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Authors: Pamela Clare

Tags: #Historical Romance

BOOK: Carnal Gift
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“
Cad ta dianta agat, a Rhuaidhri
" Rhuaidhri. He’d heard that name before. Her brother. Her brothers had come to save her. The irony of the situation would have made him laugh had he the strength for it. Had she known they were here, waiting? She touched his face. “Jamie, can you hear me? Rhuaidhri, Fionn, help me!”
A cold such as he had never known crept over him.
This must be what it is to die. He felt no fear of death, no sadness that his life was over, only a sense of regret at having failed to complete his mission. He felt Brighid search beneath his coat, felt her press something against the wound. She was trying to staunch the bleeding.
“Brighid ...” Pain engulfed him. He heard himself moan.
Then there was only darkness.
Chapter Six
Brighid laid a cool cloth across Jamie’s forehead. He was burning up.
For three days she’d fought to save his life. For three days she’d wondered if she would be the death of him. She’d known right away he was grievously hurt, had feared he would die from blood loss before she could treat him. She could have awoken the
iarla,
who surely would have called a real doctor to heal his friend. It would have been the best thing for Jamie. A wealthy man like the
iarla
would have precious laudanum to ease his friend’s pain and all manner of powders for fever and medicines to draw the sickness from the wound.
But revealing themselves would have meant certain death for her brothers and servitude in the
iarla’s
bed for her. They’d had no choice but to run. She’d tried to staunch the bleeding first, then had her brothers tie him to his horse. They’d traveled through the cold of night to an old, abandoned cottage not far from the ancient hill of Teaghmor, where Brighid and Rhuaidhri could hide.
At first, she’d worried he’d lost too much blood. He’d lain so cold and still on the bed, like a man already dead. Her brothers had argued over how to dispose of his body, until Brighid had shouted at them to shut up before they invited Death into the cabin with careless words. She’d had Fionn bring every herb and poultice she owned to the hideout, had sent Rhuaidhri outdoors to gather bog moss and bring fresh water from a spring. She’d cleaned the wound with whiskey and bound it with clean linen and poultice made of sweet violet leaves. Then fever had set in, and the wound had become angry and red.
If he weren’t so strong, he’d likely have died already. And strong he was. Once the fever had set in, he’d become delirious, rambling and thrashing about. It had taken both Rhuaidhri and Fionn to bind him to the bed so she could care for him.
Now he was fighting to stay alive. She didn’t want to care, but she did.
He strained against the ropes that bound his wrists to the bed’s wooden frame, cried out.
“Rest, Jamie.”
She lifted the flannel from his wound. Rhuaidhri’s blade had struck closer to the Englishman’s shoulder than his heart, and for that she was grateful. She’d given up on violet leaves and had soaked the flannel in garlic juice instead, but redness from the wound was beginning to spread. If she didn’t stop it, the poison would reach his blood. And he would die.
She knew what she needed to do, but she was afraid to do it.
The door to the cottage opened. Cold night air rushed in.
“God in heaven, what is that stench?”
“I hope you’ve brought more peat.” She was still too angry with her brother to look at him. “What we’ve got won’t keep the fire going through the night, and we must keep him warm.”
Rhuaidhri dropped blocks of dried peat by the hearth, walked over to the bed. “I once heard an old woman say you can save a man’s life if he’s on the brink by bindin’ him with a rope that was used to hang a man who survived the hangin’.”
She glared at him. “If you come by just such a rope, Rhuaidhri, I suggest you go hang yourself with it. For if he dies, you’ll have murdered a man, and God have mercy on your soul!”
She ignored the stricken look on her brother’s face, walked to the table, and began to sort through her herbs and ointments. Powder of horseradish she had, and lavender oil. She had oil of thyme, as well, and powdered holly berries. The bog moss was almost dried and ready for use. If only she had turpentine.
“How was I to know? He’s a
Sasanach
—“ She spun about, faced him. “I know what he is!”
“But—“
“You’ve hated the English your entire life, Rhuaidhri. Aye, and so have I. But maybe they’re not all evil. Besides, how much will your life be worth if he dies? Not a farthing!” Rhuaidhri looked at her, his expression one of astonishment—and doubt. “What does he mean to you?” “I already told you. He spared me. He helped me escape.”
Brighid turned back to the bed, ignored the probing tone in her brother’s voice. She had already told her brothers how Jamie had protected her, but she hadn’t told them everything. She hadn’t told them how Jamie’s kisses had ignited a fever in her blood or how his touch had made her skin tingle. She hadn’t told them how the feel of his tongue entwined with hers had made her knees weak, or how the briefest glimpse of his naked male body had made it hard for her to breathe.
“Are you sure that’s all he did?”
“If you don’t believe me, bring the midwife!” Fionn stepped in, shoulders hunched against the cold, his blond hair hidden beneath a blue knitted cap. “What’s the shoutin?”
“Rhuaidhri seems to think the midwife ought to examine me.” She turned her back on them both, tucked the blanket under Jamie’s chin.
“I didn’t say—“
“Don’t dishonor your sister, little brother, or you’ll have me to deal with.” Fionn moved to the fire, wanned his hands. “If you hadn’t opened your bloody gob, Brighid would never have been in danger in the first place. Now come and help me unload the cart.”
Fionn and Rhuaidhri carried in what supplies Fionn had been able to bring from home—the old oatmeal chest filled halfway, cheese, bainne clabair, butter, a few eggs, bacon, more potatoes, a jar of barm for bread should Brighid get the time to make any, a large pile of peat for the fire.
Aidan had sent Brighid a little straw cross he’d made. The innocent sweetness of his gift made her smile. She hung it over the doorway, an ache in her heart. Sweet Mary, how she missed him. He was staying with Muirin, who’d sworn to Fionn that caring for the boy would help to ease her grief. A childless mother and a motherless child.
“There’s plenty of feed for his horse.” Fionn stood beside her, held out a tattered book. “I brought this, too.” “Oh, Fionn.” It was her favorite—the story of Don Bellianis of Greece. Her brothers, Fionn especially, teased her about reading chivalric romances—silly girl stories, Fionn called them—but she loved them. She’d read this one dozens of times and had been lured from dreariness and drudgery by the magic of its worn pages. She reached over, set it on the table. There was no time for reading now.
She dipped the cloth in the bucket of cold water, wrung it out, placed it back on Jamie’s forehead. She voiced the fear that had haunted her all day. “I’m afraid he’s dying.” She felt Fionn’s reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“You’ve done everything you can.”
“No, not everything.” Her mind was made up. She stood, crossed the tiny room to where her cloak hung on a nail by the door. She hesitated, then unfastened her brooch. The dragon’s red eyes gleamed at her, candlelight glinting off the stones like tears.
It was all she had.
She turned to Fionn, held out her hand. “Take this to Baronstown. There’s a doctor there who lives just down the street from the cheeser. Trade it for turpentine and the sharpest knife he’ll give you.”
Her brother’s blue eyes opened wide. “Oh, Brighid. You would sacrifice this?”
“For him?” Rhuaidhri indignant voice intruded.
“Do you know how afraid I was when the started to undress me right there in front of his servants? My legs shook. I felt sick. I wished myself dead rather than have his hands on me. But I didn’t fight, and I didn’t run because I thought I was protectin’ my brothers.” She heard her voice quaver, fought the tears that pricked her eyes. “That man stopped the
iarla,
protected me. He saved you, too, Rhuaidhri. We both owe him a life debt.” Rhuaidhri’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Take it, and go.” She took Fionn’s hand, would have placed the brooch in his calloused palm. “I’ll do it.” Rhuaidhri took the brooch. “Fionn has already ridden half the night to get here.”
Brighid shook her head. “But if anyone sees you—“ “It’s dark. No one’s going to be lookm’ for me in bloody Baronstown.”
“All right, but stay out of trouble, and hurry. Take his horse.”
His gaze met hers. “I’m doing this for you, not for him.” “Ask the doctor if he’s got laudanum or anything special to fight a fever.”
“Aye.” Rhuaidhri walked toward the door, opened it, was gone.
While Fionn slept, exhausted, on a pallet of straw near the hearth, Brighid tended Jamie. She bathed his forehead and chest with cold cloths, changed the flannel on his wound, coaxed another draught of
seamsdg
down his throat.;All the while, she listened for the sound of hooves. But it wasn’t until just before dawn that Rhuaidhri returned. His cheeks and ears were red with cold, his fingers, too. Without speaking, he handed her a linen bag, then went back out to tend the horse.
Eagerly, she opened the bag. Inside was a small knife with a thin, sharp blade, a bottle of turpentine, a packet of some strange powder, and a smaller bottle that smelled of spirits. Laudanum.
Relief, gratitude, and feelings of guilt washed through her. She’d spoken harshly to Rhuaidhri, more harshly than she’d intended. She’d apologize when he came in, but now she needed to boil water.
By the time the water had begun to bubble, Fionn had awoken, and Rhuaidhri had returned. He came to the hearth, warmed his red, cracked fingers over the fire. “I’ll need you to hold him for me.”
They nodded.
Rhuaidhri peeled off his coat. “I told the doctor you’d cut yourself and the cut had festered. He said turpentine would likely do the trick if you mixed it with mustard flower. He wrote down his recipe for using the powder. It’s some kind of tree bark.”
She nodded. The first thing she needed to do was give Jamie the tincture of poppy. It would dull his pain. She uncorked the little bottle, poured some in a spoon. Setting the bottle aside, she lifted his head gently with her free hand.
“Drink, Jamie.” She held the spoon to his lips, trickled the precious liquid into his mouth, and sighed with relief when he swallowed. Almost immediately, he seemed to fall into a deep sleep.
Could she do this?
She had no choice.
She owed the Englishman a life debt, and she would see it repaid.
She reached for her cross, muttered a prayer to St. Brighid, to the Virgin Mother, and to God. Then she lifted the cross from around her throat and walked to the bed. “Oh, good God.” Rhuaidhri groaned.
“Don’t blaspheme.” Fionn elbowed his brother.
She lifted Jamie’s head, slipped the thong over it, and laid the iron cross against the tanned skin of his throat. “Puttin’ that cross on a Protestant, that’s blasphemy!”
Rhuaidhri protested.
“I wouldn’t have the cross if it weren’t for him. It’s only right I use its power to heal him.”
She picked up the knife and looked down at the man who now slept so peacefully. She didn’t want to cause him pain. She didn’t want to make him suffer. She didn’t want him to die.
Rhuaidhri joined her at the bedside. “What are you doing,
Brighid? You’re no surgeon. If he dies—“
“We shall both be to blame.”
Her brothers held Jamie’s shoulders fast to the straw mattress. The ropes beneath creaked at the added weight. Brighid raised the knife and held it above the wound.
Her hand trembled. She fought to steady it. He was just a Sasanach.
She pressed the knife slowly into the wound.
Jamie moaned.
Flesh parted. Foul, yellow liquid oozed forth as she pressed the knife deeper, made the wound wider. Blood spilled onto his skin, made it hard for her to see. But she had planned for this. When the wound was as wide as she dared make it and the blood flowed freely, she dashed to the hearth, removed a red-hot skewer from the ashes, dashed back. She hesitated only for a moment, then pressed it into the cut she had just made. A searing sound filled the air, along with the stench of burning flesh. Jamie arched, cried out. Her brothers struggled to hold him still.
Rhuaidhri’s eyes were wide. “God, Brighid!”
Jamie’s eyes flew open. His fevered gaze met hers.
“Bitch!”
Brighid ignored the stabbing sensation in her heart, removed the skewer, and washed the blood away. The bleeding had all but stopped. Almost at once, Jamie’s eyes closed, and he lay silent again, his face pale. Rhuaidhri shook his head, watched her. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“She’s doin’ what needs doin’, and let that be a lesson to you.”

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