She quickly tore a strip off the hem of her dress, wadded it into a ball, and pressed it against the chest wound. Then she tore off another strip and tried to staunch the slashes in his flank. But there were so many and Abi didn’t have enough hands to see to them all.
Whitefoot lay unresponsive, and panic flashed through Abi.No, no, no!
She heard a commotion in the courtyard, the sound of shouting, and then a figure hurtled around the corner and skidded to a halt.
Reid.
His eyes flicked over the scene, taking in Clyde and Thomas laid out on the ground and Whitefoot’s prone form. His face went white, all the blood draining from his features.
“Are ye all right?” he asked Abi. “Are ye hurt?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “And I think Clyde and Thomas are only dazed. But Whitefoot...Domnall Maguire...Whitefoot stopped him.” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly to the hound.
Reid knelt by Whitefoot and ran his hands gently over the beast’s flanks.
“It’s all right, boy,” he said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”
At the sound of his master’s voice, Whitefoot’s eyes opened and his tail wagged weakly.
“Oh, Reid,” Abi gasped. “I’m so sorry—”
“Hush,” Reid replied. “None of this is yer fault.”
He unclasped his cloak, laid it over Whitefoot, then used it as a blanket to wrap around the hound as he stooped and lifted the enormous beast into his arms. Pausing only long enough to bellow orders for a party to go after Domnall Maguire and for Clyde and Thomas to be taken to the infirmary, he carried Whitefoot to the main doors of the keep and up the stairs to his room. Abi followed, Bo close on her heels.
Reid shouldered the door open and laid the big hound on his bed before peeling away his cloak and leaning close to inspect the dog’s wounds. Abi sat on Whitefoot’s other side, watching anxiously.
“He was protecting me,” she blurted. “Is he going to be all right?”
Reid didn’t answer as he studied Whitefoot. He looked pale and tired, more worried than she’d ever seen him.
He stood, crossed to the sideboard, and took down a bottle of something. Pulling the cork out with his teeth, he poured a dark amber liquid over a rag and Abi caught the distinctive smell of whisky. He pulled Whitefoot into his lap and began using the cloth to clean the wounds. The hound whined in pain.
“Easy, lad,” Reid said softly.
He inspected the deeper gash in the dog’s chest and paled even further. “Pass me a bandage will ye?” he said to Abi, nodding to a wooden cabinet attached to the wall.
Abi leapt to her feet and pulled the cabinet open. Inside, she found neatly stacked bandages, bottles of salve, and needle and thread and remembered how Reid had been treating some of his own injuries when she’d barged in on him that time. It seemed the lord of Dun Treve was not unaccustomed to acting as a field medic.
“And some honey,” he added, pointing to a small bottle. “To keep out infection.”
Abi handed it over. Reid smeared some of the honey on Whitefoot’s wounds and then began wrapping a bandage around the dog’s torso.
“Won’t they need stitching?” Abi asked anxiously.
Reid shook his head. “They aren’t so wide that the skin canna knit itself back together, given time. And besides, it needs to be left open to drain.”
“Do you...do you think he’ll recover?”
Reid glanced up at her. “We’ll know by morning, but the wound isnae bleeding anymore, which is a good sign.”
Whitefoot had fallen asleep, so Reid gently shifted the dog onto the bed and left him there. He looked at Abi and wiped a hand across his brow.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said.
“Sorry? For what?”
“For not keeping a closer eye on Domnall Maguire. For being arrogant enough to think my threats would deter him.”
