As High as the Heavens (26 page)

The maidservant nodded and hurried from the
room.

Kneeling before Duncan, Heather quickly removed his
sodden, mud-covered cuarans. Then she rose, reaching
for the broad leather belt cinching his waist. It was testimony to Duncan's pain and exhaustion that he didn't
protest or even question her when she removed it, and
then his plaid.

After helping him to lie down, Heather covered Duncan with a light blanket, exposing only his wounded
leg. By that time, Beth had returned with the necessary
supplies.

"Cleanse and dress the wounds on his arms and chest,"
Heather said, immediately taking up a clean cloth and
dipping it into the basin of steaming water Beth had set
on the table beside the bed, "while I-"

"Nay, lass." Duncan halted her hand as it moved toward his leg. "Let Beth treat my leg," he said with firm
emphasis. "In the meanwhile, I'd like ye to see if my
mither needs help."

He meant to spare her the sight of his pain, Heather
realized as she gazed down at him. Meant to spare her
from the possibly revolting sight of his infected flesh,
and what it might take to treat it. Perhaps, as well, he doubted she possessed the necessary skills to properly
care for him.

In most other circumstances, in situations where she'd
had time to pause and think it over, Duncan may well
have been right. But though Heather had come from a
formerly pampered existence, she had already faced the
death of a loved one, stood by and watched someone
she cared for suffer and waste slowly away. She would
certainly not turn away now, no matter how difficult or
painful.

"If ye wish for Beth to treat yer leg, I don't mind,"
Heather said, gently disengaging her wrist from his clasp.
She handed the cloth to Beth. "But I won't leave ye,
Duncan. I can't. I just can't."

For a long, poignant moment, he stared up at her. A
look of wonder, then tender regard, darkened his eyes.
Finally, he exhaled a deep breath.

"Come." Duncan extended his hand, palm up. "Come
and hold me while Beth sees to my leg."

With a tremulous smile, Heather moved to the head
of the bed, scooted onto its edge, and lifted his head and
shoulders to cradle them in her lap. Then, taking both
his hands in hers, she nodded to Beth.

"Get on with it."

The brown-haired woman bent to her work, quickly
cutting away the filthy bandages to expose the gaping
leg wound. It was a three-inch-wide sword thrust. As
Heather had feared, the edges were swollen, the flesh
a fiery red, and the bandage was stained with blood
and pus. Beth's glance met hers. Heather knew she was
equally distressed.

The maid dipped the cloth once more into the hot
water, rubbed in some soap, then met Duncan's gaze.
"First I'll wash yer leg, then move to yer wound with a
fresh cloth. Are ye certain ye wouldn't like a dram or two
of whiskey before I begin? It'd ease yer pain a mite."

"Nay." Fiercely, Duncan shook his head. "That'd take
too long to work. Just do it and be done with it!"

Once more, Beth looked to Heather. She nodded,
signaling for her maid to begin. At first, Duncan was
relaxed, lying loose and comfortably in Heather's lap.
But as Beth finished her washing of the rest of his leg,
took up another clean cloth, wet and soaped it, then
proceeded gently to cleanse his wound, he soon went
tense in Heather's arms.

"T-talk to me," he ground out. "T-tell me what y-ye've
been doing since I 1-left. Aught if only to take my m-mind
from the pain!"

Her heart aching for him, Heather gripped Duncan's
hand the tighter and forced an encouraging smile. "It
won't be much longer. Hold on. Hold on."

"T-talk to me." His eyes clenched shut and sweat
beaded his brow. "I missed ye so, lass," he gasped. "And
even in the w-worst of it, I held yer face before me, and
f-fought mightily to come back to ye."

"And I was always with ye," Heather whispered, bending close until her lips were but a hairsbreadth from
his ear. "Ye never left my thoughts all the while ye were
gone. And I prayed. Och, how I prayed ..."

"D-did ye, lass? It w-warms my heart to h-hear-"

Duncan jerked in her arms, his body arching in agony. The breath hissed through gritted teeth. His eyes clamped
shut.

Heather glanced down to where Beth still worked. To
cauterize the still-oozing wound and hopefully destroy
the last bit of infection, she had poured the gaping hole
in Duncan's leg full of boiling oil. It was excruciating,
Heather well knew, but it was the treatment used by the
best physicians.

"Hold tight. Hold tight," she cried, clutching Duncan to
her with all her might. "It'll be over soon. I swear it!"

Yet, in spite of all her intentions to be brave and strong
for Duncan, Heather couldn't bear to see him suffer so.
Tears welled, then coursed down her cheeks.

"Och, 1-lass," Duncan moaned, gazing up at her with
pain-glazed eyes. "D-don't cry. I'm not w-worth it."

"And if not ye, then who should I concern myself
with?" she sobbed, her body shaking with her pent-up
feelings and fear for him. "Ye're the finest, kindest-"

"H-hish, lass," he crooned, his body finally uncoiling
from its whipcord tautness as Beth finished the liquid
cautery treatment.

Gently, Duncan freed a hand from her clasp. He stroked
Heather's cheek, wiping away her tears.

"I'm not so fine as all that. Indeed, I'm not even as
good a man as I once thought I was."

Startled, she looked up, locking gazes with his. "Whatever do ye mean?" Heather asked, some instinct warning
her to be wary.

A pained confusion, a bewildered torment, clouded his
eyes. "The first night we made camp after we left here,
my father told me. . ." His voice faded.

Though Heather sensed it would be better not to prod
and poke at what was obviously an equally painful wound
of his heart, she suddenly wanted-needed-to know.
"What, Duncan? What did yer father tell ye?"

He looked away, then sighed. "It doesn't matter, leastwise not at a time like this. Malcolm ... my father ...
sacrificed his life for me. That sword thrust-the one he
took to his belly-was meant for me.

"Och, dear Lord, dear Lord!" he groaned, the cry
wrenched suddenly from somewhere deep within him.
Turning his head, Duncan hid his face against Heather.
"H-he gave his life for me," he said finally, each word
taut with agony, "and I was never even his son!"

"Wh-what do ye mean?" Heather stammered after a long
moment of stunned silence, terrified that Malcolm had
revealed Duncan's birth secret and now all might be lost.
"Of course Malcolm is yer true father. Dinna fash yerself
just now. Yer mind is addled from the pain, and ye don't
know what ye're saying."

"On the contrary, lass. I know well what I'm saying,"
he rasped thickly, tensing once more as Beth applied a
marigold salve, then began to wrap his leg with fresh
bandages. "My fath-Malcolm-told me I was given to
them when my real parents died. All they knew was that
my forename was Duncan. Our laird wouldn't tell them
aught more."

"He's still yer father," Heather said, noting Duncan's
hesitation now in naming Malcolm his sire. "What matters, in the end, is he was always there when ye needed
him and was a good parent to ye."

"Aye," he admitted grudgingly, "I know it. I just ... just
need time to ... to sort through it all." He glanced down
as Beth finished tying off the bandage. "If it wouldn't cause ye trouble, could ye fetch clean water to bathe
the rest of me, lass?" Duncan asked the maidservant.
"I'm quite filthy"-as if to add credence to his request,
he gestured to his torso and other arm and leg-"and
would dearly love to feel clean again."

Beth nodded and smiled. "It's no trouble at all."

Duncan took her arm. "Would ye also see how my
father fares? And if my mither has need of me?"

"Aye, if ye wish." She rose, picked up the basin of dirty
water, and walked from the room.

As soon as Beth was out of earshot, Duncan turned
back to Heather. "I had ample time to consider my father's words on the ride back. Indeed, it helped keep
my mind off my wounds and the fact Father was slowly
bleeding to death in my arms. Time enough to wonder if
there might not be some connection between my mysterious true family and the fact that I supposedly share
such a striking resemblance to this Colin Stewart."

Panic rose in Heather. Och, not now, she thought.
Not now.

What could she say to him? She didn't want to lie to
Duncan. But he was too clever, too insightful, easily to
lead him astray.

Why, oh why, did Malcolm have to tell him? If only he
could've waited another month. Then it would've been
safe for Duncan to have known it all. But not now. And
not from her lips.

There was no avoiding Duncan's piercing regard, however, or the trusting way he patiently awaited her reply.
"Did ye think to ask yer father that question?" Heather
asked in an effort to prevaricate.

"Nay, I didn't and, when I finally did, it was too late.
He was unconscious." He took her hand, lifted it to his
lips, and kissed it. "I thought ye might be able to share
some of yer understanding on the matter, though."

"And why would ye think I knew aught?" She licked
her lips, then swallowed hard. "Besides, uncommon as
they are, such things do happen."

"Do they? I wonder." Duncan eyed her, then, as if a
mask had fallen over his face, he smiled thinly. "Well,
mayhap ye're right. Ye've seen and done far more than
I have, considering I've never even left this part of the
Highlands. If the resemblance doesn't concern ye, who've
seen both of us, then I suppose I shouldn't let it concern
me.

But it does, Heather thought glumly, and for good reason. And I haven't fooled ye a whit, have I, Duncan? Och,
Father, Father, she beseeched her sire silently. Why have
ye placed me in such an untenable position and forced me
to lie to Duncan? Didn't ye ever consider the sort of man
he truly is-a man who won't be fooled for long?

Thankfully, Beth returned at that moment, another
basin of steaming water in her hands. Both Duncan
and Heather looked to her expectantly. The maidservant placed the bowl on the small bedside table, then
turned to them.

"Yer father is still unconscious."

"And his wound?" Duncan prompted, struggling to
shove to one elbow. "Have they been able to staunch
the bleeding?"

"Aye. It took cautery with a red hot iron, though. The
heated oil wasn't enough."

With a deep, weary sigh, Duncan sank back against
the pillows. "I thank the Lord for that." He grimaced and
shook his head. "I fear it won't be enough to save him,
though. The sword thrust he took to his belly ..."

His voice broke.

"He's home, surrounded now by family and friends
who care about him," Heather hastened to offer, kneeling
beside the bed to take Duncan's hand in hers. She kissed
it tenderly, then cupped it to her cheek. "If aught can be
done for him, we'll do it, and no mistake."

Duncan managed a wan smile. "I know that, lass. I
know that." His eyes slid shut, and he sighed once again.
"Och, but I'm tired. The ride home seemed endless and
it was so cold, what with all the wind and rain. I tried
to keep Father as warm as I could, but it was nigh impossible. . ."

"Ye're both safe and warm now," Heather whispered.
"And we're here for ye. Sleep now," she urged. "Ye'll feel
better once ye take a bit of rest."

Ever so slowly, Duncan's lids lifted, and she was impaled by a pair of deep green eyes, eyes that smoldered
with undisguised agony. "Will I, lass?" he asked softly.
"Ever feel better, I mean? The only man I've ever known
as father lies dying in another room, yet though I love
him with all my heart, he never truly was my father. And,
when my mither someday dies ... well, then I'll have lost
the final link with whatever family I'll ever know."

He gave a gruff, self-deprecating laugh. Then he slowly
shook his head, his eyes closing once again.

"Aye, I've a lot to look forward to," Duncan whispered, "as I watch my life as I've always known it tumble down
about me."