She repressed a sigh. ‘He is unconscious, Riordan. I doubt the man could lift his head if he wanted to.’
Her logic seemed to reassure him, and he lowered the stack of peat. ‘Shall I come back this eve?’ Hope lit up his expression.
‘Another time, perhaps.’
His shoulders lowered. ‘We should send a messenger to MacEgan’s family. I would be glad to do so.’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘So eager to help him, are you?’
With a look toward the sick hut, Riordan crossed his arms. ‘Anything that will send him far from here would give me pleasure.’
‘You’ve nothing to fear from him.’
‘I will come on the morrow, should you need my help again.’
She managed a smile. ‘I will be fine, thank you.’
When he had gone, she breathed easier. Though he only wanted to offer his assistance, Riordan’s presence interfered with her concentration.
She worked rapidly, dropping the stack of peat into the outdoor hearth. Within moments, she kindled a fire and moved heavy river stones into the flames to heat. She set a pot of water to boil over the fire.
Then she entered the sick hut and sat beside Connor. For a brief second, his eyes fluttered open. She froze, not knowing what he would think of his whereabouts, but, in the dim light, he showed no sign of recognition. It was as if he didn’t see her at all.
Aileen tamped down the feeling of disappointment when his eyes closed once more. She adjusted his position to make him more comfortable. His hands had swollen up to nearly double their size, the skin tightening with blood. If it were winter time, she could bring the swelling down with snow. Instead, she poured cold water into wooden bowls and laid his hands inside to soak.
Darting outside, she returned to her own hut for splints. She gathered fresh linen and wood, but in her hurry she dropped the bundle. It was then that she noticed her shaking fingers. She needed to calm her racing heart and concentrate upon the medicines.
Stop behaving like a foolish maiden, her heart warned.He probably won’t remember you.
She filled a fold of her woolenbratwith the linen and splints, using the shawl to carry them.
Stopping by the fire, she filled a bowl with heated water from the pot.The river stones.She’d almost forgotten. She dropped the splints and bandages inside the threshold, then set the bowl of hot water near her herbs. Last, she returned to the fire and used an iron rod to roll the heated granite stones to warm the interior of the sick hut.
Connor had not regained consciousness. Aileen took a deep breath and gathered her composure. She knelt beside him and cut off the rest of the blood-soaked tunic with her knife. He hadn’t moved even once. Voices of doubt began to undermine her confidence. What if he had slipped too far past the barrier between life and death?
Stop worrying about what you cannot do, and concentrate on what you can. She searched her memories for advice the elderly healer Kyna had given her. Lily roots or mallow leaves, should the swelling worsen. Would it be enough? Connor was the chieftain’s foster son, well loved by the family. If she saved him, it might help mend the animosity.
Aileen removed the linen bandage and garlic bulbs. Then she cleansed the blood from his face, dipping the cloth into cool water. She voiced a quiet healing chant to keep her roiling emotions calm.
She washed his chest wounds again, noting which cuts would need to be sewn closed. As her fingers moved across his torso, unwanted memories sprang forth.
The forbidden taste of his kiss had once filled her dreams. Connor’s powerful body had embraced her on a moonlit night, strong muscles pressing against her willing flesh. A shiver raced through her, and Aileen quelled the forgotten sensation of desire. She stood, wrenching her concentration back to his wounds.
As she moved away from Connor, she walked past bunches of drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. The spicy fragrance helped clear her thoughts. She stopped before a small table where she kept her medicines, selecting comfrey for his wounds. Using a mortar and pestle, she mashed the root until it became a moist pulp. Then she poured hot water over the root.
She sat beside Connor, placing the mortar within reach. Threading a bone needle, she began to stitch the deep gash upon his temple. From his waxen skin and the way he did not react to the piercing, she wondered if he might die after all.
A tendril of regret unfolded in the recesses of her heart. She had tried to hate him, tried to purge the feelings she’d once had. But a part of him would always remain, though she might wish to forget the past.
Aileen held the torn flesh of his chest together while stitching the wounds closed. Though she had sewn countless wounds, healing even the worst sorts of gashes, it was as if the needle pierced her own flesh.
Why couldn’t she separate herself from this task? Why did it frighten her to see him struggle to live? She had thought those feelings were long gone.
She poured the warmed comfrey root upon his chest and bound it once more. Now it was time to turn her attention elsewhere—to the broken bones. The awkward angle of the bone and dark purple bruises upon his right hand revealed a broken wrist. His left hand had swollen fingers, the knuckles raw.
Strange. These wounds were not from battle. Someone had deliberately tried to crush the bones. The thought of torture rose up again. Her stomach twisted, and doubts invaded her mind.
Did she have the skill to heal such intricate wounds? Or worse, did she possess the courage to remove his hands, if it was needed to save his life? Should the skin turn green or blacken, she’d have no choice. Her heart faltered, nausea rising at the thought of causing such pain. She sent up another prayer against the demons of sickness.
