“Forgive me,” he said. “I was a mite distracted and never gave them a thought when I dove in to snatch ye up before the kelpies took ye to the bottom and kept ye there.”
She pushed herself out of his arms and wiped her face with her shirttail. “I’ll need to change the dressing.” Still sniffling, she went to her bag and rummaged through it. “Soggy bandages, especially those filled with bacteria riddled pond water, cause infection.”
“It can wait, lass.” He brushed away the wetness they’d dripped on the sleeping pallet, amazed how it beaded up on the tight weave of the strange slick cloth. “Come and rest beside me. Ye nearly drowned, and ye’re soaked clean through.”
“Your bandages cannot wait.” She spoke as if trapped in a mild panic. As if she didn’t change the wrappings on his head, she risked crumbling to pieces. Hands filled with all manner of oddities, some he recognized, some he didn’t, she knelt beside him and arranged the things on a dry part of the pallet.
He caught hold of her wrist and forced her to look at him. “Ye need rest and drying out. It can wait. Sit here while I build a fire, aye?”
“No!” she said so loudly it echoed across the clearing. Ramrod straight, she yanked free of his hold. “I need to change your bandages.”
The quiver in her voice told him she needed the task—badly. Somehow, tending his wound gave her a hold on survival. He had seen such a thing before in those mourning the loss of a loved one. Tasks busied the mind and kept inner demons at bay. “I understand. Do what ye must.”
Her hands shook as she cut away the bandages with the strangest looking tool. Two blades hinged together and fashioned with loops for her fingers and thumb. As soon as she set it down, he snatched it up and examined it closer. When closed, the cutting tip of the thing bent at an angle, and the bottom blade was blunt and flattened on the end like a duck’s bill.
“Bandage scissors,” she said while peeling away the wet wrap and padding from his head.
“Bandage scissors,” he repeated, placing his finger and thumb in the loops as he’d seen her do, then opened and closed them. “I’ve seen sewing shears, but none are bent like these.”
“Protects the patient. Keeps them from getting gouged.” She dabbed a cloth against the back of his head. It snagged in something and pulled, stinging like a fiend.
He dodged sideways. “Easy there, lass. Are ye ripping it back open?”
“Sorry. Caught the gauze in a stitch.” But she didn’t sound sorry. Her voice was dull and cold. Dead. She sounded as though her heart and soul had already departed. “I think we should leave the dressing off for a bit. Let it dry out and air.”
Well enough. He didn’t much care for anything wrapped around his head, anyway. “Sounds fine. Now sit yerself down, and I’ll build a fire so our clothes can dry.”
“No.” She jumped back as if the suggestion burned her. “I’ll do it. You stay here and rest. I’ll get wood and get a fire going.”
“Ye can fix some of yer tea to warm yerself, aye?” He hoped the prospect of a cup of that stuff she liked so well might help calm her.
It didn’t.
Instead, the shaking in her hands spread. Her entire body trembled until she dropped to the ground and hugged her knees. “Tea,” she repeated, rocking in place while staring downward. “No more tea once mine is gone.”
“Of course, there will be tea.” He pried her hands loose from her panicked hugging of her knees and held them. Their iciness concerned him. ’Twas a balmy day. Even with her drenching, she shouldn’t be so cold. “I shall tell Mrs. Dingwall to add the stuff to the larder. We will never be without yer tea.”
“But I don’t think you can.” A forlorn hopelessness filled her voice. Her tears welled and spilled over again. “Black tea hasn’t made it to Scotland yet. Probably have to send someone to bloody China, and I’m not even sure the kind I like even exists there yet.”
That made no sense. She had the tea. Where had she gotten it? “Ye visited China to get yer tea?”
She jerked as though startled, staring at him as if he’d threatened to strike her. “No.”
“However ye got yer tea, then Mrs. Dingwall can do the same.”
“A friend sent it to me.” She stared down at her hands. “A friend who no longer exists.”
“I am verra sorry, lass.” He wanted to hold her, console her again, but she seemed so fragile. “I’ve heard China can be a dangerous place.” He hadn’t. In fact, he knew nothing of the country. But it seemed like the proper thing to say.
With a trembling dip of her chin, she agreed with a faint nod.
“We will find ye something else to brew.” He was determined to make her feel better. “Ye soak dried leaves in boiling water, aye?” After another of her hesitant nods, he continued, “There must be something in Cook’s garden ye can boil. My sister will help ye. Ye will relish whatever she finds. I promise.”
She stumbled to her feet and backed away. “I’m going for a walk.”
Everything in him shouted not to let her leave alone. Even though the queasiness still churned within him, he forced himself to his feet. “I shall walk with ye.”
She gave him a loathsome glare. ’Twas a wonder he didn’t burst into flames. Still shaking like a tree in a windstorm, she bared her teeth and spoke with them clenched tight. “Let me alone, Quinn. You have no bloody idea what I need right now. Just leave me alone. Please.”
