Dangerous Pride (39 page)

“My husband did no’ leave Tolquhon alone.  Do you have any news of the men who rode with him?” she asked, silently praying that her voice didn’t sound strained and unsure to the man’s ears.

Kenneth glanced out the window before meeting her gaze.  “They are all dead, my lady.”

Catriona took a deep, steadying breath.  “What then of the Duke and the rest of his party?  My father and the Baron rode with them, as well.”

“There was no sign of them.  We found the laird not far from where the rest of the Forbes men lay butchered.”  The anger and frustration the man felt resonated in his voice as he struggled to keep his emotions in check.  “Rory believes they were returnin’ to Tolquhon when they were set upon by a large group of warriors.  They were all killed in the battle, my lady, all but the laird.  There were other men dead – men who are no’ from our clan, but who we could no’ identify.  They must have been the ones who attacked the laird’s party.  He was still astride Laeg, yer husband was, when we found him.  He was heading in the direction of Tolquhon.”

Catriona reached out to lay a comforting hand on the man’s arm, touched to see the concern Kenneth obviously felt for Lachlan, and the men who had died.  “Thank you for bringing us word, then.  We’ll set ourselves to seeing that our laird regains his strength as soon as possible.  He’ll need it so that he can deliver the men responsible for this slaughter straight to hell.”

###

Once Kenneth had been sent to the kitchen in search of something to eat, Catriona went quickly to laird’s bedchamber to see that all was in order.  Satisfied that everything was in readiness, she donned her plaid and made her way to the entrance of the keep.  There was still no sign of the men, but a small group had gathered to wait for their laird.  Kenneth had sent two of the stronger lads from the house down to help carry Lachlan into the house.

For a time, she waited in the inner bailey, scanning the horizon for any sign of her husband’s party.  Another group of men had been dispatched from Tolquhon to help escort them home, for they were all mindful that whatever party had fallen upon the Forbes men could well strike again.

When she could no longer still her nerves, nor stand the sympathetic, curious gazes of her husband’s kinsmen, Catriona quietly took her leave.  After leaving instructions that she was to be sent for as soon as her husband’s party was in sight, she made her way to the chapel.  As she crossed through the doors of the church, pausing to admire the incredibly detailed wooden carvings that graced the walls, Catriona was overcome with a sense of wonder at how many other women must have gathered there in times of trouble to pray for the well-being of their loved ones.

The chapel had been built more than 100 years earlier by one of the first Tolquhon lairds.  As she offered up her own prayers for her husband’s safety, Catriona realized with a start that it was now up to her to ensure that Lachlan was not the last of his line.  With no heir to take his place, or assume his responsibilities, Lachlan’s death would not only mean uncertainty and turmoil for his people, but it would also mark the end of the Forbes family’s rule over this land.

Catriona could only pray that Lachlan’s wounds were not life-threatening, but the look of fear and sympathy she had seen in Kenneth’s eyes had done little to put her mind at ease.  She was filled with terror at that prospect her skills were not up to the task before her.  At Boyne Castle, she had become a healer out of necessity.  Neither her mother nor her sister had shown any interest in the healing arts, and it had been up to Catriona to prepare the herbs, ointments and salves needed to keep the clan in good health.  It has been years since she had tended the wounds men endured in battle, for in an abbey there had been little more than colds and fevers to treat.  She could only hope that she was up to the task of healing her own husband.

Catriona was kneeling at the altar, deep in her prayer, when she heard the door to the chapel opening behind her.  Sorcha hurried down the aisle toward her mistress, the fear evident on her plain features.  “They are in sight now, my lady,” she said quietly as Catriona leapt to her feet, gathering her skirts as she ran from the church into the yard.  She arrived in time to see Lachlan’s prone body being lifted from a makeshift litter the men had managed to construct from tree branches and plaids.  Rory carried his laird with surprising gentleness, though the concern he felt was evident in the set of his grim, prominent jaw.

“Is he….” she whispered, unable to form the question that was made it difficult for her to catch her breath.

“He lives still, my lady.  His heart is steady, though he has lost a great deal of blood.  Most men would no’ have survived the wounds he has endured.  His will tae live is plain enough,” he added with a shy smile.

Catriona nodded to the grizzled warrior, half-running, half-walking to keep place with his long, powerful strides.  Within minutes, he had settled Lachlan in his bed, brusquely waving aside the assistance of those who had gathered in the room.  “Ye and ye stay,” he scolded, pointing at Annella and the dowager, his concern for Lachlan overriding his interest in politeness or proprieties.  “The rest of ye can help by leavin’ the women tae do their work.”

Catriona spared the dowager a quick glance, frowning at the strained, hopeless look on the woman’s face before turning her attention to her husband.  With Rory’s help, she removed Lachlan’s boots from his feet, pulling off his stockings and gently removing his plaid, now stiff with dried blood, from his limp body.  She noted that his saffron shirt was drenched with fresh blood as Rory used his dirk to cut the garment from Lachlan’s pale, unmoving body.

When Catriona saw the extent of her husband’s injuries, she stifled a cry of alarm, desperate not to cause her mother-by-marriage any greater concern. Rory’s eyes sought hers, and she could feel his support and confidence as he held her gaze, steadily empowering her with his strength.  Gently, she reached down to feel the pulse at the base of Lachlan’s throat, relieved to feel that it still beat, although weakly.  If she could stop the flow of blood, and keep the injuries from becoming infected, he would have a chance at recovery.

Lachlan’s arms were covered with several smaller wounds, gashes from either swords or daggers – which she couldn’t be sure.  Most of these injuries were not deep enough to require stitching.  The most serious wounds, however, were to his chest and stomach.  One large gash crossed his chest from just beneath his neck, almost to his arm.  If the weapon had struck but a few inches higher, Lachlan would died almost instantly, for it was very near a major artery.  Little blood seeped from this wound, thankfully, and Catriona was confident that after it was stitched, the injury would heal nicely.

The most troubling wound was to his stomach.  Blood still seeped from the injury, but Catriona reasoned that no major organs had been pierced, for if they had, Lachlan would not have lived this long.

Catriona felt Rory’s assessing gaze heavily upon her, and she knew that he needed reassurance both of his laird’s condition, and her ability to heal him.  “If we can get the bleeding stopped in the wound to his stomach, I think that he will recover.  I see no sign that any of his internal organs have been damaged, which truly is a blessing.  The real risk now is of infection, and we must proceed carefully.”

Catriona instructed Rory to hold Lachlan down gently while she cleaned the wounds.  Rinsing them with hot water, then whiskey, would be painful, but it had to be done.  Thankfully, Lachlan had not yet regained consciousness.  Still, she did not want to risk any further injuries that might occur if he were to struggle against her touch.  Before she began, she poured a small measure of the alcohol into a silver goblet, and with Rory’s assistance, forced the liquid into Lachlan’s mouth.  Eventually, he swallowed the whiskey, which Catriona knew would help both ease his pain and settle him into a deeper sleep.  Then, as gently as she could, she rinsed the wounds with the water, then the remaining alcohol, moping the liquid from his skin as she went.  Though he flinched, Lachlan did not regain consciousness, and for this, Catriona was grateful.

Once she was satisfied that the wounds were clean, Catriona gathered up her needle and thread from the table beside her.  After sterilizing the needle in the flame of a candle, she began the painstaking task of stitching the deepest of the wounds.  She lost all track of time and the presence of others in the room with her as she lost herself in her work.  When she had finally finished, she again rinsed the wounds with alcohol, then covered them with a healing salve.  Next she wound clean linen strips around the deepest of the wounds, wrapping the bandages around Lachlan’s prone body to hold them firm.

Some time later, finally satisfied that she had done all she could for him, she dipped a linen cloth in the basin of warm water that rested near the hearth.  Gently, she cleared the dirt and grime from his face.  He slept deeply – too deeply, perhaps – and the next day would be critical for his recovery.  If any of the wounds became infected – if he developed a fever – there would be little she could do to save him.

Their work finished, Catriona thanked Rory before sending him off to assure the rest of the castle’s occupants that their laird had been tended to, and had a good chance for recovery.  Catriona then sent Annella and the dowager off to their rooms, promising she would send for them should Lachlan’s condition worsen, or if she required their help.

When the room was finally empty, save Catriona and her husband, she pulled a chair next to the side of the bed and sat down, resigned to the wait.  Her husband would live – or he would succumb to his wounds, and be forever lost to her.  There was nothing more that she could do.  His future was now out of her hands, and in God’s.

All she could do was pray for his recovery.  Many lives depended on it.  And her heart, as well, she feared.  Though, in truth, that did not bear thinking about.  Not yet.

Mayhap, not ever.

###

Catriona spent the night in the chair beside Lachlan’s bed, periodically checking his bandages to ensure that the bleeding hadn’t started again, and to make sure that he had not developed a fever.  Annella had visited their chambers several times during the night, offering to sit with Lachlan while Catriona rested, but each time, she had refused.  Instead, she had slept fitfully on the chair, more often than not waking from dreams so vivid and terrifying that she regretted having slept at all.

When the morning light began to filter in through the bedroom window, Catriona was awakened by a soft knock at the door.  In short order the dowager shooed her to the adjoining chamber, warning her that she needed more rest or she would become sick herself, and would be of no use to any of them then.  Too tired to argue, Catriona had sought her bed, heartened by the fact that Lachlan had begun to gain some color in his pale, haggard features.

Rejuvenated by her rest, Catriona left her room by mid-afternoon, pleased to find that Lachlan still showed no signs of fever.  The dowager had been successful in getting a small serving of broth into her son, and was inordinately pleased with herself for this tiny victory.  Rory came several times to check on his laird, after reporting to Catriona that their men had been unable to uncover any signs of those who had attacked Lachlan.  The bodies of the men who had fought bravely by his side had been returned to the keep, and were being prepared for burial.  They would hold the services two days hence, giving the men’s kin time to travel to the keep.

Though she was loathe to venture far from Lachlan’s side, Catriona made a point of taking the evening meal in the great hall.  She knew the clan would be looking to her for strength – and hope – and that she could do no less than encourage their loyalty and lessen their concern.  After the meal, Catriona and Rory returned to Lachlan’s chamber, the chess set from her husband’s study in tow.  Rory moved a small corner table in front of the fire, hauling over two chairs so that they could keep Lachlan in sight while they played chess.  For several hours they passed the time this way, Catriona interrupting their game frequently to check on her husband’s condition.  Though he showed no sign of a fever – and none of his wounds had reopened – she was concerned that he hadn’t yet gained consciousness.

As they played, Rory peppered Catriona with questions about her childhood, her family, and even the time she had spent in Edinburgh.  Initially, she had been hesitant to discuss such personal issues with Lachlan’s closest friend and chief, but Rory was so charming – and disarming – that she found herself chatting away happily, grateful for the distraction.

“How did you come to ken Lachlan, then?” she asked as she capably captured Rory’s Knight.  Though her thoughts were with her husband, she was determined to give Rory a reasonable match.

“We met in France, actually,” he replied, rubbing his chin in concentration as he contemplated his next move.  “Yer husband schooled there for a time, and I was part of King William’s army.  We met outside a tavern in Paris.  It was the first time that yer husband’s sword arm came tae my aid – but it certainly was no’ the last.  We became friends, and when his father died and he was called back to Scotland, I came with him.”

“I did no’ realize you had kent each other for so long,” Catriona replied, deftly moving her Queen out of the range of Rory’s King.  “You must know my brother well then,” she said, brightening at the thought of Iain.

“Aye, I do.  He’s a braw lad, yer brother is.  He’ll be a fine laird when the time comes.  Knowing you better now, I can see Seafield sired two fine, strong children.”

“If I did no’ ken better, I would think yer trying to woo my wife.”  The voice was weak, yet the deep timbre resonated in the room, startling Catriona enough that she dropped the chess piece she held in her hand.

“Lachlan?” she whispered, rising from her chair and making her way to the side of the bed.

The look of happiness and relief that crossed her face was almost enough to make Lachlan forget the tremendous pain that wracked his body.  Almost.  “You were expecting to hear from someone else, perhaps?” he joked, wincing when the pain in his stomach became more than he could bear.