“I’m thirsty. Could I have some water?” The man’s voice was tremulous, and Paul said, “We’ll see about some water in a moment.” Drinking anything after being shot wasn’t wise at all if there were internal injuries. Paul pulled back the blanket and saw that his mother had used a tourniquet on the man’s upper thigh. Even so, the bandage was stained dark red.
As soon as Paul saw the location of the wound, he knew. The bleeding wasn’t going to stop. The bullet had nicked too close to the artery, and there was nothing either of them could do to save this man.
His mother sent him a silent question. He knew she’d used the tourniquet to sustain life, in the hopes that they might amputate the leg and save him. But it was far too late for that. All he could do was make the man’s last moments comfortable.
“Have you a wife, Mr. MacKinloch?” he asked, reaching for his bag.
“N-no,” the man said, shivering hard. “My wife died a year ago in the fires.”
“Any children? Or grandchildren, perhaps? Sometimes a man can heal quicker if his family is with him.” He exchanged a look at Bridget, who nodded and left the hut.
He reached inside his bag for a tiny vial containing a tincture of opium. A few drops would ease the man’s pain.
At times like these, he wished there were a way to suture an artery or cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding. But the femoral artery was too deep below the flesh. The gunshot wound had blown apart all hope of saving this man. It was a miracle that he’d survived this long.
“M-most of my family left Ballaloch,” Alexander admitted. “I’m s-so cold.” His body began to shudder as it slipped deeper into shock.
Paul adjusted the tourniquet again, though it would do little good for this man. “Who burned Lord Strathland’s wool? Have they found the one responsible for the fires?”
Alexander shook his head. “Might’ve been Joseph MacKinloch, Lady Lanfordshire’s former footman. He’s been causin’ trouble, from what I’ve heard.”
“I thought he fled to the coast.” After he’d learned that the man was responsible for setting the Lanfordshire house on fire, Paul had demanded that MacKinloch leave or face trial.
Now that MacKinloch’s sister was dead, it was entirely possible that Joseph had arranged for the wool to be destroyed. But he would have needed others to set so many fires.
The door opened at that moment, but instead of his mother entering, Juliette emerged in the dim light. “Mrs. Fraser thought I could help,” she said. Her voice was bright and filled with encouragement. Though her gaze passed toward the bleeding man, her eyes focused upon Paul.
I’m here for you,she seemed to say. And though he didn’t want to expose her to this man’s pain, she appeared to have made up her own mind.
She went to sit beside Alexander and held his hand. “My husband is a doctor who studied in Edinburgh. If anyone can help you get better, it’s he.”
Juliette’s hair was pulled up in a topknot, and her gown was the same light blue silk she’d worn earlier. She gave the man a gentle smile, and Paul didn’t miss the look of gratefulness in his eyes. MacKinloch would believe anything Juliette told him, for Bridget had gone and fetched an angel of mercy.
Paul poured a few drops of the tincture of opium into a cup of water. The man’s shivering increased, and Juliette rubbed his hands between her own. “There, you see, he’s gone and prepared some medicine for you. You’ll feel better quite soon.” She took the cup from Paul and helped the man sit up to drink it. “There are some friends outside, praying for your recovery. Would you like to see them?”
“I’d rather hold the hand of a bonny lass,” he admitted. “They can come in a wee bit later.”
Paul met Juliette’s gaze. Though both of them knew that no medicine would cure his wounds, the opium would ease his pain and make the passing easier.
“Of course,” she said gently. But as his wife calmed MacKinloch and spoke soothing words to him, all Paul could think of was how devastated he would be if anything ever happened to her. He’d saved many lives over the years, and lost just as many.
She took MacKinloch’s hand in hers, continuing to murmur comfort to the man. And though her words were meant to soothe him, they reminded Paul of a mother’s comfort.
He’d taken that from her, stealing her away from her only son. And although he’d claimed that it was meant to protect the boy, he wondered if his own selfish reasons had intervened. He’d wanted Juliette to himself.
A woman like her was meant to be surrounded by bairns, opening her arms to them. Her voice was made to read bedtime stories and sing lullabies. But he would never father a child upon her. Not if her life was the price.
It took only a few minutes longer for MacKinloch’s hands to relax their grip before he slipped into unconsciousness. When he checked the man’s pulse, it was uneven and erratic. Juliette continued to hold Alexander’s hand. Her green eyes met Paul’s, and when Death’s quiet hand took the man’s final breath, she was still holding his palm.
Paul loosened the tourniquet, allowing the man to die in peace. “You didn’t have to come,” he said quietly, taking MacKinloch’s hand away from hers and closing the man’s eyes.
“I was already following you. Bridget found me and brought me here when I asked it of her.” She reached out and embraced him. “There are more of them, aren’t there?”
“Aye. She brought me to this man because he was closest to death. She thought I might have a way of saving him.” He shook his head in regret. “No matter how many lives you save, these moments haunt you.”
“You brought him comfort and peace. He died with no pain,” she said. Her arms came around him, and she kissed him. The need to possess her, to take the comfort she offered, was undeniable. He gripped her hard, and he vowed that no matter how much she tempted him, he would be careful.
For he couldn’t lose her. Not ever.
