A Lady by Midnight

Page 24

And grabbed the snake.
Five seconds and it was over. Once Thorne had the adder in hand, he doubled the length and snapped its spine. The writhing coil of green-sheathed muscle fell lifeless to the ground.
Badger kept right on barking.
Kate fell to her knees, scooping up the dog, clutching him to her chest and peppering his fur with kisses.
“Why did you do that?” she asked Thorne. “You might have just reached for Badger and pulled him out of harm’s way.”
Thorne shook his head. “That snake was going to strike when I did,” he said. “If I’d reached for the dog, those fangs would have found your ankle instead.”
Good Lord. He’d never had any intention of reaching for Badger. He just grabbed for the snake with his bare hand, rather than risk it biting her. How exceedingly reckless and stupidly brave.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Leaning against the stone wall, he turned his hand this way and that. “I reckoned I could weather it.”
Kate’s heart stalled. “What do you mean? Were you bitten?”
When he didn’t answer, she released Badger and scrambled to her feet.
“Let me look.” She reached for his wrist, and he did not fight her as she raised his big, roughened hand to the light for examination. “Oh, no.”
There they were. Two neat, round punctures just where the heel of his hand met his wrist. The area around the bite was already puffing with blood.
“We must go to your quarters. Do you have a medical kit? This needs to be treated, and quickly.”
“It’s only an adder bite.”
“Only? Only an adder bite?”
He shrugged. “Just a scratch.”
“A scratch infected with venom.” She pulled on his sleeve, tugging him back toward the castle keep.
“There’s a lot of me. It would take more than a few drops of poison to bring me down.”
Nevertheless, he walked with her to the corner of the keep that served as his personal quarters. As he nudged the door open with his left shoulder, she saw him misjudge his step and stumble against the door.
“Are you dizzy?”
“Just . . . a misstep.” But he stayed there, leaning against the door, his eyes unfocused. “Give me a minute.”
Absolutely not. At the rate his hand was swelling, she wouldn’t give him another second.
She found a stool beside the lone, small table and braced it against the turret’s interior stone wall.
“Sit down,” she ordered. He might be a big, intimidating infantry officer, accustomed to having men march, load, and fire at his command—but she would not be countermanded on this score. She grabbed his good arm and pulled with all her might.
Oof. He barely budged. Goodness, he was just an enormous lump of masculinity, all muscle and heavy boots. There was a lot of him, as he’d said.
“I’m well,” he protested.
“I’m worried. Humor me.”
Kate coaxed him to the stool and made sure he sat with his back well braced against the wall. Badger came to his heels, sniffing about his boots and making small whining noises.
Once Thorne was seated, she began tugging at his sleeve. “I’m sorry. We have to remove your coat.”
She began with the sleeve of his injured right arm, carefully drawing the red wool sheath down until he could pull his entire arm free. She eased a hand behind his shoulder to help him out of the sleeve. An involuntary tremor passed through his sculpted shoulder muscles—a whispered confession of the danger he faced, despite his impressive size and strength. Kate shivered in response.
While she propped his wounded wrist on the table for examination, he twisted his torso and shook the garment down his left arm. The red coat slid to the floor.
He gave the discarded coat a regretful look. She knew it must pain him to see the uniform crumpled on the ground. But he didn’t bend to retrieve it.
“Perhaps I’m not so well,” he said.
Her pounding pulse accelerated. If he admitted it, he must be very bad off indeed.
A serrated knife lay on the table. She reached for it.
“Be still,” she warned.
With clumsy swipes of the blade, she laid open the linen sleeve of his shirt, rending it all the way up to the elbow. Angry streaks of red blazed from the adder bite. She could follow those streaks halfway up his thick, muscled forearm, even through the covering of dark hair. She needed a tourniquet.
When she raised her head to ask Thorne where one might be, she saw that his face had gone pale. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow, and his breathing was uneven. She reached for his unknotted cravat and worked it loose with trembling fingers. He tilted his head back to assist her. As her fingers brushed the freshly shaven skin of his throat, she could see the pulse beating beneath his jaw, as though a butterfly were trapped under his skin.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re undressing me,” he said thickly.
“It can’t be helped.”
“Wasn’t complaining.”
Once she had the cravat free, she doubled the arm’s-length strip of fabric and wound it around his arm, just below the elbow. She took one end of the fabric and clenched it in her teeth, then pulled the other end with both hands. Her efforts wrenched a groan of pain from his throat. By the time the thing was in place, she was huffing for breath and sweating just as much as he was.
“Where is your medical kit?” she asked, already scanning the room for likely places.
He slid his gaze toward a battered wooden chest on a high shelf.
Kate hastened to the shelf and stretched up on her toes to retrieve the box.
When she turned back, she nearly dropped it. Thorne had the knife in his left hand. His sweat-covered brow was furrowed with concentration and he was pressing the serrated blade against the angry, swollen skin at his wrist.
“Oh, don’t—”
He grimaced and twisted the knife. A growl of pain forced through his clenched teeth, but his hand didn’t falter. Before she could reach his side, he’d turned the blade a quarter turn and slashed through the distended flesh again. Blood flowed freely from the crossed incisions.
He let the knife fall to the table and slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked, carrying the kit to the table.
“So you wouldn’t have to.”
Kate was thankful. She knew he’d done the right thing. Releasing the blood—and venom—from the swollen area was necessary, lest it travel to other parts of his body. But the sight of so much blood stunned her motionless for a moment. She had helped Susanna a time or two when she’d treated the villagers’ illnesses and injuries. But that was offering a bit of assistance to a skilled, competent healer. This was the two of them, alone with desperate measures.
He could die.
A wave of nausea passed through her. She rode the crest of it, then put a hand to her belly and willed herself to be calm.
Kate opened the chest and found a clean-looking length of gauze in the medical kit. She used it to dab blood from the seeping wound.
“Don’t bind it,” he said. “Not yet.”
She nodded. “I know. What do we do next?”
“You go back to the village. I either live or I don’t.”
The words were so absurd, she choked on a wild laugh. “Are you mad, Thorne? I’m not leaving you.”
She rifled through the bottles and jars in the medical kit, straining to read the faded labels. None of the contents looked familiar. “You said you own four books. I don’t suppose any are books of physic?”
He nodded toward a shelf. Kate dashed to it and found a well-thumbed military drill book, a Bible coated in dust, a bound collection of geographical magazines . . .
“Aha.” She seized on a large black volume and peered at the title. “Treatment of Ailments and Injuries in . . .” Her hope dwindled as she read the remainder aloud. “ . . . in Horses and Cattle? Thorne, this is a veterinary book.”
“I’ve been called a beast.” He closed his eyes.
Kate decided she didn’t have the time to be particular. She quickly paged through the book until she found the section on bites and stings. “Here we are. Adder bites. ‘The sting of the adder is rarely fatal.’ Well, that’s reassuring.”
Although she would have felt a great deal better had it read “the sting of the adder is never fatal.” To say adder bites were “rarely fatal” seemed to her the same as saying “adder bites are occasionally fatal,” and Thorne did pride himself on being an exception to ordinary conduct.
But there was a lot of him, she reminded herself. And all of it was young, healthy, and strong. Very strong.
There were several possible remedies suggested in the text.
She read aloud, “ ‘First, squeeze out the blood.’ We’ve done that, haven’t we? Good.” She made an impatient swipe at a lock of hair dangling in her face and continued. “ ‘Take a handful of the herb crosswort, some gentian and rue, boil together in a thin broth with Spanish pepper and some ends of broom, and when that is done, strain and boil with some white wine for about an . . .’ ” She growled. “About an hour?”
Drat. She didn’t have time to go scouting for a dozen different herbs, much less boil them for an hour. She didn’t even dare leave Thorne for the time it would take to run to the village for help.
She glanced at his face again. God, he was so pale. And his arm was entirely swollen now. Despite the tourniquet, those streaks of red had reached his elbow and beyond. His fingers were purple in some places.
“Do be calm,” she said, even as anxiety pitched her voice. “I’ve several more remedies to go through.”
She went back to the book. The next suggested remedy was to wash the affected area with salt and . . .
Urine.
Oh, good Lord. At least that substance was obtainable, but still. She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. Or perhaps she could, to preserve a man’s life. But she’d never be able to look at the preserved man again.
She sent up a fervent prayer that the third remedy would prove suitable to save both his life and their combined dignity. She read aloud with rapidity. “ ‘Lay a plaster to the area, with a salve made of calamint pounded with turpentine and yellow wax. And give the animal some infusion of calamint to drink, as a tea or mixed in milk.’ ”
Calamint. Calamint sounded perfect. If only she had some.
Kate went back to the medical kit and peered at all the contents of the bottles. She uncorked a vial stuffed with a dried herb that looked promising. When she held it to her nose and sniffed, she supposed it smelled as much like calamint as anything.
She looked around the room. There was a great deal to be done. Light a fire, boil water, melt wax, pound the salve, make a tea. And Thorne was tilting dangerously on that stool she’d given him. At any moment he’d topple the small pedestal table and crash to the floor.
She decided his wound had bled long enough. The extreme swelling had slowed the blood flow to an ooze, anyhow. She wrapped a bit of linen about his wrist as a loose bandage, then made her way to his good side.
“Up,” she directed, sliding her shoulder beneath his unbitten arm. “We’re going to take you to the bed.”
As she helped him to his feet, she could feel his eyes on her. His stare was heavy and intent.
“Am I causing you pain?” she asked.
“Always. Every time you’re near.”
She turned her face away to hide her wounded reaction. “I’m sorry.”
“Not what I meant.” He sounded drunk. With his healthy hand, he nudged her jaw until she faced him. “You’re too beautiful. It hurts.”
Wonderful. Now he was hallucinating.
Together, they shuffled toward his narrow bed. It was only a distance of a half-dozen feet, but it felt like miles. Her spine hunched under his formidable weight.