After laying the plaid over the end of the bed to dry, she gazed at the ridiculous amount of material. From her recollection of history, the Jacobite army usually wore a long-belted plaid, but the tartan he bore wasn’t as long, and she guessed it was his clan’s colors, but she didn’t know which one.
Moving to see how serious his wounds were, she hesitated. She should get out of her damp clothes as well or she would come down with a fever.
Removing her coat, shirt, and pants, she laid them out to completely dry. She was glad her lacy camisole had already dried from the heat of the fire, but she couldn’t risk the man waking and seeing her in what to him would be scandalous and strange attire.
“There must be something in here,” she said as she rummaged through the box. More blankets and men’s clothes, trousers, tartans, and shirts, and then finally, a skirt and other women’s clothing.
Keeping an eye on the man in case he awoke, she quickly pulled out a brown skirt and what looked like a sleeveless vest. They smelled stuffy, so she hung them from the rafters to air out. She would wear her shirt under the vest when it dried. The material was likely different from anything found in that time, but the cut was similar to a man’s shirt.
She decided to sort through the rest of the stuff later; she had to tend to the man first. Eyeing him, she wondered what he was like. At least he wasn’t awake, but even if he was, she would have plenty of time to escape before he came fully mobile if he was dangerous.
Abby realized she’d better see to his wounds before they became infected. It would hurt—a lot. She silently pleaded to the heavens that he would stay unconscious. She spotted a bucket by the fire and groaned. Of course, there was no running water, but they had passed a stream close by. Great, there would be no bathroom, either, and having thought about water and streams, she needed to go badly.
By the time she had collected water from the river and poured it into a large cauldron over the fire to boil, she was hot and exhausted and ready for sleep.
How the people of that day dealt with what to her was the harshest of lives, she didn’t know. She gazed up at the charred ceiling. “I want to go home.”
Chapter 6
Finally, the water boiled, and she placed clean strips of his cotton shirt in the cauldron to sterilize the material.
Once she was satisfied they had boiled long enough, she wiped the tears aside, berated herself for being such a wimp, and set about cooling some of the strips of material in the freezing Scotland air.
Turning to the man, she took a sharp breath and began cleaning his wounds. He had many on his neck and chest, but most were surface scratches and cuts. The wound in the side that he’d held on to when he’d walked wasn’t as bad as she had feared. It looked like a sword had just caught him. There was a cut, serious enough to worry about infection, but not deep enough to cause him any long-term discomfort. She wished she had some alcohol. At least then she could wash it better.
After laying a clean rag over the injury, she searched for more grievous wounds. She quickly checked his torso and down to his feet. Picking up his legs one at a time, sheinspected the backs of his black curly-haired limbs. Nothing serious, only a few scrapes and superficial cuts.
She leaned forward and brushed his damp hair away from his high forehead. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to roll you over again. I need to see if there are any other injuries on your back.”
With her arms still refusing to muscle up, she used her shoulder to manhandle him over as far as needed so she could examine his skin.
She sighed in relief when she couldn’t find another wound and, as gently as possible, reset him on his back.
That only his upper body had met the swords and not one bullet had pierced his flesh was something of a miracle. She frowned. But why was he unconscious? Abby didn’t think any of his injuries were bad enough for that.
Maybe he was just asleep. Fighting in war must have been exhausting.
Recalling Scottish history and the moor where she’d arrived, she was sure the battle had to be the Battle of Culloden and the Scot was a Jacobite. Although Jacobites weren’t only Scottish fighters—some English sympathizers joined Charles Stuart’s army. Irish Piquets, formed from regiments of the Irish Brigade and a squadron of Irish from the French army, also served in the battle.
However, his accent was definitely Scottish.
She gave a small shake of her head. The Jacobites were brave and fought to the death for their country and the Stuart king they wanted on the throne, but they didn’t fare so well. She glanced at the door and wondered how long before daylight. She had to get back to her own time.
Another worry added to her previous ones.
The Highlanders were a superstitious race. What if they thought she was a witch? Would they burn her? Stone her?
He moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. He beamed. “God has sent me an angel.”
Abby opened her mouth to tell him she was no angel but remembered the Scots’ strong belief in God, and how some Highlanders mixed that faith with their long-held superstitions of fairies and other magic folks. She smiled back at him, noticing the specks of green in his warm brown irises. She could stare at those eyes forever, watching the jade flecks lighten and darken as if they pulsed to some silent inner rhythm. As he moved his head to the side, he grimaced and closed his lids.
***
Deep into the night, Abby was becoming increasingly anxious about staying there too long in case the English came back that way.
She wished the man would get better quickly. She had done her best with what was available, and she had kept his wounds clean and dressed. The scratches and cuts on his body were looking slightly healthier. They would heal, although some would leave scars.
What she was worried about was an infection. She sat on the rickety chair, watching him and dozing while he lay there like a baby and slept.
