Paul took her hand and led her to the door. “Stay here until I return for you.”
“I think you should come inside and speak with my father and mother,” she said. “Before you go dashing off again.”
“I feel in my bones that something bad has happened, Juliette. I need to see that my mother is unharmed. Then I’ll be meeting with His Grace to learn how the crofters were involved with these fires.”
“And if something bad did happen? I don’t want you caught in the midst of it.” She gripped his hand tighter, as if she could force him to stay.
“I’m still a physician, Juliette. If anyone was hurt, I have to be there.”
There was nothing she could say to argue with that. He had an intrinsic need to help others. Despite his new title, that would never change.
“When will you return?”
“I don’t ken. But if I’m not back by tonight, sleep without me. I’ll come to you when I can.”
It sounded as if he had no intention at all of returning. Although they had been home only a matter of minutes, she sensed the way he’d shifted. He intended to face the danger alone, leaving her safely behind guarded walls.
“If you don’t come back, I’ll go out looking for you,” she warned. Though he started to argue, she touched a finger to his mouth. “Promise you’ll return.”
“I will.” Paul kissed her swiftly and ordered the driver to bring her belongings to her. Then he took one of the horses and disappeared across the glen.
But she didn’t believe him.
“What’s happened?” Paul demanded, when he reached Bridget. His mother’s gown was covered in blood, and his heart nearly stopped.
“Oh, thank God ye’ve come. There are so many wounded. I could use your hands, lad.”
A rush of relief filled him to know that the blood wasn’t hers. “Who was wounded and how?” he asked.
Bridget wiped her hands on a cloth and began assembling bandages and herbs into her basket. “The factor and Strathland’s man came last night and began shooting. There’s a dozen or more wounded. I’ve been working all night.” The exhaustion on her face gave evidence to that, and Paul rolled up his sleeves.
“Did you write a letter, sending for me?” he asked.
Bridget shook her head. “No, but I’m glad ye’ve come.”
He sobered, knowing that his instincts had been correct. Strathland had indeed wanted to lure him here.
His mother poured water into a basin and handed him a cake of lye soap. Paul scrubbed his hands, and said, “Tell me who’s hurt, and I’ll handle the others while you rest.”
“Not yet. Only when we’ve seen to all of them.” She took a deep breath and led him outside, her basket looped over one arm.
“Why would Strathland attack the crofters?” Paul demanded. “They’re no longer living on his lands.”
“Someone set fire to all of his wool stores a few days ago. He’s got naught to sell now, and he took his vengeance on the innocent, to punish the guilty ones.”
“Do you think they truly attacked?” Although there were many of the MacKinlochs who were hot-tempered, destroying all of Strathland’s wool was an outright act of war.
“It hardly matters now,” she remarked, hurrying toward one of the huts. “Strathland thinks they did.”
And that was enough for murder.
Paul followed his mother, grimacing at what lay ahead. But Bridget slowed her pace before they reached the first house. “Ye wed Miss Juliette Andrews, I understand. And ye didna think to ask ifIwould want to attend the wedding? You’re my only son, and I wanted to be there.”
Paul didn’t think now was the best time to discuss his marriage, particularly when there were men suffering from gunshot wounds. “We wed in haste” was all he said, trying to ignore his mother’s chastisement. “How many were shot?” He stepped inside the dimly lit home and found a man lying upon a bed with a bloodstained bandage around his thigh.
“Thirteen,” she said. “This is Alexander MacKinloch. He was shot in his leg, and I’ve done what I could to stop the bleeding.”
The man was in his early fifties, so far as Paul could gauge. He was lying upon a low bed, and a blanket covered most of his torso, hiding the position of the gunshot wound.
