.”

She leaned over and adjusted the pillows behind Rory’s back, careful not to jolt him. The plaid slipped from her shoulder, and she bit her lower lip. His warm breath heated the sensitive skin of her breasts through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Her nipples tightened in response. Please let his eyes be closed, she silently prayed.

“’Tis no’ fair to tease a dyin’ man, lass,” he said, his lips so close the material of her T-shirt rippled.

Oh, for God’s sake. “You’re not dying,” she snapped, her tone more brusque than she intended. Ali stepped away, putting some distance between them.

“That’s good to hear,” Iain said, coming into the room with a mug in one hand and a bucket in the other. “And yer askin’ fer ale—another good sign.”

“Bloody hell, lass, you could have warned me you planned on gettin’ rough,” Rory growled when she placed the linens, as gently as she could, beneath his wounded side.

She grimaced and reached for the pitcher of alcohol on the bedside table. “Fergus and Iain, I’ll need you to hold him down for me.” Ali sighed when the three men glared at her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. I have to make sure there’s no infection before closing the wound, and the only way to do that is to pour the alcohol on it. I won’t lie to you,” she told Rory. “It’s going to burn.”

Fergus and Iain tightened their hold on her patient as she carefully poured the amber liquid into the gaping wound. Ali clenched her teeth when Rory let out a string of expletives. Once she felt confident it was thoroughly cleansed, she returned the pitcher to the bedside table. “You can let him go. I’m finished.”

For the last hour Ali had kept herself busy tearing the linens into strips while they plied Rory with alcohol. She turned to look at her patient, trying not to smile in response to his crooked grin. The man had the constitution of a horse. At this rate, they were going to have to hit him over the head to knock him out. The alcohol hadn’t done any good. She pressed her palm to the side of his face, relieved there was still no sign of fever.

Tension knotted the back of her neck, and Ali rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the taut muscles. She knew the cause. She had been trying not to think about it, but she had no choice, something had to be done to stop the bleeding. She had been optimistic when the bleeding had subsided, but now a telltale circle of claret red appeared on the snowy white linen. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood.

“Lass, why doona’ I bring you a wee drop of ale?” Mrs. Mac offered.

“Thank you, but I better not.” She checked Rory’s pulse, noting its steady rhythm.

“Will you be wantin’ to wrap the wound now?” Iain asked.

“No,” Ali said, unable to meet the younger man’s gaze.

“But—” Iain started to protest.

“Ah, would you be stitchin’ it then, lass?” Fergus interrupted him.

Ali shook her head. Clearing her throat, she said, “No, the wound is too wide, too deep. But he’s lost too much blood and I can’t let it go on any longer.”

She felt Rory’s gaze bore into her. “What is it yer plannin’ on doin’?”

“I don’t have a choice; the wound has to be cauterized.” Ali’s stomach lurched at the thought of what she had to do. “I’ll have to seal the wound together. Burn it.”

“I ken what you meant, lass,” he commented dryly.

“Nay!” Iain shouted.

“Aye, lad.” Fergus nodded. “The lass is right. I’ve seen it done before.” He turned to Ali. “Do you think you can manage, because I ken I canna’ do it.”

“Yes, but not if he’s awake,” she admitted. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of him suffering, and her being the cause.

“Do it now,” Rory ordered.

Ali’s head jerked up. “I told you, I can’t, not while you’re awake. Just drink that damn stuff.”

“It won’t work, Aileanna,” he said. Her name rolled off his tongue, his tone soothing.

Heat unfurled in her belly as though he caressed her.

“He speaks the truth, lass,” the older man said, sympathy in his eyes.

“Get my sword, Fergus.”

Ali’s gaze flew to Rory. “No…no,” she repeated when Fergus tried to press the weapon into her hand. “For God’s sake, I can’t. And certainly not with this. I can barely lift it,” she protested.

Rory let out a ragged breath. “Give her my dirk.”

Ali wrapped her arms around her waist, and shook her head. She was furious at what he wanted her to do. He was wide awake, for God’s sake. She walked to the hearth and swiped a tear from her cheek. She heard Fergus coming toward her. Taking her hand, he placed the knife in her palm. He rubbed her shoulder and bent his head to her ear. “You can do it, lass. The fairies wouldna’ have sent you if you couldna’.

“Yer the only one who can save him.”